[Georgia 03] Fallen

leaned in closer, then let Amanda take a look. “These are repetitive impressions. They come from constantly gripping something between his teeth. You see this sort of thing with seamstresses who bite thread or finish carpenters who put nails in their mouth.”
    “Or cabinetmakers?” Will asked.
    “That’s possible.” Sara looked at Estevez’s hand again. “These calluses could come from holding a nail gun. I’d have to see the tool for comparison, but if you told me he worked as a carpenter, I’d agree that his hands show signs of working in that industry.” She picked up the man’s left hand. “Do you see these scars on his index finger? These line up with common injuries for carpenters. Hammers slip. A nail pinches the skin. Threads from screws scrape off the top dermal layer. Do you see this scar down the center line of his nail?” Will nodded. “It cuts through his cuticle, too. Carpenters use carpet knives to cut edges or score wood. Sometimes the blade skips down the fingernail or shaves the skin off the side of the finger. A lot of times they’ll use their nondominant hand to smooth out putty or caulk, which causes wearing at the tip. His fingerprints would be different week-to-week, sometimes day-to-day.”
    Amanda said, “So, he’s been at this job for a while?”
    “I’d say whatever job he’s been working at that caused these marks has been going on for two to three years.”
    “What about Heeney, the shooter?”
    Sara reached under the sheet to check the other man’s hands. She did not want to look at his face again. “He was left-handed, but I would hazard he worked in the same industry as Estevez.”
    Will said, “There’s one connection, at least. They both worked for Ling-Ling.”
    Sara asked, “Who’s Ling-Ling?”
    “A missing person of interest.” Amanda checked her watch. “We should hurry this along. Dr. Linton, can you examine our other friend here?”
    Sara didn’t give herself time to think about it. She pulled back the sheet in one quick motion. It was the first time she’d looked at Franklin Warren Heeney’s face since he’d tried to kill her. His eyes were open. His lips were wrapped around the tube that had been inserted into his throat to help him breathe. A crusty layer of blood circled his neck where the flesh gaped open. He was still dressed from the waist down, but his jacket and shirt had been cut open so that the ER staff could try to save his life. The exercise had been perfunctory; the man had sliced open his own jugular. He’d lost nearly half his blood volume before they’d managed to pick him up off the floor and put him on the table. Sara knew this because she had been the doctor working on him.
    She looked up. Both Amanda and Will were staring at her.
    “Sorry,” she apologized. She had to clear her throat before she could talk again. “He’s around the same age as Estevez. Mid-to-late twenties. Underweight for his build.” She pointed to the needle tracks on his arm. The IV port she’d inserted was still taped to his skin. “Recent user, at least intravenously.” She found an otoscope and checked inside the man’s nose. “There’s significant scarring in the nasal passages, probably from snorting powder.” She shoved the scope in farther. “He’s had surgery to repair the septum, so you’re looking at coke or meth, maybe Oxy. They’re all extremely corrosive to cartilage.”
    Will asked, “What about heroin?”
    “Oh, heroin, of course.” Sara apologized again. “Sorry, most of the heroin users I see are smokers or needle junkies. The snorters usually go straight to the morgue.”
    Amanda crossed her arms. “What about his stomach?”
    Sara didn’t have to check the file. No X-rays had been taken. The man had expired before any tests could be ordered. Instead of continuing the exam, Sara found herself looking at his face again. Franklin Heeney hardly resembled a choirboy, but the acne-scarred skin and sunken cheeks were recognizable to someone out in the world. He had a mother. He had a father, a child, perhaps a sister or brother, who right at this moment was probably hearing that their loved one was dead.
    Their loved one who had killed a man in cold blood and punched Sara so violently that the breath had gone out of her body. She felt the bruise on her chest start to throb at the memory. She had a mother, too—a sister, a father—all of whom would be horrified if they heard what had happened to Sara