her photo hanging on the wall behind me. With cold fingers, I touched the matte paper of the small, grainy, color copy.
“We’ll give an overview now, but take and study each file to bring yourself up to date on the first body recovered. The volume of evidence tested on the first victim is obviously much greater than what we have so far on yesterday’s victim,” Jim said. “Our first vic’s name was Jillian LaRue, a twelve-year-old student taken from a dressing room immediately following a dance rehearsal eight months ago. No witnesses, no evidence at the scene.
“There was some reason to believe that the victim went willingly. Initially it was suspected she left with her biological father, who had been spotted several times by the instructor in the past few months, trying to speak to her. However, he was located in the county jail two days after Jillian disappeared, having been pulled for DUI and resisting arrest. He had been locked up for five days prior to the LaRue girl’s disappearance. We lost two days. It won’t happen again. Now that we know we have a serial case, Amber Alerts will go out if a child takes too long in the bathroom or hides too well while playing hide-and-seek. We won’t lose any more children through technical glitches or inattention.”
I noticed Emma purse her lips across the table. She didn’t like that comment at all, as if it reflected badly on her, but she kept quiet. I looked at her name badge. Emma Simmons, SAC. I wondered if she was Jim’s boss. I closed the folder on the photo of the lost little girl. I would read it tonight, and knew I’d have nightmares for days after.
“Her body was discovered partially buried in a Confederate-era cemetery in Calhoun County, dressed exactly as she had been in rehearsal, lavender-and-purple leotards, tights, pink tutu and pointe shoes. Best estimates are that she was in the ground a little over two months, which means he kept her for six months.”
The body in my family cemetery had been in the ground for at least that long. Had the red-sneaker girl been taken and killed just before the dancer? Or had there been others in between? I closed my eyes.
Six months in the hands of a stranger. Six months.
Haden took over from Jim. “Like our latest victim, she was buried with a doll—a blond, nine-inch-tall ballerina doll—which she did not have in her possession when taken. In the front of her leotard, placed over her heart, which placement appears to be significant, was a folded piece of heavy paper with writing on it. Unfortunately, it was so heavily damaged by the elements and the conditions of the grave site that only a portion could be read. You’ll see a partial transcript on page eleven, though the lab is still working on it.”
“The paper was handmade, which I understand is still possible,” Jim said, sounding skeptical. “The lab is tracing the paper and the dyes used in the ink back to the manufacturers. We hope one of the manufacturers will be able to pinpoint where the ingredients were purchased.”
I waited patiently for someone to tell Jim that papermaking was all the rage now in the arts-and-crafts crowd, that products could be purchased in every craft store, every Michaels, every Wal-Mart and Garden Ridge store in the nation. No one did. Unless the maker had put something very odd into his paper or used a rare ink, it would be nearly impossible to trace who had bought the paper ingredients. But no one pointed that out. Maybe I could tell him later, after the meeting.
“Fiber evidence is finally back from the lab, revealing a wealth of information. It appears the leotard and tights may not have been washed following the abduction and were not continually worn in the intervening months. This allows us a visual of specific moments in the victim’s life. The victim’s bedroom, the short ride to the dance studio, the fabric fibers picked up in the dressing room, the immediate moments after the abduction. And the last hours before her death.
“The most common fiber not originally from the victim’s own environs and the dance studio was a short, smooth, black fiber, most likely nylon. The analysts speculate the fibers are from velour or velvet, as if she was wrapped in a black velour robe or blanket. Fibers were found head to foot, even under the dance shoes she was wearing.”
Other people in the room were following along in their red folders, most taking notes. From my peripheral vision I could see Steven’s color copies of microscope photos of the fibers and his pen, writing fast, firm comments on a yellow legal pad. But my mind was seeing something else entirely. A little girl goes to the bathroom, perhaps walking down a long corridor. A man tosses a black throw over her, silencing her screams, and runs out an exit into the darkness, holding her down while she screams and struggles.
My maternal instincts were kicking in as they never had when taking the forensic nursing course. As they never did when dealing with victims in the emergency room. I understood my own reactions. In the E.R., I was helping, doing something to make it right, to make it better. Here, I was on the sidelines. And no one had helped the victims. Little girls had been stolen and kept by a stranger, killed. I wanted to cry and rage and I couldn’t.
Someone at the front of the room stood and someone else sat, and I realized Jim and two other suited types had covered the rest of the fiber evidence while I wool-gathered and grieved. Knowing I was missing important parts of the meeting, I forced my emotional reactions down into a dark hole inside of me. I pulled myself back to Jim’s words. Breathed deeply to center myself. Watched my hand as it flipped pages in the red folder.
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.
