Faithless

  “We put out a wire,” Jeffrey said. “Statewide.”

  “You think she was transported?” Sara asked, surprised. For some reason, she had assumed the girl was local.

  “It’s a public forest,” he said. “We get all kinds of people in and out of here.”

  “That spot, though . . .” Sara let her voice trail off, wondering if there was a night last week when she had looked out her window, darkness obscuring the girl and her abductor as he buried her alive across the lake.

  “He would want to check on her,” Jeffrey said, echoing Sara’s earlier thoughts about the girl’s abductor. “We’re asking neighbors if they’ve seen anybody in or out recently who looked like they didn’t belong.”

  “I jog through there all the time,” Sara told him. “I’ve never seen anyone. We wouldn’t have even known she was there if you hadn’t tripped.”

  “Brad’s trying to get fingerprints off the pipe.”

  “Maybe you should dust for prints,” she said. “Or I will.”

  “Brad knows what he’s doing.”

  “No,” she said. “You cut your hand. Your blood is on that pipe.”

  Jeffrey paused a second. “He’s wearing gloves.”

  “Goggles, too?” she asked, feeling like a hall monitor but knowing she had to raise the issue. Jeffrey did not respond, so she spelled it out for him. “I don’t want to be a pain about this, but we should be careful until we find out. You would never forgive yourself if . . .” She stopped, deciding to let him fill in the rest. When he still did not respond, she asked, “Jeffrey?”

  “I’ll send it back with Carlos,” he said, but she could tell he was irritated.

  “I’m sorry,” she apologized, though she was not sure why.

  He was quiet again, and she could hear the crackling from his cell phone as he changed position, probably wanting to get away from the scene.

  He asked, “How do you think she died?”

  Sara let out a sigh before answering. She hated speculating. “From the way we found her, I would guess she ran out of air.”

  “But what about the pipe?”

  “Maybe it was too restrictive. Maybe she panicked.” Sara paused. “This is why I don’t like giving an opinion without all the facts. There could be an underlying cause, something to do with her heart. She could be diabetic. She could be anything. I just won’t know until I get her on the table— and then I might not know for certain until all the tests are back, and I might not even know then.”

  Jeffrey seemed to be considering the options. “You think she panicked?”

  “I know I would.”

  “She had the flashlight,” he pointed out. “The batteries were working.”

  “That’s a small consolation.”

  “I want to get a good photo of her to send out once she’s cleaned up. There has to be someone looking for her.”

  “She had provisions. I can’t imagine whoever put her in there was planning on leaving her indefinitely.”

  “I called Nick,” he said, referring to the Georgia Bureau of Investigation’s local field agent. “He’s going into the office to see if he can pull up any matches on the computer. This could be some kind of kidnapping for ransom.”

  For some reason, this made Sara feel better than thinking the girl had been snatched from her home for more sadistic purposes.

  He said, “Lena should be at the morgue within the hour.”

  “You want me to call you when she gets here?”

  “No,” he said. “We’re losing daylight. I’ll head over as soon as we secure the scene.” He hesitated, like there was more he wanted to say.

  “What is it?” Sara asked.

  “She’s just a kid.”

  “I know.”

  He cleared his throat. “Someone’s looking for her, Sara. We need to find out who she is.”

  “We will.”

  He paused again before saying, “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  She gently placed the receiver back in the cradle, Jeffrey’s words echoing in her mind. A little over a year ago, he had been forced to shoot a young girl in the line of duty. Sara had been there, had watched the scene play out like a nightmare, and she knew that Jeffrey had not had a choice, just like she knew that he would never forgive himself for his part in the girl’s death.

  Sara walked over to the filing cabinet against the wall, gathering paperwork for the autopsy. Though the cause of death was probably asphyxiation, central blood and urine would have to be collected, labeled and sent to the state lab, where it would languish until the Georgia Bureau of Investigation’s overburdened staff could get to it. Tissue would have to be processed and stored in the morgue for at least three years. Trace evidence would have to be collected, dated and sealed into paper bags. Depending on what Sara found, a rape kit might have to be performed: fingernails scraped and clipped, vagina, anus and mouth swabbed, DNA collected for processing. Organs would be weighed, arms and legs measured. Hair color, eye color, birthmarks, age, race, gender, number of teeth, scars, bruises, anatomical abnormalities— all of these would be noted on the appropriate form. In the next few hours, Sara would be able to tell Jeffrey everything there was to know about the girl except for the one thing that really mattered to him: her name.

  Sara opened her logbook to assign a case number. To the coroner’s office, she would be #8472. Presently, there were only two cases of unidentified bodies found in Grant County, so the police would refer to her as Jane Doe number three. Sara felt an overwhelming sadness as she wrote this title in the log. Until a family member was found, the victim would simply be a series of numbers.

  Sara pulled out another stack of forms, thumbing through them until she found the US Standard Certificate of Death. By law, Sara had forty-eight hours to submit a death certificate for the girl. The process of changing the victim from a person into a numerical sequence would be amplified at each step. After the autopsy, Sara would find the corresponding code that signified mode of death and put it in the correct box on the form. The form would be sent to the National Center for Health Statistics, which would in turn report the death to the World Health Organization. There, the girl would be catalogued and analyzed, given more codes, more numbers, which would be assimilated into other data from around the country, then around the world. The fact that she had a family, friends, perhaps lovers, would never enter into the equation.

  Again, Sara thought about the girl lying in the wooden coffin, the terrified look on her face. She was someone’s daughter. When she was born, someone had looked into the infant’s face and given her a name. Someone had loved her.

  The ancient gears of the elevator whirred into motion, and Sara set the paperwork aside as she stood from her desk. She waited at the elevator doors, listening to the groaning machinery as the car made its way down the shaft. Carlos was incredibly serious, and one of the few jokes Sara had ever heard him make had to do with plummeting to his death inside the ancient contraption.

  The floor indicator over the doors was the old-fashioned kind, a clock with three numbers. The needle hovered between one and zero, barely moving. Sara leaned back against the wall, counting the seconds in her head. She was on thirty-eight and about to call building maintenance when a loud ding echoed in the tiled room and the doors slowly slid open.

  Carlos stood behind the gurney, his eyes wide. “I thought it was stuck,” he murmured in his heavily accented English.

  “Let me help,” she offered, taking the end of the gurney so that he wouldn’t have to angle it out into the room by himself. The girl’s arm was still stuck up at a shallow angle where she had tried to claw her way out of the box, and Sara had to lift the gurney into a turn so that it would not catch against the door.

  She asked, “Did you get X-rays upstairs?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Weight?”

  “A hundred thirteen pounds,” he told her. “Five feet three inches.”

  Sara made a note of this on the dry e
rase board bolted to the wall. She capped the marker before saying, “Let’s get her on the table.”

  At the scene, Carlos had placed the girl in a black body bag, and together, they grabbed the corners of the bag and lifted her onto the table. Sara helped him with the zipper, working quietly alongside him as they prepared her for autopsy. After putting on a pair of gloves, Carlos cut through the brown paper bags that had been placed over her hands to preserve any evidence. Her long hair was tangled in places, but still managed to cascade over the side of the table. Sara gloved herself and tucked the hair around the body, aware that she was studiously avoiding the horror-stricken mask of the girl’s face. A quick glance at Carlos proved he was doing the same.

  As Carlos began undressing the girl, Sara walked over to the metal cabinet by the sinks and took out a surgical gown and goggles. She laid these on a tray by the table, feeling an almost unbearable sadness as Carlos exposed the girl’s milk-white flesh to the harsh lights of the morgue. Her small breasts were covered with what looked like a training bra and she was wearing a pair of high-legged cotton briefs that Sara always associated with the elderly; Granny Earnshaw had given Sara and Tessa a ten-pair pack of the same style every year for Christmas, and Tessa had always called them granny panties.

  “No label,” Carlos said, and Sara went over to see for herself. He had spread the dress on a piece of brown paper to catch any trace evidence. Sara changed her gloves before touching the material, not wanting to cross-contaminate. The dress was cut from a simple pattern, long sleeves with a stiff collar. She guessed the material to be some kind of heavy cotton blend.

  Sara checked the stitching, saying, “It doesn’t look factory made,” thinking this might be a clue in its own right. Aside from an ill-fated home economics course in high school, Sara had never sewn more than a button. Whoever had sewn the dress obviously knew what they were doing.

  “Looks pretty clean,” Carlos said, placing the underwear and bra on the paper. They were well-worn but spotless, the tags faded from many washings.

  “Can you black light them?” she asked, but he was already walking over to the cabinet to get the lamp.

  Sara returned to the autopsy table, relieved to see no signs of bruising or trauma on the girl’s pubis and upper thighs. She waited as Carlos plugged in the purple light and waved it over the clothes. Nothing glowed, meaning there were no traces of semen or blood on the items. Dragging the extension cord behind him, he walked to the body and handed Sara the light.

  She said, “You can do it,” and he slowly traced the light up and down the girl’s body. His hands were steady as he did this, his gaze intent. Sara often let Carlos do small tasks like this, knowing he must be bored out of his mind waiting around the morgue all day. Yet, the one time she had suggested he look into going back to school, Carlos had shaken his head in disbelief, as if she had proposed he fly to the moon.

  “Clean,” he said, flashing a rare smile, his teeth purple in the light. He turned off the lamp and started winding the cord to store it back under the counter.

  Sara rolled the Mayo trays over to the table. Carlos had already arranged the tools for autopsy, and even though he seldom made mistakes, Sara checked through them, making sure everything she needed would be on hand.

  Several scalpels were lined up in a row beside various types of surgically sharpened scissors. Different-sized forceps, retractors, probes, wire cutters, a bread-loafing knife and various probes were on the next tray. The Stryker saw and postmortem hammer/hook were at the foot of the table, the grocer’s scales for weighing organs above. Unbreakable jars and test tubes were by the sink awaiting tissue samples. A meter stick and a small ruler were beside the camera, which would be used to document any abnormal findings.

  Sara turned back around just as Carlos was resting the girl’s shoulders on the rubber block in order to extend her neck. With Sara’s help, he unfolded a white sheet and draped it over her body, leaving her bent arm outside the cover. He was gentle with the body, as if she was still alive and could feel everything he did. Not for the first time, Sara was struck by the fact that she had worked with Carlos for over a decade and still knew very little about him.

  His watch beeped three times, and he pressed one of the many buttons to turn it off, telling Sara, “The X-rays should be ready.”

  “I’ll take care of the rest,” she offered, though there wasn’t much left to do.

  She waited until she heard his heavy footsteps echoing in the stairwell before she let herself look at the girl’s face. Under the overhead spotlight, she looked older than Sara initially had thought. She could even be in her early twenties. She could be married. She could have a child of her own.

  Again, Sara heard footsteps on the stairs, but it was Lena Adams, not Carlos, who pushed open the swinging doors and came into the room.

  “Hey,” Lena said, looking around the morgue, seeming to take in everything. She kept her hands on her hips, her gun sticking out under her arm. Lena had a cop’s way of standing, feet wide apart, shoulders squared, and though she was a small woman, her attitude filled the room. Something about the detective had always made Sara uncomfortable, and they were rarely alone together.

  “Jeffrey’s not here yet,” Sara told her, taking out a cassette tape for the Dictaphone. “You can wait in my office if you want.”

  “That’s okay,” Lena answered, walking over to the body. She gazed at the girl a moment before giving a low whistle. Sara watched her, thinking something seemed different about Lena. Normally, she projected an air of anger, but today, her defenses felt slightly compromised. There was a red-rimmed tiredness to her eyes, and she had obviously lost weight recently, something that didn’t suit her already trim frame.

  Sara asked, “Are you okay?”

  Instead of answering the question, Lena indicated the girl, saying, “What happened to her?”

  Sara dropped the tape into the slot. “She was buried alive in a wooden box out by the lake.”

  Lena shuddered. “Jesus.”

  Sara tapped her foot on the pedal under the table, engaging the recorder. She said “Test” a couple of times.

  “How do you know she was alive?” Lena asked.

  “She clawed at the boards,” Sara told her, rewinding the tape. “Someone put her in there to keep her . . . I don’t know. He was keeping her for something.”

  Lena took a deep breath, her shoulders rising with the effort. “Is that why her arm’s sticking up? From trying to claw her way out?”

  “I would imagine.”

  “Jesus.”

  The rewind button on the recorder popped up. They were both quiet as Sara’s voice played back, “Test, test.”

  Lena waited, then asked, “Any idea who she is?”

  “None.”

  “She just ran out of air?”

  Sara stopped and explained everything that had happened. Lena took it all in, expressionless. Sara knew the other woman had trained herself not to respond, but it was unnerving the way Lena could distance herself from such a horrific crime.

  When Sara had finished, Lena’s only response was to whisper, “Shit.”

  “Yeah,” Sara agreed. She glanced at the clock, wondering what was keeping Carlos just as he walked in with Jeffrey.

  “Lena,” Jeffrey said. “Thanks for coming in.”

  “No problem,” she said, shrugging it off.

  Jeffrey gave Lena a second, closer look. “You feeling okay?”

  Lena’s eyes flashed to Sara’s, something like guilt in them. Lena said, “I’m fine.” She indicated the dead girl. “You got a name on her yet?”

  Jeffrey’s jaw tightened. She could not have asked a worse question. “No,” he managed.

  Sara indicated the sink, telling him, “You need to wash out your hand.”

  “I already did.”

  “Do it again,” she told him, dragging him over and turning on the tap. “You’ve still got a lot of dirt in there.”

  He hissed between his teeth
as she put his hand under the hot water. The wound was deep enough for sutures, but too much time had passed to sew it up without risking infection. Sara would have to butterfly it closed and hope for the best. “I’m going to write you a prescription for an antibiotic.”

  “Great.” He shot her a look of annoyance when she put on a pair of gloves. She gave him the same look back as she wrapped his hand, knowing they didn’t need to have this discussion with an audience.

  “Dr. Linton?” Carlos was standing by the lightbox, looking at the girl’s X-rays. Sara finished with Jeffrey before joining him. There were several films in place, but her eyes instantly went to the abdominal series.

  Carlos said, “I think I need to take these again. This one’s kind of blurry.”

  The X-ray machine was older than Sara, but she knew nothing was wrong with the exposure. “No,” she whispered, dread washing over her.

  Jeffrey was at her side, already picking at the bandage she had wrapped around his hand. “What is it?”

  “She was pregnant.”

  “Pregnant?” Lena echoed.

  Sara studied the film, the task ahead taking shape in her mind. She hated infant autopsies. This would be the youngest victim she had ever had in the morgue.

  Jeffrey asked, “Are you sure?”

  “You can see the head here,” Sara told him, tracing the image. “Legs, arms, trunk . . .”

  Lena had walked up for a closer look, and her voice was very quiet when she asked, “How far along was she?”

  “I don’t know,” Sara answered, feeling like a piece of glass was in her chest. She would have to hold the fetus in her hand, dissecting it like she was cutting up a piece of fruit. The skull would be soft, the eyes and mouth simply hinted at by dark lines under paper-thin skin. Cases like this made her hate her job.

  “Months? Weeks?” Lena pressed.

  Sara could not say. “I’ll have to see it.”

  “Double homicide,” Jeffrey said.

  “Not necessarily,” Sara reminded him. Depending on which side screamed the loudest, politicians were changing the laws governing fetal death practically every day. Thankfully, Sara had never had to look into it. “I’ll have to check with the state.”