“The cause of your sister’s death, Abby, was strangulation due to the ligature around her neck.”
“How long?” She blew out a tremulous stream of smoke. “How long did she live after . . . after he got to her?”
“I can’t tell you exactly. But the physical findings lead me to suspect her death was quick.”
Not quick enough, I did not say. I found fibers inside Henna’s mouth. She had been gagged. The monster wanted her alive for a while and he wanted her quiet. Based on the amount of blood loss, I’d classified her cutting injuries as perimortem, meaning I could say with certainty only that they were afflicted around the time of death. She bled very little into surrounding tissues after the assault with the knife. She may already have been dead. She may have been unconscious.
More likely it was worse than that. I suspected the cord from the venetian blinds was jerked tight around her neck when she straightened her legs in a violent reflex to pain.
“She had petechial hemorrhages in the conjunctivae, and facial and neck skin,” I said to Abby. “In other words, rupture of the small, superficial vessels of the eyes and face. This is caused by pressure, by cervical occlusion of the jugular veins due to the ligature around her neck.”
“How long did she live?” she dully asked again.
“Minutes,” I repeated.
That’s as far as I intended to go. Abby seemed slightly relieved. She was seeking solace in the hope her sister’s suffering was minimal. Someday, when the case was closed and Abby was stronger, she would know. God help her, she would know about the knife.
“That’s all?” she asked shakily.
“That’s all I can say now,” I told her. “I’m sorry. I’m so terribly sorry about Henna.”
She smoked for a while, taking nervous jerky drags as if she didn’t know what to do with her hands. She was biting her lower lip, trying to keep it from trembling.
When she finally met my eyes, her own were uneasy, suspicious.
She knew I hadn’t asked her here for this. She sensed there was something else.
“It’s really not why you called, is it?”
“Not entirely,” I replied frankly.
Silence.
I could see the resentment, the anger building.
“What?” she demanded. “What is it you want from me?”
“I want to know what you’re going to do.”
Her eyes flashed. “Oh, I get it. You’re worried about your goddam self. Jesus Christ. You’re just like the rest of them!”
“I’m not worried about myself,” I said very calmly. “I’m beyond that, Abby. You have enough to cause me trouble. If you want to run my office and me into the ground, then do it. That’s your decision.”
She looked uncertain, her eyes shifting away.
“I understand your rage.”
“You couldn’t possibly understand it.”
“I understand it better than you might imagine.”
Bill flashed in my mind. I could understand Abby’s rage very well.
“You couldn’t. Nobody could!” she exclaimed. “He stole my sister from me. He stole a part of my life. I’m so damn tired of people taking things from me! What kind of world is this,” she choked, “where someone can do something like that? Oh, Jesus! I don’t know what I’m going to do . . .”
I said firmly, “I know you intend to investigate your sister’s death on your own, Abby. Don’t do it.”
“Somebody’s got to!” she cried out. “What? I’m supposed to leave it up to the Keystone Kops?”
“Some matters you must leave to the police. But you can help. You can if you really want to.”
“Don’t patronize me!”
“I’m not.”
“I’ll do it my own way . . .”
“No. You won’t do it your own way, Abby. Do it for your sister.”
She stared blankly at me with red-rimmed eyes.
“I asked you here because I’m taking a gamble. I need your help.”
“Right! You need me to help by leaving town and keeping the hell out of it . .”
I was slowly shaking my head.
She looked surprised.
“Do you know Benton Wesley?”
“The profiler,” she replied hesitantly. “I know who he is.”
I glanced up at the wall clock. “He’ll be here in ten minutes.”