The Affair by Lee Child Page B

doctor,” I said. “You’ve treated cuts and grazes before. Or have you? What were you before? A psychiatrist?”
    “I was a pediatrician,” he said. “I have no idea what I’m doing here. None at all. Not in this area of medicine.”
    “Kids get cuts and grazes all the time. You must have seen hundreds.”
    “This is a serious business. I can’t risk unsupported guesses.”
    “Try educated guesses.”
    “Four hours,” he said.
    I nodded. I figured four hours was about right, judging by the scabs, which were more than nascent, but not yet fully mature. They had been developing steadily, and then their development had stopped abruptly when the throat was cut and the heart had stopped and the brain had died and all metabolism had ceased.
    I asked, “Did you determine the time of death?”
    Merriam said, “That’s very hard to know. Impossible, really. The exsanguination interferes with normal biological processes.”
    “Best guess?”
    “Some hours before she was brought to me.”
    “How many hours?”
    “More than four.”
    “That’s obvious from the gravel rash. How many more than four?”
    “I don’t know. Fewer than twenty-four. That’s the best I can do.”
    I said, “No other injuries. No bruising. No sign of a defensive struggle.”
    Merriam said, “I agree.”
    Deveraux said, “Maybe she didn’t fight. Maybe she had a gun to her head. Or a knife to her throat.”
    “Maybe,” I said. I looked at Merriam again and asked, “Did you do a vaginal examination?”
    “Of course.”
    “And?”
    “I judged she had had recent sexual intercourse.”
    “Any bruising or tearing in that area?”
    “None visible.”
    “Then why did you conclude she was raped?”
    “You think it was consensual? Would you lie down on gravel to make love?”
    “I might,” I said. “Depending on who I was with.”
    “She had a home,” Merriam said. “With a bed in it. And a car, with a back seat. Any putative boyfriend would have a home and a car, too. And there’s a hotel here in town. And there are other towns, with other hotels. No one needs to conduct a tryst outdoors.”
    “Especially not in March,” Deveraux said.
    The small room went quiet, and it stayed quiet until Merriam asked, “Are we done here?”
    “We’re done,” Deveraux said.
    “Well, good luck, chief,” Merriam said. “I hope this one turns out better than the last two.”
    Deveraux and I walked down the doctor’s driveway, past the mailbox, past the shingle, to the sidewalk, where we stood next to Deveraux’s car. I knew she was not going to give me a ride. This was not a democracy. Not yet. I said, “Did you ever see a rape victim with intact pantyhose?”
    “You think that’s significant?”
    “Of course it is. She was attacked on gravel. Her pantyhose should have been shredded.”
    “Maybe she was forced to undress first. Slowly and carefully.”
    “The gravel rash had edges. She was wearing something. Pulled up, pulled down, whatever, but she was partially clothed. And then she changed afterward. Which is possible. She had four hours.”
    “Don’t go there,” Deveraux said.
    “Go where?”
    “You’re trying to plead the army down to rape only. You’re going to say she was killed by someone else, separately, later.”
    I said nothing.
    “And that dog won’t hunt,” Deveraux said. “You stumble into someone and get raped, and then within the next four hours you stumble into someone else completely different and get your throat cut? That’s a really bad day, isn’t it? That’s the worst day ever. It’s too coincidental. No, it was the same guy. But he had himself an all-day session. He took hours. He had plans and equipment. He had access to her clothes. He made her change. This was all highly premeditated.”
    “Possible,” I said.
    “They teach effective tactical planning in the army. So they claim, anyway.”
    “True,” I said. “But they don’t give you all day off very often. Not in a training