Page 16 of Bringing Chelsea Home

“Why would you do that?” Elaine asked.

“Because you got a good look at him,” Griff suggested. “From what I hear, Big Daddy isn’t going to let someone screw up a hit and not pay for it. And his guy screwed up twice. He probably saw him as a liability and decided to get rid of him permanently.”

“Exactly,” Miller agreed. “Big Daddy is a mean, vicious son of a bitch, but he’s not stupid. I doubt we’ll get him for this without a witness, but I’ll bet even money he’s behind this.”

“A hit,” Elaine repeated blankly. “Why do I suddenly feel like I’m in a Mafia film?”

“Are you ready?” Miller looked at her closely, and Griff noted the concern in his eyes.

Her steely stare met the sergeant’s. “Let’s do it,” she said.

They entered the cold, clinical room with the lone gurney and its sheet covered figure. The attendant, a short woman with dark hair, stood on the far side of the room, her hands folded.

The acrid aroma of disinfectant burned Elaine’s eyes and nose, but she covered her mouth with the handkerchief Griff pushed into her hand.

“I came prepared this time,” he whispered.

“Your mother would be pleased,” she answered.

Miller gestured at the attendant who silently came forward and flipped back the sheet. At the sight of the gauged throat and single bullet hole in the forehead, bile churned in Elaine’s stomach and her knees wobbled, but Griff’s hand cupping her elbow steadied her. “That’s him,” she gasped through the handkerchief’s folds. “That’s the man who attacked me at St. Nicholas.”

“His name is Neil Rogers,” Miller supplied. “Long rap sheet, usually goes in for intimidation and assaults but no record of murder or attempted murder charges. We won’t know if it was his throat being slashed or the gunshot that killed him until after the autopsy. I’ve sent word to one of my informants to find out if Rogers had any known association with Big Daddy.”

“But we don’t have any evidence he’s actually the person who attacked Sister Bernie, do we?” Elaine asked, her gaze riveted on Roger’s destroyed face.

“Hopefully, the clothes he was wearing when he was brought in are the ones he wore when he attacked her because they had faint stains that might be blood on them,” Miller said. “The UT t-shirt he had on matched your description from that day.”

Elaine’s eyes narrowed. “He wouldn’t have washed his clothing after attacking her?”

Miller shrugged. “Hard to say with criminals like this, Elaine. But even if he did, there might be some residue left behind.”

At Miller’s use of Elaine’s first name, a tingling annoyance pricked Griff’s spine. He’d heard the sergeant use it when the police sketch was being done and noted it objectively, like a trained witness observing a situation. But now its familiarity-let’s be honest here, Tyler-irritatedhim.

“You ran his fingerprints through a national database, didn’t you.” It was more of a statement than a question, and Griff almost wished she would faint or at least stagger some more so he would have reason to touch her again.

“Standard procedure,” Miller said. “But here’s a piece of good news. It appears that when Rogers stabbed Sister Bernie, she managed to scratch him. Look at this.”

He pulled on the gloves the attendant offered and then pulled the sheet down so he could pick up the corpse’s left arm. The scratches were faint red against the pallid skin but deep, and admiration for Elaine’s friend replaced Griff’s irritation. “Did you check under Sister Bernie’s fingernails?” he asked.

“We did and we’re just waiting for DNA results to see if there’s match.” Miller’s tone turned weary. “You’ll remember Elaine, you said the guy was wearing a t-shirt when he attacked Sister Bernie, so his arms were exposed. Him being killed wasn’t on my radar. I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright, Grant,” she said. “You’ve been on this since Bernie died. You can’t do everything.”

But her tightly held mouth suggested it was not alright and after reminding Miller to call her when he learned anything, she strode from the room. Griff followed, the pain in his leg keeping him just behind her. It wasn’t until they were on the sidewalk outside the morgue that her anger exploded.

“Confound it!” she shouted. Passers-by scurried aside as she continued to lunge down the street. “What good will it do if Neil Rogers is identified as Sister Bernie’s killer if he’s dead?”

“Hold up.” Griff grabbed her hand and led her into one of Knoxville’s “little green parks”, former empty spaces between office buildings. Placing his hands on her upper arms, he said, “Listen to me. You have my word we’re going to get justice for Sister Bernie. But we sure as hell don’t need to be standing where someone can see, let alone hear us. Someone’s tried to kill you twice and it ain’t happening again while I’m with you. Let’s go back to the morgue where Patrick thinks we are.”

“Fine!” she shouted, pulling away. “Let’s go, then!”

She returned to the sidewalk with Griff following just as she pointed down the street. “Look!” she cried. “Here pup! Here pup!”

A very small, shaggy dog of unknown lineage was bounding in their direction, unaware of the frowns and grunts from passers-by. Elaine crouched to gather the beast in her arms and Griff knelt beside her.

“I hope you like dogs,” she said, unzipping her jacket just enough to tuck the tiny dog inside.

“But–”

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