by Vella Day
Guilt pricked her. Maybe she should have asked official permission to take evidence from the morgue, but John had been standing there when she’d boxed up the skull and had said nothing.
When Kerry had asked Dr. Ahern if the department was willing to bring in a high-level forensic artist to do the reconstruction, she received a definitive no. He’d said the citywide budget cuts had put a bite into many of their requests, and that they’d only bring in experts for high profile cases.
Had she not been new, or maybe if she were better with confrontation, she would have asked how many more women this person needed to kill to qualify for high profile.
That meant she’d just have to do it herself in her off-hours. The ends justified the means. Right?
In order to have room to work, Kerry cleared off one end of the kitchen table nearest the pantry. Grandpa had said they could eat in the formal dining room as long as need be. He understood her burning need to find the relatives of the Jane Does of the world. No doubt it was because he was a former cop.
Kerry leaned closer and ran a hand over the face. “I promise I’ll find out who you are.” Not only did this skull have the best teeth of the four women, the cranium was mostly intact, making her the best candidate for the clay reconstruction.
Kerry had already compared the Missing Person photos Hunter had given her to the X-ray of Jane’s face. No matches—at least none that she could be sure about. Without a match, there’d be no dental records, which meant the clay model was her only hope.
“Need any help?”
Kerry jumped. Her grandfather pulled up a chair at the table and sat down.
“I wish you could. This is a long, tedious process.”
“I can sort the stubby rubber thingies if that would help.”
She smiled. “They’re tissue depth markers. Thank you. That would help.” Not really, but she wanted him to feel useful.
Grandpa went to work arranging the twenty-one numbered pieces, lining them up in a neat row. “You know where they go?”
This time she chuckled. “I hope so. I learned from one of the best in the country.”
She’d spent the last hour measuring and cutting each marker. Given Jane Doe was Negroid, twenty-five to thirty-five, Kerry had used tables to determine the approximate tissue depth at each point around the face.
She picked up the first marker and glued the piece to the middle of the forehead.
After she double-checked the length, she glued three more markers. Next, she placed cotton pads behind the eyes, nose and mouth sockets so the clay would stay on the surface and not fall into the holes.
“You know, in all my years on the force, I’ve never seen anyone make one of these face things,” Grandpa said. “That’s not a real skull, is it?”
She smiled at her grandfather’s transparent interest. “Yes. I didn’t have time to make a mold.”
The cheer in his eyes disappeared. “That skull is evidence. You shouldn’t have taken it out of the morgue.”
“I’ll bring it back.” She tried to keep her tone light, but her heart still raced.
He shot her a warning look, and then relaxed. “You normally would have made a mold, right? Like out of plaster of Paris?”
“Yes.”
He smiled. “Why, I remember when you made a volcano for your eighth grade science fair project out of that stuff.”
She’d forgotten that catastrophe. When she’d lit the powder for the volcano to spew lava, the whole thing exploded. “This plaster is a little different.”
Grandpa fiddled with the neat row of markers. “Your sister called again today.”
Her fingers stopped moving and her stomach soured. “Did she say what she wanted?” Kerry was pleased her tone lacked emotion.
“Same as last time. She wants to talk to you. To mend the fences, so to speak.”
“I think we’ve said all we need to say to each other.” She picked up the number four marker and placed it at the top of the nose. “What could Susan say to me now that would change how she treated me?”
“She had her reasons for doing what she did.” He handed her the next marker.
Her sister had reasons all right. She wanted to be with her friends instead of with her seven-year old sister. Susan was the devil incarnate.
“Did she have a good reason for not going to Mom’s funeral?”
“Yes.”
Kerry turned toward Grandpa, and her heart skipped a beat. “What was it?” Her interest overcame her resentment.
“You’ll have to let her tell you.” He picked up a brown glass eye from the case and twirled it between his thumb and forefinger. “You sure this is the right size?”
His comment implied the conversation was over. “I measured the eye sockets back at the lab.” She gently extracted the eyepiece from his gnarled fingers and placed it back where it belonged. “Don’t you have to walk Buster or something?” She needed space as well as time to think, time to fight her demons—alone.
“All right. I get the hint.”
As he scooted back his chair, sharp claws scratched their way into the kitchen. Buster slid around the corner and began barking in earnest.
“I swear,” Grandpa said, “that dog can understand every word we say.” He stood. “Come on, Buster. Let’s go outside.”
Kerry went back to placing the forensic markers on the skull. Number five went on top of the upper teeth to form the lip. She figured she should have the face done within a week’s time if she hurried.
Kerry paced the police conference room, waiting for the Channel 8 camera crew and Detective Markum to arrive.
She’d only taken six days to complete the reconstruction, which was a new record for her. The first few faces she’d created had taken her close to three weeks. This time she’d gone without much sleep most nights. She yawned, the effects of strain tightening every muscle in her neck and back.
Unearthing #1 might have given her a more personal connection to the victim, which created an urgency she hadn’t felt with the other faces—or had she worked hour after tireless hour on this particular Jane Doe in order to push away the image of the infant they’d found, torn in half by an animal? The teddy bear they’d located the next day under some bush still made her sick.
Whatever it took, Kerry vowed to find the baby’s identity and to bring closure to the grieving family.
You can’t dwell on Baby Doe, or the horrors of your job will eat you alive.
Kerry mentally repeated the mantra her wonderful professor, Dr. Mary Strickland, had pounded into her head, but the usually calming refrain refused to fill the gaping hole in her heart. No doubt about it, she could handle adult skeletons a lot better than children’s.
Kerry checked her watch for the fourth time in as many minutes and smoothed the wig on the skull. The few strands of the victim’s hair she’d found underneath the skeleton had helped her estimate the hair texture and length.
She’d had to guess at the victim’s lip thickness, the size of her ears and the eye contour, but despite the judgment call, she hoped someone might recognize this poor woman.
“Hello.”
Kerry whipped around. Hunter Markum strolled into the conference room looking highly professional in his crisp, freshly pressed cop uniform that fit amazingly well over his muscled frame.
“Hi,” she shot back.
He stepped close to her, examining the clay model she gripped. His musky scent made her inwardly groan.
Don’t let him get to you, Kerry. Looks are superficial.
His hand lightly brushed Jane Doe’s head. “This is quite remarkable. She looks so lifelike.”
Some of her anxiety drained away after hearing his praise. “Thank you.” When Hunter stepped back, she was able to breathe again.
“Ready?” He remained upbeat, yet solemn at the same time.
“As ready as I’ll ever be. I just hope I don’t make a fool of myself in front of the camera.”
He smiled at her. “You’ll
do just fine. Have you ever been on TV?”
Oh God, he could tell she’d never made a plea to the public before. “No. Can’t you see I’m a nervous wreck?”
“Don’t worry. I’ll do most of the talking. No one will notice you’re out of your comfort zone.”
Comfort zone? Hell, she was afraid her first real attempt at facial reconstruction wouldn’t jog anyone’s memory. Her hands were shaking, which was not a good sign.
Kerry took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. For the daughter of an actress, she should have been a natural in front of the camera. Unfortunately, she hadn’t inherited her mom’s dramatic flair.
A knock sounded at the conference room door and a cameraman and a reporter from News Channel 8 strode in. They introduced themselves. The reporter, Liz Culbertson, gave the two of them the spiel about relaxing and trying to ignore the camera. Right.
“If you two would stand by the wall,” Josh Martin, the cameraman directed, “we won’t have to worry about the reflection from the white board or the backlight from the sun coming through the blinds.”
Kerry glanced at Hunter. He looked so at ease. Lucky guy. Hunter placed his hand on the small of her back to lead her to the other side, and the room seemed to shrink from his touch. God, she didn’t need the added tension of being next to him, smelling his musky aftershave.
She needed to do what her mom always did when she performed—think of a mountain stream and forget the world was watching. Kerry had to stay calm for the relatives of this lost woman.
Kerry placed the reconstruction on the table and examined her creation one more time, looking for imperfections and uneven skin thickness. For the last time, Kerry smoothed the hair on the skull. The woman deserved to look her best.
The reporter held a white piece of paper in front of Kerry’s face. She blinked and took a step back.
“It’s for white balance,” the reporter said. “You don’t want to come out looking blue or green, do you?” Liz smiled. “Relax.”
“I’ll try.”
The cameraman turned on a strong beam that shone into Kerry’s eyes. She squinted for a moment, then tried to do as Liz instructed.
“Ready when you are, Liz,” Josh directed.
The reporter walked back to Josh and stood next to him. Facing both Kerry and Hunter, she began the interview.
“Detective Markham, you’ve brought in Dr. Herlihy, a forensic anthropologist, to reconstruct the face of one of your Jane Doe victims. Why? Couldn’t you have identified her some other way?”
“We’re running some tests in the lab on evidence we found at the crime scene, but so far haven’t much to go on.”
“And Dr. Herlihy’s model will help?”
“We hoped by creating a visual, such as the recreation, a relative or friend might identify this woman sooner than we could.”
“Could you state the victim’s age and nationality?”
Hunter nodded to Kerry. Here goes. “From her facial structure, we believe she’s African American, though the bone density scan indicates a mix of white European.”
“Were you able to determine how old she was?”
“She’s most likely between twenty-five to thirty-five.”
Liz’s expression didn’t change. “Can you tell how she died?”
Kerry spent about a minute discussing the woman’s injuries. Because the interview was being taped, Kerry bet her boring explanation would land on the cutting room floor.
Liz Culbertson asked Hunter a few more questions, then had the cameraman shut off his equipment. “We’ll have the detective’s telephone number appear on the screen after the story airs.”
The reporter and her cameraman disappeared as quick as they had arrived. Now that the drama was over, Kerry smiled at Hunter. “That wasn’t as bad as I’d thought.”
Hunter unbuttoned the top button of his uniform. “I can’t wait to get out of this monkey suit.” Only now did he look uncomfortable.
“I appreciate you setting up this interview. I think we’ll reach a wider audience when the video appears on the evening news,” she said.
“Let’s hope.”
Hunter said nothing more as he escorted her to her car. She could have found her way herself, but she was thankful he wanted to walk her out. They were a team, both focused on finding the identity of the victim.
“So now what?” she asked.
“We wait and we pray.”
No way. The victims’ families had waited long enough. She planned to begin work on the other women, and then she’d pray someone identified the poor soul.
“You looked as pretty as your mother,” Grandpa said, as he clicked off the six o-clock news. He grabbed his beer off the coffee table and took a drink.
“I wouldn’t go that far, but thank you.”
Her mom. Now there was a unique woman. She would disappear for weeks to audition for the perfect movie role and leave seven-year old Kerry in the hands of her thirteen-year old sister. Too bad Susan often played hide and seek and left Kerry to fend for herself.
She’d loved her mom despite the fact the woman wasn’t capable of keeping a husband around for long. Kerry definitely missed having supportive parents.
“You came off as very professional,” he said.
A high compliment indeed. “You couldn’t tell I was shaking?”
“You looked cool and calm to me.”
Hunter Markum had been the cool one. “Thanks.” Kerry stood. “I need to fix dinner before the poker boys come over.”
As she made her way into the kitchen, the phone rang. “I’ll get it,” she yelled back to the living room. “Hello?”
“Is this Dr. Herlihy?”
“Yes.” It wasn’t Hunter.
“I saw the news tonight.”
Her pulse shot up to over a hundred. Had someone recognized the woman? “Yes?”
“You didn’t get the chin right, and her cheekbones were more refined than you made them.”
“You know this woman?” Kerry gripped the phone. The man should be thanking her for finding his wife, or daughter, not chastising her for sculpting the face incorrectly. “Who was she? And what’s your name?”
“Next time, pay more attention to the details.”
Then he hung up.
8
“Stupid bitch.” News Channel 8 shouldn’t have aired that shit.
Who did Dr. Herlihy think she was trying to ape such a fine creation? She screwed up the shape of Tameka’s ears and the fullness of her lips, not to mention the cheek line was all wrong. Tameka’s face had been beaten so many times, her cheeks had sunken.
And I fixed her. Made her beautiful.
Then Tameka’s stupid boyfriend had to mess with her face again. Christ. Why couldn’t the woman listen to good advice and leave the prick?
And to think Tameka planned on bringing a baby into the world. Bitch deserved to die. It’s my duty to keep unborn children away from harm.
If Tameka had realized how abuse destroyed self-confidence, ruined children’s lives, and caused so much pain, she’d never have stayed with Jamal.
Like dad’s abuse did to me.
Maybe worse than the actual abuse was the fact Mom knew what Dad was doing and refused to leave the SOB. Where would we go, she’d cry? Who would pay for food?
Fathers were supposed to discipline their children. Fine, but did it have to include punches, belts, and dark closets?
And Roger. As the older brother, he should have been the protector. Instead, he escaped. He’d never given a warning to stay hidden when Dad went on one of his rampages either. But Roger had gotten his due from his own son. Ha. Served him right. Fathers should know better than to treat their sons like dirt.
Just as sure as there were more abusive assholes like Dad, there would also be more women and children who needed to be saved. Unfortunately, now that the cops had found the gravesite, disposing of more bodies just got harder.
Thank God, he’d been careful and so far, and no
one had been able to identify the victims or connect them to him.
If anyone did figure out who they were, that someone would have to die.
Her mind reeling, Kerry dropped the phone onto the cradle. Her legs weakened and her hands shook. She couldn’t process the conversation. She had to call him back.
Heart racing, she sat down at the kitchen table and punched *69 to redial his number. The call wouldn’t go through. Dammit. Maybe that didn’t work with cell phone. Shit. She had no idea.
Grandpa entered the kitchen. “Was that David?”
When she didn’t answer, he shuffled over to the table and eased down onto the chair across from her. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Tell me what happened.” He reached out and took her hand. His dry palm was warm and comforting.
Kerry detailed the strange conversation.
“And he didn’t tell you the name of the victim?”
“No. He was angry I’d gotten some of the features wrong. That’s all.”
Grandpa scratched his chin. “If he recognized the victim enough to know what you’d done wrong, you must have had quite a bit about her correct.”
That gave her some consolation. “True, but without a name, what good does it do?” Kerry slipped her fingers from his, closed her eyes, and ran her hands down her face. “Why wouldn’t he tell me her name?”
“I have no idea. Maybe you should call your detective.”
Hardly her detective. Her heart pounded. “You’re right. Maybe he can trace the call.”
“Plus, the man knew our number. The only one given out on television was the detective’s I believe.”
The ramification hit her. “Ohmigod. You’re right. How did he get our number? Our last names are different. There’s no way he could know I’m staying with you.”
“That’s why you need to find out. Call the detective.”
How could Grandpa remain so composed when she was about to have a nervous breakdown? Kerry jumped up from the table and paced, needing to release her anxiety. Buster raced in and began barking.
