gave a little nod of acknowledgment before backing out of the tiny spare office the agents had been given. The monotonous work took a while, but as Rising had indicated, the local PD had already done some of the work for them. They were able to fast-track the footage when there was no activity on the screen. They started by checking the time stamps on the sheet of paper. When the car said to belong to Claire Locke came onto the screen, Mackenzie zoomed in but was unable to see a driver. She waited, watching the featureless entrance of the complex for twenty-two sped up minutes before Locke’s car was shown leaving. In the time she had spent there, no one else had arrived and no other cars had left.
“You know,” Mackenzie said, “it’s entirely possible that she was not attacked at the storage unit.”
“You think someone killed her elsewhere and brought her to the site?”
“Maybe not killed her somewhere else, but potentially abducted her. I think seeing her body will help determine that. If she shows signs of starvation or dehydration, that basically tells us that she was dumped there.”
“But according to the report, the lock was bolted from the outside.”
“So maybe someone else has the key,” Mackenzie suggested.
“Probably someone in one of the other cars on these days and days of footage.”
“Most likely.”
“You want to stay here and roll through this while I go check out the body?” Ellington asked. “Or the other way around?”
Mackenzie pictured the poor woman, alone in the dark and unable to so much as scream for help. She envisioned her stumbling in the dark to try to find some way to at least try to get that door open.
“I think I’d like to check the body. You good here?”
“Oh yeah. This is streaming at its finest. No commercials or anything.”
“Good,” she said. “See you in a bit.”
She leaned down and kissed him on the side of the mouth before leaving. She did it naturally and without much thought, even though it wasn’t the most professional thing. It was a good reminder of just why they wouldn’t be able to work together in this capacity after they were married.
Mackenzie left the little office space in search of the morgue while Ellington watched time unroll in fast-forward motion on the screen.
The question as to whether or not Claire Locke had experienced starvation or dehydration of any degree during her time in the storage unit was answered the moment Mackenzie saw her. While Mackenzie was not an expert on the subject, there was a hollow look to the young woman’s cheeks. There might have been a similar look to her stomach as well but it was not clear due to the incision the coroner had made.
The woman who met her at the morgue was a rotund and eerily pleasant woman named Amanda Dumas. She greeted Mackenzie warmly and stood back against a small steel table that was adorned with the tools of her trade.
“Based on your examination,” Mackenzie said, “would you say that the victim experienced severe hunger or dehydration before she died?”
“Yes, though I don’t know to what extent, exactly,” Amanda said. “There’s very little fatty acid in her stomach—hardly any at all. That, plus some signs of muscle deterioration, indicates that she experienced at least the first pangs of starvation. There are telltale signs of dehydration as well, though I can’t be sure that either of those is what killed her.”
“You think she bled out first?”
“I do. And quite frankly, that would have been a blessing for her.”
“Based on what you’ve seen with the body, do you believe she was alive when she was placed in the storage unit?”
“Oh, without a doubt. And I’d say it was against her will as well.” Amanda stepped forward and pointed to the abrasions on Locke’s right hand. “Looks like she put up a fight of some kind and then tried her best to escape at some point.”
Mackenzie saw the cuts and noted that one of them looked rather ragged. It could have easily been placed there by the grooved runner that the unit door ran within. She also saw the fingernail that had been torn.
“There’s also bruising along the back of her head,” Amanda said. She used a comb-like tool to move Claire’s hair aside. She did so with a loving sort of respect and care. When she did this, Mackenzie was able to see an angry purple bruise along the upper base of her neck where her skull joined it.
“Any signs that she was drugged?” Mackenzie asked.
“None. I still have one chemical analysis I’m waiting on, but based on everything else I’ve seen, I’m not expecting anything from it.”
Mackenzie assumed the bruise to the back of the head along with the ball gag found in her mouth was more than enough reason for Claire Locke to not have raised any fuss or alarm when she was carried into the storage unit. She thought about the video footage again, certain that the driver of one of the cars was responsible for her murder—and the death of the other person found last week, according to the reports.
Mackenzie looked back down at the body with a frown. It was a natural reaction to always feel some sort of remorse for anyone who had been murdered. But Mackenzie was feeling a stronger sense of sadness with Claire Locke. Maybe it was because she could picture her all alone in that dark storage unit, unable to properly move or call out for help.
“Thanks for the information,” Mackenzie said. “My partner and I will be in town for a few days. Let me know if anything shows up in that last chemical report.”
She left the morgue and headed back up to the main floor. On her way back to the little office she and Ellington were working out of, she stopped by the dispatch desk and requested a copy of the current file on Claire Locke. She had it in her hands two minutes later and carried it back to the office.
She found Ellington staring at the monitor, reclined back in his chair.
“Anything so far?” she asked.
“Nothing concrete. I’ve watched seven more vehicles come and go. One stayed for about six hours before leaving. I want to check with the PD to see which of these people they have already spoken with. For Claire Locke to end up in that storage unit, someone on this footage had to have driven her there.”
Mackenzie nodded in agreement as she started looking through the file. Locke had no criminal record at all and the personal details didn’t offer much. She was twenty-five years old, graduated from UCLA two years ago, and had been working as a digital artist with a local marketing firm. Divorced parents, the father living in Hawaii and the mother somewhere in Canada. No husband, no kids, but there was a note along the bottom of the personal details sheet that stated her boyfriend had been informed of her death. He’d been called yesterday at three in the afternoon.
“How much time do you have left on that?” she asked.
Ellington shrugged. “Three more days, it looks like.”
“You good here while I head out to speak to Claire Locke’s boyfriend?”
“I guess,” he said with a comical sigh. “Married life is coming up. Better get used to seeing me sitting in front of a screen all the time. Especially during football
