by Misty Evans
I'm a genealogist in my spare time. People hire me to find lost relatives or create family trees. Back in the day before the Internet, my dad loved to work on our family tree. When he was on leave from the Army, we often spent Saturday afternoons in the basement at the local library, going through their genealogy collection. Not a big library, but one of the best in the area for tracking down your ancestors. Dad's love of personal history inspired my own. I’ve taken what he started and expanded it to include multiple trees and thousands of records. Once in a while Dad and I still go to the library and spend the afternoon working on other people's.
"She found her mom, so what's the problem?" I ask.
"The birth mother is German and claims the father is Polish."
I glance at the photo, Juanita's skin and hair telling a different DNA story. "People lie all the time about these things. Or block out memories they don't want, like being raped or the fact they slept around and don't actually know who the father is. No name listed on the birth certificate, I take it?"
He shakes his head.
"What do you want me to do about it?"
"Juanita's willing to pay a lot to get this resolved. Time is an issue, of course. Thought you might be interested. She wants answers, whether you find them through that ancestry website you use, or you help her mom remember the truth."
JJ is good. He knows I love a mystery, and I'm as much of a sucker for helping people as my sister. "I'll give her a call and see what I can do."
He reaches out, touches my cheek. "Next time, I promise to come through the front and check in with you before I talk to Meg, okay?"
Who's being manipulated now? JJ knows how to negotiate, make concessions, and get what he wants. It's how he landed the job he has. If only he could get his wife to let him go.
He doesn't wait for my answer. I watch him leave my office and take a deep breath, forcing my pulse to slow.
I miss him already.
Tossing Juanita's picture on the desktop, I stare at it for a moment, wondering what secrets her mother is keeping, if I'll be able to get the answers she seeks.
"Who's that?" Meg is in my doorway, no doubt checking on me after JJ's departure. She points at the photo on my desk.
"Another person who needs our help."
The haunted look in my sister's eyes reflects my own.
"There are too many, Charlie."
This I know. It's what drives me to get out of bed every morning. "Matt can handle these." I tap the stack of folders. "I'll help with Avery, okay?"
She gives me a tiny smile before heading back to her office. I see the look in her eyes, the one that says we're not so different under the clothes and attitudes. We're both on a mission.
And maybe we're both a little obsessed with it.
3
Meg
I stand in the hallway next to the Medical Examiner's office waiting for Dr. Janelle Gentry, deputy chief of the Death Investigations unit, to usher me into her lair. The place where all the action happens.
I close my eyes for a second, grounding myself. Even in a morgue, I can do a quick meditation. A moment or two where I release any anxiety about murder victims and facing them day in and day out.
Soon, I'll be shown Avery's bones. Minus, of course, the twenty-five percent of her that’s still scattered among the trees in Rock Creek Park. The idea of her flesh being torn apart by animals burns inside me, tears right through my stomach.
I want all of her. Every bit that can be given a proper burial once we discover who she is and why she left this earth.
Yes, I'm determined. And hopeful. It's morning and the day hasn't had a chance to wear me down.
Yet.
I like to do these meetings early for just that reason. My mind is sharper and I'm less emotional.
So many victims. So little time.
Breathe.
I inhale and focus on my mantra. On letting my thoughts go.
Time passes, I’m not sure how much. Maybe three minutes, could be ten. All I know is I’m coming out of my meditation. My mind is clear, my previously jittery nerves calm and I’m ready for the task ahead. Slowly, I open my eyes. I’ve learned if I come out of this too fast, my body will rebel. I’ll feel…off…for the rest of the day. Fatigue, headache, tension. It’ll all be there, dragging me down.
Another few minutes pass and I let out a final deep breath as the swish of a door sounds.
Dr. Gentry, a woman in her forties with rich auburn hair—probably not her natural color given the wisps of gray popping up—and a penchant for pantsuits stands in the doorway. "Good morning, Meg."
As usual, her smile is warm, lighting up her angular face. Like me, she still has hope for the day.
We've worked together on cases before, most notably Simon Worth, the twelve-year-old who'd gone missing in 1979. Eight months ago his remains were found buried under a building that’d been knocked down in preparation for a new strip mall. One of the workers stepped off the backhoe and—whoopsie—there's a skull. Talk about a crappy morning.
"Hi. Thank you for seeing me on such short notice."
She waves it off. "No problem at all. JJ is all over me on this one."
"He brought me the skull yesterday."
"Name?"
I smile. My habits are well-known amongst the ME's staff. "Avery."
We move through another set of doors and walk past a room with a silver metal plate that says, "Body Storage." I haven't seen the inside of that room, but I'm told it can hold around two hundred corpses. I don't want to think about that number of bodies stacked up, most more than likely in terrible shape from a tragic death.
We move into one of the autopsy rooms—surgical suites—as Dr. Gentry calls them. It’s spotless with the sharp antiseptic scent of a recent scrubbing. Lining the wall to my right is a long sink holding various metal and plastic containers, all apparently cleaned and neatly placed upside down on a draining tray. In the center of the room is a shiny metal table holding the skeletal remains of who I have to assume is Avery.
I'll get you home.
"This," Dr. Gentry says, "is your Avery."
My guess is, before my visit, the bones were removed from a carefully labeled cardboard box that sits on the lab’s top shelf with all the others of unidentified remains. That’s what they do with them. Shove ‘em on a shelf until the case is solved or their family claims them. I glance up and see more than a dozen.
Random people who could be anyone’s mother, brother, sister.
Child.
I can’t think about it. Can’t.
I shake it off and focus on Avery. Starting at her head, I walk around, making sure to keep my hands at my sides and take my time analyzing the bones and reconstruction of them.
"Petite," I say.
"We're estimating around five-one. Caucasian female."
I was right. This gives me a small sense of satisfaction since I originally doubted my instincts and went with the gender neutral name.
"Age?"
"Late teens to early twenties. Her teeth are in good shape."
Meaning vital DNA can be garnered from them and later tested for any possible matches. Something tells me that’d be too easy.
I study the teeth, my artist's eye narrowing in on the perfectly even top row. "Straight."
"Yes. No cavities either. She could afford dental work."
I retrieve my phone from my back pocket and make a note of it. Why this detail stands out, I'm not sure, but something down deep compels me to record it.
"Clothing?"
"A tank top, sports bra, and running shorts. All Nike and still on her body. She also wore a fitness watch. We found it on her wrist, but with the elements, it's dead."
Avery wasn't found naked, so either rape wasn't the intent, or she fought him off. Good for you.
"So, I'm going to assume, based on the clothing, watch, and dental work, she had money. Or at least wasn't destitute or homeless."
Dr. Gentry shrugs. "It's n
ot a stretch."
Charlie would have to deal with that angle, but it gives us a starting point. Right about now, she'd be schmoozing detectives to turn over their notes. Knowing my sister, she has all this information already. She's good.
Really good.
Together, we are, in fact, remarkable.
I move my gaze to Avery's head where I see no cracks or holes from a bludgeoning or gunshot. The cast JJ brought me didn't show any signs of trauma either, but seeing the actual skull confirms it for me.
"What else?" I ask. "JJ said something about neck fractures."
I meet her eye and she points to Avery's neck. "Yes. The left arm of the hyoid has a fracture. It's about an eighth of an inch from the tip."
I peek at the top of her neck at the u-shaped bone and see the crooked left side. "I see it. Are you thinking strangulation? Maybe a rope or something?"
I'm anxious, ready to know the particulars of Avery's death so we can find her killer.
"Hyoid fractures are more common in ligature and manual strangulation as opposed to hanging. We're going with manual." She wraps her thumb and forefinger around her own neck. "The force of the hand covers a wider area and causes direct stress on the hyoid."
The demonstration allows me to visualize Avery with someone's hand—or hands—squeezing her throat. Stealing her air and cutting off all that vital blood supply.
Breaking a bone.
My stomach burns again and the sensation shoots in all directions, searing the underside of my skin.
I refocus. My job here is not to get emotional. Charlie reminds me of this often. Still, there is part of me that rejects it. Always. I'm an artist. Tapping into my emotions makes me good at my job. And if I can't get pissed about a young woman being strangled and tossed away like garbage, well, what would it take?
I picture my sister in front of me, shaking her head. What would I do without her? I just…no. Can’t go there. I breathe in. Breathe out. "All right. What else?"
"Nothing remarkable," Dr. Gentry says, as if this whole Godforsaken thing is mundane. In her world, maybe it is so I stay quiet while she continues. "The rest of her, aside from a surgical screw in her knee, is free of injury."
Knee surgery. On the table in front of me are the skeletal remains of a young woman, possibly late teens to early twenties, with good teeth, found dressed in what some might consider fairly expensive athletic clothes and a fitness watch.
"My thought is she's a runner. Maybe not wealthy, but not poor either. A college student or millennial, out for a run. She's targeted by someone, more than likely a man—or very strong woman—who had enough strength to break a bone in her neck."
"That about sums it up."
"Which means," I say, "we only have to narrow her down from the other seventy thousand white, college-aged females in the D.C. area."
No wonder JJ, the Emperor of Cold Cases, brought Avery to us.
4
Charlie
Approximately four thousand unidentified bodies are recovered each year in the United States. Of those, one-fourth remain so after a year. Today, when I check NamUs—the National Missing and Unidentified Missing Persons database—there are over twelve thousand cases. The numbers are staggering and it's only getting worse.
JJ has already entered the new UIP case into the federal system, populating NGI, the FBI's Next Generation Identification database, as well as UNT, the Texas University whose lab specializes in DNA analysis, along with a dozen more. Not surprisingly, no matches have been found. In my head, I hear Meg say, "It’s too new. Give it another twenty-four hours. Something will pop up."
Wish I had her optimism.
I sent a DNA collection kit with Meg to give Dr. Gentry. At least those are free, thanks to funding from the National Institute of Justice. It's a big if, but if I can get the Center for Human Identification at UNT to bump this case to the forefront, they’ll run an analysis and confirm cause of death, which could help us solve the case. Of course, they'll need a reason to put it ahead of all the others, but I have JJ in my back pocket. He didn't bring us that skull to see it end up in a closet somewhere. What I need is a good lead, evidence that makes this high-profile.
My first call of the morning goes to the detective in charge of the case. The victim is UI and we're assuming it was a homicide. It goes to voicemail and I leave a message, offering lunch in exchange for information. No doubt, he has plenty of open cases stacked on his desk, crimes, homicides, and a lovely assortment of crap, demanding his constant attention. I know Ritter loves food though since I've worked with him before. He isn't one to turn down a free meal.
I pull out a red folder and label it Case UIP281. Organization is important, especially in this office where there are too many open files, and multiple people working each one. I attach a sheet on the left side, and another, similar to a chain of custody for evidence, on the other. The latter tracks communication, rather than physical evidence, between all the parties and reminds me who is responsible for what as we proceed.
I already have five players: JJ, Meg, Detective Ritter, Dr. Gentry, and myself. From the outer office comes the sound of the fax machine spitting something out. Methodically, I work through our standard intake form for new clients, inserting JJ as the contact person, and UNKNOWN for the name of our vic. I know more about the U.S. district attorney than the girl; her demographic data—age, height, weight, etc., remains a solid wall of blanks.
Matt breezes in my door, carrying a large white coffee cup from my favorite shop and a paper from the fax machine. He's dressed in jeans and a T-shirt with a casual dark blue jacket. His hair is a couple weeks past needing a trim and light brown bangs fall across his forehead. He sets the cup on my desk and drops into the chair, ready for our meeting. "Three shots of espresso, one cream, just the way you like it."
I thank him and peel off the lid, scanning the fax. Detective Ritter has sent me a hand-written detail sheet, probably because I dropped JJ's name in my voicemail, or maybe his wife has him on a new diet. Unfortunately, the details are circumstantial and slim. Late teens/early twenties, clothing intact, neck fracture. A watch was found with the victim. If it was a robbery gone bad, why didn't they take that? I realize this will slide to the bottom of the detective's cases, if it hasn’t already.
The smell of coffee is so good I close my eyes for a second and inhale deeply before blowing on the liquid and taking a sip. I tuck the paper into the folder. Once Meg returns and I find out what she discovered at the coroner's, I’ll add those tidbits of info into the national database entry. "Did you buy the ring?"
Matt shoots me his trademark "Mad Dog" grin, his eyes peering from under the bangs. "I'm going to let her pick her own. Safer that way."
He keeps finding excuses not to propose to his girlfriend, Taylor. "Chicken."
The grin fades and he throws up his hands in exasperation. "I don't know what she’d like, and I don't want to get it wrong. She's...you know..."
The coffee makes me feel halfway alive. I sip more. "Picky?"
"Choosy," he amends. "This is, like, the biggest thing I've ever done, Charlie. Call me chicken all you want, but I have a good reason to be scared of this woman. She's even more of a hardass than you."
So he believes.
I understand where he’s coming from. Taylor is an FBI agent, and a damn good one. Missing Persons is her jam, just like mine and Meg's. "Two carats minimum, square cut, platinum band. It's not that hard, Matt."
"Square? I was thinking pear-shaped. Or maybe round."
I wiggle the pink topaz on my left hand. It's not an engagement ring, and I really shouldn't wear it, but I was feeling a bit sappy this morning after a sleepless night, thanks to dreams about JJ. Just talking about proposals and marriage makes me squirm. I try not to glance at the square gemstone—the only thing JJ’s ever given me—but my sappiness betrays me, and I find my gaze slipping to the ring. It’s a promise things will work out for me, for us. Most days, I don’t believe JJ will ever make g
ood on it.
Dammit. I need more coffee.
I need to throw the ring away.
"Taylor wears a square diamond pendant necklace when she dresses up." I clear my throat, set down the coffee. "The diamond studs she never takes out of her ears are also square." Squares and cubes are solid, balanced. Often, people who’ve been through trauma are drawn to that type of geometry. It is a foundation, a structure, support. Something you can lean on, build a relationship on. "I've never seen her wear much else in jewelry, so you want to keep it clean, no extra diamonds on the band or anything froufrou. Keep it understated and classy. Let the diamond be big and do the talking."
He is pensive for a moment, then the grin appears once more. "How about you go with me to pick it out? I have to meet with the Hughes family at two, probably take an hour or so. We could go after that. You need a break from the office. Meg too. You should both come."
Matt is the closest thing I'll ever have to a little brother, and I’d love to help with this, but neither of us will be free this afternoon. I reach over and pick up the stack of folders. "After you meet with them, I need you to dig into these clients. I've worked on the preliminaries for all three cases, so the initial research is done."
His bangs jump as his eyebrows lift, a silent question as to why I'm suddenly doubling his caseload.
"Our favorite U.S. district attorney brought us a new UIP," I explain. "I have to help Meg."
His question multiplies, the bangs jumping again. "I thought you swore off Carrington."
Personally, yes. "It is not in the best interest of the firm for me to turn down a direct request from the Justice Department." Even though I damn well tried.
"I'm not worried about the firm. I'm worried about you, Charlie."
This is why I think of Matt as my kid brother. He has a protective streak as long and as wide as my dad. I should call him tonight. Get him started tracking down Juanita Jones' father. "Meg is the one you should worry about. JJ brought her a replica of a skull."
