Opening Eddie Heaths file folder, Wesley withdrew a scene diagram drawn by the Henrico County police officer who had discovered the critically wounded boy behind the vacant grocery store. Wesley placed the diagram next to the photograph of Robyn Naismith. For a moment, neither of us spoke as our eyes went back and forth from one to the other. The similarities were more pronounced than I had imagined, the positions of the bodies virtually identical, from the hands by the sides to the loosely piled clothing near the bare feet.
“I have to admit, it’s eerie as hell,” Wesley remarked. “It’s almost as if Eddie Heath’s scene is a mirror image of this one.”
He touched the photograph of Robyn Naismith.”
Bodies positioned like rag dolls, propped against boxlike objects. A big console TV. A brown Dumpster.”
Spreading more photographs oh the table like playing cards, he drew another from the deck. This one was a close-up of her body at the morgue, the ragged tangential circles of human bite marks apparent on her left breast and left inner thigh.
“Again, a striking similarity,” he said. “Bite marks here and here corresponding closely with the areas of missing flesh on Eddie Heath’s shoulder and thigh. In other words” - he slipped off his glasses and looked up at me - “Eddie Heath was probably bitten, the flesh excised to eradicate evidence.”
“Then his killer is at least somewhat familiar with forensic evidence,” I said.
“Almost any felon who has spent time in prison is familiar with forensic evidence. If Waddell didn’t know about bite mark identification when he murdered Robyn Naismith, he would know about it now.”
“You’re talking like he’s the killer again,” I pointed out. “A moment ago you said he doesn’t profile right.”
“Ten years ago, he didn’t profile right. That’s all I’m Asserting.”
“You’ve got his Assessment Protocol. Can we talk about it?”
“Of course.”
The Protocol was actually a forty-page FBI questionnaire filled in during a face-to- face prison interview with a violent offender.
“Flip through this yourself,” Wesley said, sliding Waddell’s Protocol in front of me. “I’d like to hear your thoughts without further input from me.”
Wesley’s interview of Ronnie Joe Waddell had taken place six years ago at death row in Mecklenburg `County. The Protocol began with the expected descriptive data. Waddell’s demeanor, emotional state, mannerisms, and style of conversation indicated that he was agitated and confused. Then, when Wesley had given him opportunity to ask questions, Waddell asked only one: “I saw little white flakes when we passed a window. Is it snowing or are they ashes from the incinerator?”
The date on the Protocol, I noted, was August.