Time of Departure (7 page)

Amanda Jordan's bones—if these were indeed those of that unfortunate woman—were not nearly so discolored as those of the buried soldier, but to my untrained eye, the two skeletons were otherwise indistinguishable.

“She was quite tiny, wasn't she?”

“I ran the regression equation on her femur and tibia. I make her just over five feet. Lipinski says that calculation fits the Jordan girl's height that was provided in the missing person report.”

“I missed that.”

I was too busy getting sick to my stomach.

“You've read that report?”

“Someone left a copy in my office.”

He gave me an appraising look. “You took over from Roy Wells, didn't you?”

“Yeah.”

“Congratulations.”

“Thanks.” I bent closer, examining the remains on the tray. “Did you find anything indicating a cause of death?”

“No visible trauma. But there's no doubt about this one.…” He tugged back the drape on the neighboring lift, exposing another neatly arranged skeleton that appeared to be five or six inches longer than the Jordan remains. “This one's still a Jane Doe. But as you know, they were found in a common grave. Jane here was on top.” He rolled the skull. I found myself staring at a half-dollar-sized hole high on the left side of the cranium.

“Looks like a bullet exit.” I'd seen photos of headshot exits in other cases.

“Correct.” He rolled the skull the other way, exposing a small circular perforation near the right temple. “Entry here. I found microscopic traces of powder residue embedded in the bone. She was shot from close range.”

Heat prickled on the back of my neck. “An execution?”

“Maybe … or judging by the angle—” He lifted the skull and indicated the slight upward angle from entry to exit. “—it could have been self-inflicted.”

I felt the perspiration start. To distract myself, I kept the conversation going. “You said this one's older?”

“I'd say late twenties to early thirties.”

“How can you tell?”

“The medial end of the clavicle is almost completely fused to the sternum.” He pointed. “See, here. That usually happens around the age of thirty. But I'm not the expert on age calculation. We'll bring in an anthropologist to take a read. They can sometimes peg age within two or three years.”

“I was just thinking … this girl's older, and she was shot through the head. She might be the reporter. She was investigating the disappearances, and then she went missing herself.”

“You mean the one with the Scandinavian name?”

“Yeah. I mean, I read that she was blonde—which fits with the name, I guess—and that she was older than the others, so she didn't fit the victim profile.”

“Are you thinking he just killed the reporter because she was getting close?”

“Something like that.” I looked at him. “What about hair? In the grave, I mean.”

“We found a hair mat under Amanda's skull. The color looks right. But there was no hair with this one.”

“That means—”

“Right. Her body was moved after significant decomposition.” He paused. “There were other disappearances after the reporter, weren't there?”

“One other, and then Amanda Jordan. Over about two months.”

“Then you have to wonder why he would keep the reporter's body for two months, and then bury her with the last victim.”

I stood there, staring at the trays of bones. I was being stalked by that same weird sensation I'd had in my office. I concentrated, trying to stave it off.

“There is one other thing.…” Terry's tone carried a faint air of mystery.

“What?”

“It's over here.” He led me to a portable instrument table that was parked against the wall. The only object on the table was a stainless steel tray with a metal cover. “This was located with the remains.” Terry lifted the cover and set it aside.

I found myself looking at a scattered arrangement of tiny bones, or—more accurately—what appeared to be tiny bone fragments. Their shapes were unrecognizable. I bent to examine them. “It looks like some kind of small animal. Or a bird.” I straightened. “These were in the grave?”

“Yes. Some of the smaller fragments didn't show up until the crew started sifting the soil removed from the grave.”

“Okay. So … what is it?”

Terry let my question hang for a second. “A fetus,” he said quietly.

I blinked. “You mean a human fetus?”

“Yes.”

“One of them was pregnant?”

“Jane Doe.”

“You're sure it was her and not Amanda?”

“Positive. The fetal remains were found in her pelvic region.”

“You said she was significantly decomposed.”

“In female bodies, the uterus is the last to go.” He looked away. “I wonder if there's a divine message in that.”

I ignored his tone-deaf afterthought and asked, “How far along was she?”

“I couldn't even begin to tell you. Despite a lot of puffed-up claims in the literature, determining gestational age of fetal
skeletal
remains—as opposed to dating an intact deceased fetus—is still not an exact science.” Terry pointed at a tiny bone artifact that for all I knew could have been part of a sparrow. “This could be the skull. If so, the fetus was maybe eight to ten weeks old. We've got a forensic osteologist coming from Atlanta. We'll have a better idea after she examines it.”

I went quiet, thinking. “Assuming Jane Doe was the reporter—”

“—someone in her family might have known she was pregnant,” Terry finished. “That would be a pointer, but DNA will tell the tale.”

As I stared down at the collection of tiny bones, a wave of nausea washed over me.

Terry was watching me. “Seen enough?”

I nodded, maybe a bit too quickly. “Yeah.”

We returned to the anteroom, stripped off our protective gear, and dumped it in the bins. Out in the hallway, I walked beside Terry as we headed back to his office. At least, I started out walking beside him. After a few steps, my knees felt weak. I stopped and leaned against the wall.

Terry turned. “What's wrong?”

I pinched the bridge of my nose. I knew what was coming. “Just give me a minute.” I lurched toward the ladies' restroom.

Fifteen seconds later, I lost my breakfast.

*   *   *

When I returned to Terry's office, he was standing at his light box, examining an X-ray. He swung around when I entered, took one look at me, and hastened to my side. “Claire! What's wrong?”

I really must have looked like hell. I let him help me to his guest chair. I could feel the perspiration beading on my forehead. He pulled a handful of tissues out of a dispenser and passed them to me. He watched as I dabbed at my forehead and upper lip. “You should see a doctor. It looks like you're getting a fever.”

“I think this will pass. It did last time.”

“Last time? All the more reason to see an MD!”

“You're an MD.”

“Yeah, but if you end up on
my
examining table, it'll be pretty clear you didn't follow my advice.” He grinned. “Of course, I'd get to see you naked.”

I managed a wan smile. “You'd like that, wouldn't you?”

His face flushed. “Of course not, like … you know, under those circumstances.” He stumbled over the words.

I took pity on him and didn't come back with the obvious response. I took a few deep breaths while he watched me nervously.

As I expected, I was starting to feel better.

“Terry,” I asked casually, “have you ever heard the name Marc Hastings?”

In exaggerated slow motion, his eyes widened. “He was a cop … twenty-five, thirty years ago. Before my time, but I've heard he worked on this case—the missing girls—and then one day he just up and quit the department. Moved away up north somewhere.” He fixed an eye on me. “Funny you'd ask.”

“Why?”

“Because Hastings walked in here this morning and asked to see the remains.”

My head snapped up. “What?”

“Yeah. Just showed up out of the blue and demanded to see them. Left about a half hour before you got here.”

“You let him?”

He shrugged. “I figured, you know, why not? He'd worked the case for years. From what I've heard, the whole thing got to him—girls vanishing, no bodies, no clues—screwed up his head and basically ended his career. I told him we had nothing firm on the IDs. He said he understood but he just wanted to take a look. Put his mind at rest, he said.” Terry stopped. He seemed to be pondering something. “Another funny thing…”

“What?”

“When I showed him the locket, he got sick. Just like you.”

 

9

“Do you know how spooky this is?”

I guess I was yelling, because Annie appeared in my doorway, looking alarmed. I waved her off.

Sam was still in meetings, and I hadn't had a chance to report to him on my visit to the morgue. I'd been sitting at my desk for more than an hour, staring at a stack of pending files, all marked
URGENT
. I hadn't touched them. I'd been too busy mulling over my series of recent encounters with Marc Hastings, turning them over and over in my mind. Suffice it to say, I was pretty wound up when my phone rang and Annie told me Harrison Ford was on the line.

“I suppose it might seem that way,” Hastings replied. His voice was calm, and he was speaking so quietly, I had to press the receiver to my ear to hear him.

“
Might?
You leave me eight missing person reports from a case that's been gathering dust for thirty years, and less than a week later, two of the bodies show up! Some creep attacks me in my car, and guess who conveniently happens to be standing nearby, ready to come to the rescue? I go to the morgue this morning to discuss a case that the press hasn't even been told about, and discover that you've already been there, snooping around. Who the hell are you, Mr. Hastings, and what are you up to?”

“Just a citizen trying to help you, Claire. I know you can break this case.”

“Break this case? That's the police's job! I'm just the lawyer! You were a cop … you know how it works! Look, I understand! I do! You worked this case, you never broke it, it eats at you! But if you've got some information that will help, stop following me around and talk to CID!”

“You mean, talk to
Lieutenant
Lipinski? Excuse the language, my dear, but you and I both know the man couldn't find his ass in a locked room!”

“I'm not your ‘dear'!” I snapped. I wasn't giving him an inch.

“Fair enough.” His voice changed, as if I'd touched a nerve. “Please listen carefully, Claire. I'll talk to you, and only you. Call me when you're ready.”

“Call you when I'm ready? Have you heard a single word I said?”

“Yes, I have,” he replied. “Now you need to think about what I've said.”

He ended the call.

At that second, Annie reappeared in my doorway. She caught the furious expression on my face as I slammed down the phone. “Please don't kill the messenger,” she said.

“I won't. Just do not—repeat, do not!—put any more calls through from our movie star friend! Now, what do you want?”

“
I
don't want anything,” she sniffed, “except maybe a substantial raise for hazard duty. Mr. Grayson, on the other hand, wants you in his office.”

I took a few seconds to collect myself and then headed for Sam's office. As I walked in, he was just ending a phone call. “Yes, I'm well acquainted with the principle of two plus two,” he said. “Thanks for the call.” He hung up his phone. He looked at me.

“What's this I hear about you getting mugged?”

“Oh, that.”

“Yes, that! Right outside my apartment building! Why didn't you tell me?”

I dropped into a chair. “I wasn't hurt, so no harm done. The guy's in custody, or in the hospital under guard. I'm not sure which. You're busy. You don't need to worry about things that might have happened.”

He studied my face. “But I do need to worry if one of my prosecutors is being stalked.”

“You've been talking to Annie.”

“She's only assigned to you, Claire. She works for me.”

I sighed and told Sam everything. Well … almost everything. I left out the part where I got sick twice. He was silent after I finished. He leaned back in his chair and stared out the window. Finally, he said, “Of course you're grateful that he saved your ass that night—I sure as hell am!—but my advice is to stay clear of him.”

“I'm trying to.” I had already explained about directing Hastings to the police and instructing Annie to block his calls.

“We can always arrange some coverage for you.”

“Are you talking about police protection?”

“Something less visible. See if he's still following you.”

“I don't know … it's not like he's dangerous. At least to me,” I added, remembering how efficiently Hastings had dealt with my assailant.

“Don't be so sure. Word is there's something strange about him. For a time, after the last girl disappeared in that old case, he was even a suspect. He was cleared, but not long after that, he resigned from the department and left town. He claimed he'd inherited some money.”

“That was thirty years ago. How do you know all this?”

“Lipinski was transferred to CID a year after Hastings. They knew each other, but I'm not sure their relationship was that friendly.”

When I was relating my experiences to Sam, I had elected not to mention Hastings's assessment of Lipinski's professional deficits. Apparently the discussion was running ahead of me.

I leaned forward. “Lipinski's been talking to you about Hastings, hasn't he?”