Chapters (57)
- Books by Gregg Olsen
- Dedication
- Prologue
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-One
- Twenty-Two
- Twenty-Three
- Twenty-Four
- Twenty-Five
- Twenty-Six
- Twenty-Seven
- Twenty-Eight
- Twenty-Nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-One
- Thirty-Two
- Thirty-Three
- Thirty-Four
- Thirty-Five
- Thirty-Six
- Thirty-Seven
- Thirty-Eight
- Thirty-Nine
- Forty
- Forty-One
- Forty-Two
- Forty-Three
- Forty-Four
- Forty-Five
- Forty-Six
- Forty-Seven
- Forty-Eight
- Forty-Nine
- Fifty
- Hear More from Gregg
- Books by Gregg Olsen
- A Letter from Gregg
- Acknowledgements
I read through the report page by page. Dr. Andrade’s words tell a complete story, yet it’s his photos that really hold my attention. The victim’s burns had to be post mortem. They were so clear, so precise. I flip through them one by one. The face. The arms. The back of the head. When I get to her feet, I do a double take. I pull the photocopy a little closer. I can’t be sure, but it appears that the victim is missing a toe.
I see no mention of that in the report.
Gulping some coffee, I dial Dr. Andrade’s office.
He’s on the line right away.
“Doctor, there’s a discrepancy in your report. There’s no notation—that I could find—that indicated the woman had a missing toe.”
I hear him tapping away on his keyboard. A pause. Maybe even a sigh. Hard to tell over the phone.
“Missing baby toe on the right foot, yes, yes,” he says.
“It’s not in the report, Doctor.”
“My bad,” he says with obvious regret, before throwing an employee under the bus. “I have a new transcriptionist and he has missed a few things. Not terrible, but not great either.”
I wonder why people don’t just admit their mistakes.
People like me.
“Post mortem?” I ask.
“No,” he says. “Not at all. There was scar tissue where the toe should be. Jane Doe lost her toe probably as a child.”
“What else did he miss?”
“The back of her heels collected some soil. It’s on the photographs, but not in the report.”
“She was dragged?”
“Likely.”
“She was only 122 pounds. Not that heavy.”
“Dead weight though. It’s not easy.”
I’m exasperated yet also intrigued.
“Will you amend your report?” I ask.
Long pause. Everyone in three counties knows he hates amending anything. He’s right. Always. Never, ever wrong.
“All right, Detective. I’ll do it. Just for you.” His tone carries a hint of sarcasm.
Do it for the victim, I want to say. But I don’t. Instead, I thank him and hang up.
Later as I head for home, I stop in to brief the sheriff.
He’s up to his neck with paperwork. He looks up with those kind eyes and gives me a nod.
“How’s the carpet case moving along?”
“Not much to report. Ms. Wheaton never had a driver’s license. Nothing from the DMV to help figure if the victim is her. Maybe one thing: She was missing a toe on her right foot. Kids didn’t mention that. I’ll round them up tomorrow.”
“Sounds good,” he says, lowering his wire frames. “How are you doing, Megan? You stressed?”