Page 36 of Badlands

Taking a deep breath, Corrie began typing, getting her observations down while they were still fresh in her mind. Eventually, her fingers slowed on the keyboard and halted. She pushed back from the terminal, thinking. There was a brand-new instrument in the lab that she’d been dying to try out, a FireLight 3D imaging and CBCT scanner. Even though half the victim’s face was gone, she wondered if it might work if she scanned the other side and then flipped it, as if in a mirror, to reconstruct the face. As a forensic tool, this kind of imaging was still in its infancy, but the machine used an array of eight dedicated IR cameras plus a sophisticated AI program to scan, align, and reconstruct both existing and missing features. It was still said to be inferior to an old-fashioned forensic reconstruction using clay, but supposedly, with the addition of facial modeling AI, getting close.

Temporarily closing her report, she rolled the gurney to the FireLight machine and positioned the camera array over the victim’s upper body. It scanned it from multiple directions with IR light, which took about thirty seconds. When the imaging was completed, she initiated the analysis and waited in the silence of the lab while the computer, goosed by AI, delved into databases containing countless images, identifying and comparing hundreds of tiny anatomical reference points, to create a preliminary 3D reconstruction of the victim’s face.

It took a while, requiring a lot of computational bandwidth.

Once the initial scan was done, it was up to Corrie to refine it, based on her own forensic reconstruction principles. Thanks toher interest in photography, Corrie had developed a familiarity with Photoshop, and the FireLight software was comfortingly similar. She used the program’s software to symmetrically apply the intact portions of the face to the missing areas. As the process neared completion, Corrie watched as the software assembled layers of bone, muscle, and tissue—much as she did in clay—to build back the original face. Once this was done, she called up a suite of AI-assisted manipulation tools and requested that the program add the age, fitness level, adipose tissue data, skin color, and racial data.

A window popped up, admonishing her to wait while the machine did the necessary rendering. Fifteen seconds later, a complete face materialized, staring back at her, shocking in its photorealism.

The scalp in particular was badly mauled, but she had recovered enough samples of hair to know the hairstyle had been cornrows on the scalp transitioning into many long, braided strands. She instructed the software to render three variant cornrow hairstyles and then printed them out.

She stared at the face, of a Black woman in her late thirties with regal cheekbones, ebony skin, liquid eyes, and long, naturally colored hair. Of course, this was only a computer reconstruction, and Corrie was still skeptical of how accurate it was. She could always go back, reconstruct it the old-fashioned way, and compare the two. That would be an interesting exercise—especially after they had ID’d her and had a good photo. But for now, this would be enough.

In ten minutes, she was upstairs at her desk, feeding the image, as well as some dates and other data, into the NamUs database. And in another ten minutes, she had a hit: MandyDriver, thirty-eight, who’d graduated from UNM with a PhD and worked as a geological consultant for a large, diversified energy company.

Corrie stared, astonished. Driver had been Carlos Oskarbi’s personal research assistant in the year before he left the university. And she had been reported missing by her father two months ago, to the day.

21

CORRIE DROVE SLOWLYthrough the town of Bernalillo, New Mexico. Although it was a suburb of Albuquerque, she’d never been there and was curious about what the place looked like. With a population of ten thousand, it was the seat of Sandoval County, remarkable for being home to a dozen Indian reservations within its boundaries. The downtown itself was unremarkable, mostly a continuation of Albuquerque’s sprawl, the only charm being its location along the Rio Grande.

Corrie had done what research she could on Mandy Driver. She’d grown up in Bernalillo before going off to college. Her mother had died two years ago, and her father, Horace, still lived in town. In fact, he was employed by the same company—Geo Solutions GmbH—where his daughter worked. Like father, like daughter—except that Mandy Driver’s residence was on the opposite side of town.

Corrie had also learned that, since Mandy’s disappearance, Horace Driver had been raising hell with the local police department, apparently without much success. He made many visits to the police station and sheriff’s department, demanding they findhis daughter, and he raised such a ruckus that he’d been threatened with arrest. And from what Corrie could ascertain, Driver was justified in his frustration: the police and the county sheriff’s office had done squat in investigating the disappearance.

As a subtle rebuke at the tepid law enforcement response, Corrie had passed off to the local sheriff the task of breaking the news to Driver of the discovery of his daughter’s remains—and to let him know that the FBI was now involved in the case and would be contacting him. She had a lot of questions for Driver, but she’d wanted to give him time to process the shock before she interviewed him.

That had taken place the day before yesterday. And now, after driving through a small commercial area boasting an Applebee’s and a Motel 6, she pulled into the entrance to Enchanted Hills: a sprawling, fake-adobe apartment complex off Highway 550.

The elder Driver had an apartment with a balcony on the second floor, and his door was marked only by a number. It took him nearly half a minute to answer her knock. When he did, she found herself looking at a man of sixty with grizzled white hair inching up from his ears toward a well-trimmed crown of black. His face was weather-beaten and lean, his eyes intense but guarded. He was wearing jeans and a chambray work shirt. Corrie had made the appointment the evening before and wondered if he’d taken the day off to see her. Then again, it was twelve thirty—maybe he was on his lunch break.

She introduced herself and showed her badge. The man wordlessly stepped aside to let her in, gesturing her into a combined living and dining area. The balcony overlooked the highway—with the windows tightly shut, traffic sped noiselessly past in both directions.

He motioned her to a seat. “Would you like coffee? Tea? Water?”

“A glass of water would be great, thanks.” She watched as he moved off into the adjoining kitchen. She wasn’t thirsty, but she wanted time to collect herself and examine the room. It was sparely decorated but fastidiously clean, walls hung with watercolor landscapes of New Mexico and framed family photographs. In these latter, she recognized Driver, a woman who was clearly his wife—and Mandy.

He returned with a glass filled with ice and a small bottle of spring water, chilled from the refrigerator. She thanked him, cracked it open, filled the glass, and took a sip.

“Beautiful paintings,” she said, nodding at the watercolors to break the ice.

“My wife did them.”

There was a brief, uncomfortable pause. His face was closed and without expression, but his eyes drilled into hers.

“Mr. Driver,” she went on, “I want to express my sincere condolences for the loss of your daughter.”

He gave a curt nod.

“And I want to assure you we’re doing everything we can to find out what happened.”

A stony silence. Corrie felt her nervousness rise. “I can’t tell you how much we appreciate your willingness to see me at this difficult time.” She sensed he did not particularly want to sit through any more expressions of sympathy or chitchat, and so she took out her notebook.

“So you’re the one who found her?” he asked with a bass voice, low and resonant.

Corrie nodded. “I did.”

“The cops who had me ID her body didn’t say much. But then, they neverdosay much. What can you tell me about what happened?”

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