Twisted (10 page)

“Well, we’re not
quite
as well-staffed as the Smithsonian. It’s just me and a handful of grad students.” She tossed her jacket over a chair and grabbed a lab coat from a hook on the wall. “But wait till you see our lab.”

They followed her through the desks to yet another door, and again she did the palm-print thing. Mark had to admit he was impressed with the security here. The guard downstairs had wanted to see two forms of ID in exchange for their visitors’ badges, and those were only valid for two hours.

“Here we are.” She stepped into what looked like an autopsy suite, complete with stainless steel tables. Sinks and hoses lined the far wall. He noted the fume hood and the hanging scales, as well as a stove with a giant metal pot that brought back memories of his grandparents’ farm. He didn’t want to think about what it was used for.

“I got the call this morning.” Kelsey went to the sink and washed up as though scrubbing in for surgery. Then she donned some latex gloves and handed pairs to Allison and Mark.

“Who found the bones?” Mark asked.

“Hunters. Actually, the find occurred last winter. But until now, we haven’t had an ID. Through here.” She
led them into an adjacent room, only this one was narrow and lined with drawers, hundreds of them, from the floor up to Mark’s shoulder. Kelsey strode about halfway down the row and pulled one open. Mark watched Allison’s body stiffen as she peered down at the drawer.

“Is this . . . all?” she asked Kelsey.

“These remains were scavenged, unfortunately. They conducted a full-day search, but it was pretty hopeless and we were lucky to get the skull and femur. The recovery site is right beside a river in Evans County, so I’m guessing many of the bones were swept away in that flood two summers ago.”

Mark tensed. Two years then, at least. How many victims had he missed while he’d been distracted with other cases? People sometimes asked him why he took on such an impossible caseload. This was the reason. For every case he helped close, there were countless more where someone was out there destroying people’s lives with impunity. Too many crimes and not enough crime fighters. There would never be enough.

“The hunters found the femur first and called the sheriff,” Kelsey said, “and he in turn called me to see if it was human.”

Mark looked at her. “You went out there yourself?”

“Not at first. You wouldn’t believe how many of those calls I get, especially with a long bone like this. Often it’s just a cow or a deer. Or in the case of a smaller bone, sometimes people think they’ve found a baby on their property, when in fact it’s an adult raccoon. We have a reference collection for comparison—animals native to Texas. But in this case, I knew it was human as soon as I saw the photo.”

“How can you tell from a picture?” Allison asked.

“Trained eye,” she said. “I could see right off this was a human femur, left side. And I confirmed that through microscopic examination.”

“
Left
side?” Allison sounded doubtful.

“The shape tells you.” She ran her gloved hand over the ball-shaped end of the bone. “This end fits into the pelvis. Then the shaft angles slightly inward to the knee.” Kelsey smiled faintly. “In grad school one of my professors used to fill a big brown grocery sack with human bones. We had to blindfold ourselves and identify every single one by touch.”

“How old are these remains?” Mark asked.

“It’s not an exact science. Based on the bleaching, the drying, the way they were discovered, I put the PMI—postmortem interval—at two to five years.”

“Why five?” Allison asked.

“That’s where the skull comes in.” She put the femur down and picked up the skull. “This is called the cranium, to be precise, because it’s missing the mandible.”

“Not a lot to work with,” Allison said.

“Actually, for such a limited recovery, this is almost a best-case scenario. Ideally, you want a skull and pelvis to determine the Big Four: race, sex, age, and stature. I can do that almost as easily with a skull and long bone.”

“So, what can you tell us?”

Kelsey nodded. “Caucasian female, fairly petite—about five-one.” Sadness flickered over her face. “I’d say early twenties, based on the cranial sutures and also the tooth development.”

“Any idea how she died?” Allison asked.

“That’s trickier. No visible trauma. A few scratch
marks, but I examined them under a microscope, and they look to be from scavengers, as opposed to, say, a knife or a saw.”

“What about the missing teeth?” Mark pointed to an upper molar.

“Good catch. Her teeth were intact when we got her, but our forensic odontologist removed one to examine the filling. It’s a synthetic material that came into use about five years ago—hence, the timeline I gave you. She most likely didn’t die before then. The other tooth, I sent to Mia.”

“Mia?” Mark glanced up.

“Mia Voss. She’s one of our DNA tracers. She got a profile from the molar, had it entered into a database of missing persons. It contains samples from families that are missing a loved one.” Kelsey turned to Allison. “After we talked yesterday, I made a few calls searching for any recent IDs of young females in this area. This one
just
came through. Her name’s Rachel Pascal, twenty-six. She disappeared from the parking lot of her workplace up in Austin.”

“She wasn’t jogging?”

“Not according to the detective I spoke with. He said she was leaving work.”

“But if we can’t tell how she died,” Allison said, “how do we know she’s connected?”

“The date,” Mark said. He looked at Kelsey for confirmation.

“I’m afraid so. And it also corroborates my time-of-death estimate. Rachel Pascal was last seen three years ago, the night before Halloween.”

Allison was tapped out, both physically and emotionally. The bleak mood she’d been in after leaving the interview with Jordan had gotten worse when she’d seen those two lonely bones. So much loss. So much suffering. For years, she’d wanted to be a homicide detective, and now that she was, she wondered if it was really for her. How could you deal with so much death and violence and not become hardened to it? Not lose some of your humanity? She couldn’t imagine what it must be like for Mark, day after day, wading through a steady stream of the very worst society had to offer.

“Looks like you need a drink.”

Allison snapped out of her funk and looked at the woman beside her. Mia had sensed her melancholy on the phone and insisted on dragging her out for margaritas.

“Still working on this one.” Allison picked up her fish-bowl-size glass and took a halfhearted sip. Avoiding Mia’s gaze, she glanced around the bar. Tonight El Patio was noisy, crowded, and much too festive for Allison’s mood.

Mia gave her a nudge. “What’s with you tonight?”

“I don’t know. Work.”

When she didn’t elaborate, Mia shook her head. As a cop’s fiancée, she knew how tight-lipped detectives could be about their cases. But Mia didn’t pry, which was one of the reasons Allison liked hanging out with her.

“What’s with
you
?” Allison asked. “I’ve hardly seen you in weeks.”

“The lab’s been inundated.”

The chair beside Allison slid out and Kelsey plopped down in it. “Hi.” Her cheeks were flushed from cold as
she unwound a purple scarf from her neck. “What’d I miss?”

“Nothing. We’ll get you a margarita.”

“Man, it’s cold out there. Think I want a beer instead. And speaking of man . . .” She turned to Allison. “What’d you do with Wolfe?”

Mia’s eyebrows arched. “What’d
I
miss? Who’s Wolfe?”

“Nobody.”

“Ha.” Kelsey rolled her eyes and turned to Mia. “He happens to be a very hot, very unattached, very intriguing FBI agent who’s in town right now working on Allison’s murder case.”

“It’s not my case,” she pointed out, but Mia was distracted.

“You didn’t mention this guy, and we’ve been here nearly an hour?”

Allison sighed. “Nothing to mention.” She turned to Kelsey. “And how do you know he’s unattached?”

“See? I knew you were interested.” Kelsey sounded pleased with herself. “And I asked around. I’ve got some friends in the San Antonio field office. Remember my ex, Blake? He says Mark Wolfe’s got quite a reputation at the Bureau. Fact, he’s practically a legend, although I’m not sure you want to know what he’s legendary for.”

“Womanizing?” Mia guessed.

“He’s got the unenviable distinction of having worked more serial murder cases than any other profiler they’ve got over there,” Kelsey said. “We’re talking hundreds of cases.”

“Hundreds?” Mia looked at Allison. “How old is he?”

“Old,” Kelsey put in, and Allison bristled. Too late,
she noticed Kelsey watching her reaction. “But not
old
old. More like experienced.” She turned to Mia. “A little gray around the temples. Nice eyes. And he’s got this intensity about him. Am I right, A?”

She looked away and tried not to let Kelsey get under her skin. “Maybe a little.”

“I knew I wasn’t seeing things.” Kelsey smiled. “I think it’s mutual, by the way. The way he was looking at you at the lab—”

“Wait, when were you at the lab?” Mia asked. “Is this the Stephanie Snow case? I didn’t even know you were on that.”

“I’m not.” Allison gritted her teeth. She’d spent her afternoon at the station house, trying to talk Reynolds into putting her on the case. No dice. And he was still hung up on Joshua Bender, their original suspect.

“Who
is
on the case officially?” Kelsey asked.

“Jonah and Ric,” Mia said. “Although that’s all I know about it. Ric doesn’t usually discuss his cases with me.”

“Allison Doyle?”

She glanced up to see a man glowering down at her. He had a stocky build, ruddy cheeks, and bloodshot eyes that beamed aggression at her.

“What’d you do to my wife?” he demanded.

Allison blinked up at him. She smelled alcohol on his breath as he leaned over their table.

“Uh, ex
cuse
you,” Mia said.

“Sir, I don’t know who you are, but—”

“Ethan Wheatley. Now answer me, damn it!” He pounded his fist on the table.
“What’d you do to my wife?”

Conversations hushed. People turned to stare. Chairs
scraped back, and all three men at the neighboring table rose to their feet.

Crap.
Allison stood up, too. “Sir, you’re causing a disturbance. I’m going to have to ask you to step outside.”

An off-duty firefighter appeared at Allison’s side, along with an off-duty patrol officer. This guy had picked the wrong place to start something—it was a cop hangout, which was probably how he’d found her.

“It’s either outside or at the police station, Mr. Wheatley. Your pick.”

He scowled and stalked toward the door, and the crowd cleared a path.

“You’re not really going to go out there, are you?” Mia looked horrified.

“I know what this is about. I just need to calm him down.” She grabbed her jacket and moved for the exit, and the patrol officer caught her arm.

“Want me to arrest him?”

“For what, being a dickhead?” Allison shook his arm off. “I’ll handle it.”

She followed Wheatley out of the bar. The firefighter stayed behind her, but she ignored him.

Outside, she met with a wall of cold air. She spotted Wheatley sitting on the curb beside the parking lot. His big shoulders were hunched forward.

Allison walked over and saw that he was weeping. Far from the giant bully he’d been moments ago, he now looked soggy and pathetic. She stood there for a minute, not sure of what to say.

“How is Jordan?” she finally asked.

He shook his head and looked away. He rubbed his hand under his nose and seemed embarrassed.

Allison sat down on the curb beside him.

“She’s upset, I take it?”

“She was in bed when I got home. Hasn’t moved all day—all she’s done is cry.”

Allison felt a stab of guilt. “Our interview this morning—I guess it dredged up some things.”

He nodded and looked at his boots. They were sturdy work boots caked with mud, and she remembered Jordan saying he’d had a delivery this morning. She’d probably postponed the interview so her husband wouldn’t be there, and then didn’t even tell him about it. Both Allison and Mark had left their business cards on the kitchen table.

“She gets like this.” His shoulders hunched more. “I never know what to do. And then she won’t talk to me. Didn’t tell me you were coming, or I would have put my foot down.” He turned and looked at her with his bloodshot eyes. “She can’t handle when people swoop in like that and want to ask questions. It was happening every week for a while, and then . . .” He shook his head.

And then the case went cold and there was nothing left to ask.

“We think we might have a lead in her case,” Allison said. “We think it might be connected to some others.”

He sighed heavily and closed his eyes. A pickup truck tore out of the parking lot, and Allison watched its taillights fade down the street.

“He took her away, you know that? She’s there still, but not really.”

Allison looked at him. He sounded so defeated, as if the last twelve months had worn him down. He swayed slightly, and she smelled the booze again.

“Let me give you a ride home.”

He went still.

“Mr. Wheatley? Jordan needs you right now, whether she says so or not.”

“I’m fine.” He heaved himself to his feet, and Allison stood, too.

He set his jaw and looked fiercely off at the parking lot. “I’m sorry for coming on like that. This isn’t your fault. I just—”

“I’ll drive you home.”

“No, I got it.”

“I insist.” She pulled out her keys and glanced over her shoulder. The off-duty firefighter was still standing beside the door, watching protectively. “I’m going to drive Mr. Wheatley home,” she called over to him.

“Really, I’m good. I got my truck here.”

“Yeah, you know what? So do I. And I really don’t feel like hauling you in for a DUI and filling out a bunch of paperwork, so save us both the trouble, okay?”