Skye Cree 03: The Bones Will Tell

by Vickie McKeehan

  “You sure Vanessa came in last fall? You sure about the timeframe?”

  “Positive. That means he’s planned this out for quite a while.”

  “Planning to involve you all along.”

  “Exactly.”

  “That’s disturbing. Have you thought about letting people man the office while you spend more time in the field, so to speak.”

  “Sure. The problem is I don’t want a bunch of people sitting around with nothing to do, waiting for the phone to ring while I’m out circling Seattle. The point is I…I mean we,” she corrected. “Need to be more organized. I had three people call the office while we were in St. Kitts wanting to volunteer their time after seeing a news story about the Foundation. But what would they do, Josh? I don’t even have available flyers printed up yet with all the missing. The list is rather long. Plus, I’d need people I could trust.”

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself, Skye. The Foundation is still in its infancy. It seems you already know exactly what to do. Have someone come in and organize your files, get flyers printed, get them in the mail, circulate as many as you can around Washington starting with the immediate five counties.”

  She arched a brow, considering. “Jumpstart the searches, put new life in all the cold cases. That’s a plan. I like it.”

  About that time her email dinged signaling a message from Dawson Hennings. She scanned the brief five-line missive. “He’s agreed to see us tomorrow morning.”

  Josh shook his head. “He’s agreed to see you. I’m afraid I have a meeting with my programmers. I can’t miss it, Skye.”

  “Let me guess. Working on that new game featuring the red-headed female fighter? When is it set for release?”

  “This coming Christmas which means we have less than a year to bust our asses from now till then to get this product on the market without major bugs.”

  “So when it comes to this case…”

  “I’m in this with you a hundred percent. Just not tomorrow. How about if I text you with any questions I come up with though? We can always keep in touch to make sure we’re on the same page as a team.”

  The next morning, half the Ander-Cree team stood inside the office belonging to Dawson Hennings.

  To Skye the man, dressed in a white lab coat, came across as the perfect stereotype—a snapshot of the medical scientific nerd mesmerized by whatever ended up under his microscope.

  His lab might have been meticulous but his office was cluttered with files and textbooks scattered around. Despite all the obvious work piled up, the bespectacled guy seemed rather organized in his chaos.

  Reluctantly she followed Dawson into his lab and watched as the man busied himself with drying an upper arm bone that had been soaking in some type of clear solution. Much like at Bayliss’s lab, she felt like an intruder. But unlike the coroner, Dawson seemed to relish having a visitor. He’d already given her a brief dissertation on the two types of DNA used most often in solving crimes: mitochondrial and nuclear.

  “Mitochondrial DNA is found in the subunit of active cells known as the mitochondrion and deals with energy production. Bones, teeth, and hair are ideal for obtaining that type to use in missing persons cases. While nuclear DNA is found in the cell nucleus and pertains to growth and maintenance where blood, semen, and sweat are left behind.”

  “Mitochondrial DNA is inherited from the mother, right?”

  “It can be used to determine maternal heritage, yes. A father’s mitochondrial DNA is usually destroyed at fertilization. Although a few scientific case studies have shown people can inherit mitochondrial DNA from both father and mother.”

  “Really?”

  “Those results showed subjects had parents who had used in vitro fertilization to help with their pregnancies.”

  “Ah. So nuclear DNA is the stuff found from evidence on things like blankets, clothing, weapons, stuff found at crime scenes?”

  “That’s right. Sorry. I know I sound like I’m lecturing you but the point is mutations and disorders routinely occur in science, in diseases, in molecular structure. And understanding the types of DNA might give you a better handle on what your expectations are in obtaining usable DNA for ID purposes in this case.”

  “Hey, any time I get to see things firsthand and learn more than I get from the Internet, I’m a willing subject.” When the doctor turned his full attention from his work to her, she wanted to know, “Is that one of the bones you got from Bayliss?”

  Dawson grinned and showed off his immaculate teeth. “No. This is another case I’m working on, another unidentified set of remains. This one had flesh and tissue still attached, which I’ve already removed.”

  Skye made a face. “On second thought, I’m not sure I’m ready for this.”

  “Think of it this way. Going through this process hopefully IDs this poor victim and gives a family somewhere some much-needed answers.”

  “Good point. I think I’m going to like you, Dr. Hennings. You didn’t use that word ‘closure’ so many tend to use which has a tendency to piss me off.”

  “I like you, too. Call me Dawson. Want to see how it’s done?”

  “Sure. Although I doubt it ever comes up again.”

  “You never know,” he said, moving on to his task. “I soak the bone in a ten percent solution of bleach, rinse it in sterile water before making sure it’s thoroughly dried. Like this.” Dawson took her through the steps before picking up a grinder. “Now, I remove the outer coating with either sandpaper or in this case, I’m using my Dremel to drill down as much as I can to collect the bone powder. As I’ve already stated the best chance of getting usable DNA is in the middle of the bone, the nucleus.”

  “Looks like you’re avoiding the ends for a reason. Is it because they’re more dried out than the rest?”

  Dawson looked back up from his specimen, stared at his guest over his glasses. “You are observant. I don’t use that part of the bone because it’s usually too contaminated. Exposure to the elements takes its toll. Since this sample has pretty much degraded to what you see here, I’ve elected to avoid the marrow, for now at least. I might get desperate down the road though.”

  “Why’s that? Wait. What you’re really saying or trying not to say is that you don’t have the skull of this victim to extract any DNA from the teeth? It’s down to that bone you have curing in the solution.”

  Dawson cleared his throat. “It’s unfortunate, but that’s true.”

  “So, why not use the marrow?”

  “In this case it’s just too degraded. When that happens it produces a much lower molecular weight substance. Using a descending concentration of ethyl alcohol, I hope to extract what I need for the size sample I want. The goal is to get fifteen grams. That’s ideal. In this instance, it’s soaked overnight in the extraction solution. But the process itself may take several tries.” He picked up a conical tube, filled it with the liquid, set it in the centrifuge to spin while they talked.

  “What does that do?”

  “It dissolves the bone and collagen and releases the DNA into the mixture. We spin fifteen minutes and the spinning produces PCR to amplify that single piece of DNA we want.”

  “PCR stands for polymerase chain reaction. I read up this morning in preparation for coming here.”

  “That makes up the first attempt.”

  “The first?”

  “We repeat this process up to five times. And it may take as many as that to get anything at all. When we’re done we hope to have a pellet-sized concentrate we use to extract the DNA.”

  “I’m pretty sure you just simplified that for me. You’re a smart guy, Dr. Hennings. I appreciate what you do here.”

  Dawson adjusted his glasses, shifted his feet. He went on as if he didn’t know how to handle the praise. “When this bone gives up what I need, I’ll move on to the silica extraction where the DNA molecules bind to the silica. I run it through a microchannel where I can remove the DNA.”

  Now Skye was positive her asse
ssment embarrassed him so she diverted to her own pending case. “But when do you get to the bones Bayliss gave you? Right now, those are the ones I need analyzed. Seattle has a killer out there who likes to dismember.”

  As they stood there, Dawson fidgeted with his test tube, as if more ill at ease than before. “There’s something I want you to know. Before we get to your case, you should know I’ve read about you. Extensively. You’re an amazing woman, Miss Cree.” He stared at her. “I can see by that statement I’ve made you self-conscious. I don’t mean to. I just felt like I needed to tell you. We’ll be working together.”

  “The thing is I don’t feel amazing or extraordinary.”

  “I know. But that’s what makes you all the more exceptional. You have terrific instincts. You really should be in law enforcement.”

  “Thank you. I think what we have here is mutual respect for one another. But I’m afraid I’m not cut out for the restrictions placed on cops.”

  “Ah. Well. A pity. I suppose I put my foot in my mouth. But then, I often say too much.”

  “Not at all. I think we can be friends though, don’t you?”

  “I’d like that.”

  “Your email did indicate you ran an initial test you wanted me to know about. Why don’t you just tell me what you found?”

  “Sure. The test I ran on the mummified hand indicates your second victim has been dead less than five years.”

  “Really? Okay. So we have one that’s been in the ground for a long time versus another more recent.”

  “In addition to that, I found bruising under the soft tissue which makes me think this victim was tortured.”

  Skye pondered that development for about five seconds. “Hmm, he’s all about getting off on the physical violence, the suffering of the victim rather than about the sex. You know, Bundy started out bashing their heads in once he got them into his vehicle. Then he’d take them to an undisclosed location where he had plenty of time to do despicable things to the body so that he could have sex with the corpse again and again. I wonder if that’s what’s going on with this guy.”

  Dawson swallowed hard. “You think he somehow gets them into his car, whisks them away from the area, and then goes to a place where he brutalizes them without detection.”

  “That’s exactly what I think. Right now I have a missing waitress named Willa Dover. She worked at the same restaurant where I worked as a kid. I’m thinking this guy has done his research.”

  “Willa Dover,” Dawson repeated. “I heard that name on the news this morning driving to work. You think he abducted her to make a point with you?”

  “Yes. And it might be a giant leap on my part, but I’m thinking he took her so I’d know he could. Wherever Willa is, she’s still alive, probably in bad shape but alive. If we move on this fast enough maybe we could find her before it ends up too late.”

  “What can I do to help?”

  “Make those bones the killer sent me a priority.” Skye looked around Dawson’s lab. “Start with anything you think might give me a leg up on this guy. You mentioned taking samples of the dirt. Anything would help. Is that even possible?”

  “Possible and doable. But not me. That’s for a forensic geologist to examine the soil to see if it contains anything unique that makes it identifiable to a certain, specific location.”

  “You wouldn’t happen to know one by any chance?”

  Dawson grinned again. “As a matter of fact, I do. Kevin Holt. He works upstairs in his own state-run lab. Around here, he’s the go-to guy. He can usually breakdown the mineral particles, determine the soil content, color, and come up with a source. He’s actually testified in murder trials. He’s very good at pinpointing where soil samples come from. It’s his specialty.”

  “Sounds like just the man we need. You’ll share the dirt found on the skull and bones with him, right?”

  “I will.”

  “Then let’s hope he’s able to reveal something distinctive, something from the general area where this guy buries his victims. Otherwise, we’re just flapping in the wind.”

  Chapter Ten

  Skye wasn’t sure why but she just couldn’t let go of her studio apartment. When she’d left Dawson Hennings huddled in his lab surrounded by his specimens whirling around in that little machine, she’d made a point to stop by her former home.

  Even having taken down the serial killer, Frank De Palo, in this exact spot where she stood now, the place could still tug at her heartstrings. Maybe it was because it had been her very first real home. Maybe it was because here in this place she had first come to the realization that she could make a life for herself doing what she wanted to do.

  It was here—for the first time since the accident had taken her parents when she was just thirteen—that she’d felt she had a purpose. Whatever the reason, she couldn’t let a stranger move inside these four walls and take up residence in the place she still considered her personal space. She didn’t want just anyone living here, cooking here, or sleeping here. She couldn’t handle subletting it.

  She knew Josh wondered about why. But these past few months, he’d come to accept her decision to keep this part separate from everything else.

  Because of that she still had plants and herbs here, growing, thriving, though it was still winter. Despite the gradual change in temperature from February to March, her small balcony garden flourished. The lavender had survived the winter. The little blooming buds proved that. Of course, she’d moved a few of the smaller containers over to Josh’s place—the rosemary and basil, the sage and oregano had found a new home at the loft. Josh had offered to cart more over but so far, she’d dragged her feet on doing it.

  Today, she was there to water, spritz, and deadhead. Maybe replant those that needed it into bigger pots. The spider plants were okay the way they were, but the rootbound monstera had to graduate to a much larger container. When she’d finished with that chore, she pruned and snipped brown leaves off the dianthus and coreopsis. While she was at it, she cut a mix of both to use as a table centerpiece. She harvested the mint, did the same with the chives.

  Sitting back on her haunches to survey her work, she realized the little terrace was crowded. She really did need more space. In the not so distant past, she’d dreamed about having an actual garden one day with rows and rows of veggies or flowers growing directly out of the ground.

  She decided they should get more serious about making the decision to get a house. Maybe settle on the Tudor Revival in Ballard with a view of Shilshole Bay or the farmhouse on ten acres in the rolling hills of Bainbridge Island.

  The 1935 Tudor had plenty of room—three bedrooms, two baths—with a brand-new deck. Plus, it had been remodeled with all the latest upgrades.

  But something about its counterpart—the rambling country house on Bainbridge—pulled at her. Its age was a factor. The fact it had been built in 1909 just meant it had withstood the test of time. Its size was a definite deterrent for two people. With four bedrooms and three bathrooms, what on earth would they do with all that space?

  The gabled windows and wraparound porch were huge draws for her though. The cherry orchard was a bonus. There were rows and rows of trees already budding with aromatic blossoms. It was like a picture postcard, a precursor to spring. The land offered plenty of space for planting and growing a vegetable garden or whatever else she decided to put in the ground.

  She suddenly realized how much she wanted that old house. She took out her phone to text Josh. What do you think about becoming farmers?

  Across town when his cell phone dinged, Josh had just finished up with the programmers. Sitting in his office with time to spare before his next meeting, he grinned at the readout and keyed in a response. Didn’t you know? I’m a regular Old MacDonald.

  A couple minutes later Skye texted back. Good. B/c I think I want that farmhouse.

  When will you know for sure?

  Smartass. Let’s go for it. Now.

  Harry Drummond showed signs
of fatigue as he knocked on the door of Skye’s apartment. Not only had he trudged up four flights of stairs, he hadn’t slept much the night before.

  As soon as she flung the door back, he didn’t wait for preamble. “Joggers found the body of a young woman this morning dumped in the park.”

  “Come on in.”

  “I need to know if you recognize her.” He handed Skye a crime scene photo.

  It was hard to look at what once had been a young, attractive female with such a youthful, pretty face. But she forced herself to study the picture of the nude woman and the details it gave up. Skye noted she’d had gorgeous red hair and deep brown eyes with a spattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose. But in death, her hair had been left in disarray, matted with blood and bunched in knots. Deep slashes across both breasts and the open wound to her throat told Skye the woman had suffered greatly.

  “Jesus, this guy really likes to use a knife. How long do you suppose she’d been there do you think? In the park?”

  “At least twenty-four maybe longer. Right now, I’m waiting on Bayliss to give me anything more concrete.”

  She handed the photo back to him. “I don’t recognize her, Harry. I mean, she looks somewhat familiar but I can’t place her. What about a missing person report?”

  “Well, it doesn’t match the twenty-four-year-old hooker I have who disappeared from Tacoma. That much I’m certain.”

  “Another person who went missing besides Willa? What’s her name?”

  “Andrea Harkness disappeared last Friday night, last seen climbing into a Jeep.”

  “A Jeep? I’ll make coffee while you bring me up to speed and I’ll do the same.”

  “That psychic thing you and Josh have going for you?”

  “Right now, sad to say, it’s all we have. Any word yet on Willa?”

  “Not a thing. It’s like she vanished into thin air. Pour that coffee and I’ll tell you what I have so far.”