Page 28 of The Bone Code
Moments later, the elevator arrived. Vislosky was in it. Today’s blazer was charcoal, the pants pale gray. Vislosky’s glossy black hair haloed her head in short, tight curls.
We rode in silence, both focused on the digits lighting up then going dark. Now and then, I sneaked a sideways peek. Vislosky had at least five inches on me. Her stance, feet spread, body tense, suggested a perpetual preference for fight over flight.
When the doors opened, she led me down a corridor to a squad room that, like the lobby, offered no surprises. Cinder-block walls held city, state, and U.S. flags. Between them, bulletin boards were layered with photos, flyers, wanted notices, and takeout menus.
Vislosky’s desk was in a far corner. B+ for neatness.
Ankle-hooking a chair from an absent neighbor, Vislosky gestured me to it. Seated on the opposite side of her desk, she asked, “Whatcha got?”
“It’s nice to see you, too, detective.” As I dug out my notes.
No smile from Vislosky.
“Two females. One fifteen to seventeen, one eighteen to twenty, but I wouldn’t rule out someone as old as twenty-two. Both Caucasoid.”
“White.” Grabbing pen and paper.
“Yes. The younger was sixty-one to sixty-two inches tall, the older sixty-eight to seventy inches.”
“Weight? Body build?”
“No can do,” I said. “Except to say that the younger one was probably slight.”
Vislosky raised her brows.
“Small muscle attachment points.”
“Go on.” Eyes on the paper.
“The younger girl suffered a lateral condylar fracture of the right humerus, probably nine months to a year before her death.” When Vislosky looked up, I indicated a bony prominence on the outer partof my elbow. “The break healed well with no distortion, suggesting she was seen by a doctor, probably wore a cast for a few weeks.”
“What causes that type of injury?”
“Kids fall.”
Vislosky’s chin came up, and her head tipped sideways. “How common is it?”
“Elbows account for about ten percent of all fractures in children.”
Vislosky wrote something.
“She may have had short, dark hair tinted pink,” I added, recalling the “threads” Klopp had discovered.
I stopped, feeling the same ache as during the autopsy. The youngster had broken her arm, perhaps turning a cartwheel or tumbling from a skateboard. She’d dyed her hair an outrageous cotton-candy pink, experimenting with the image she’d present to the world. Examining her bones, I’d sensed a joie de vivre mixed with adolescent insecurity. I’d been there once, in that awkward half-child, half-woman stage. So much hope. So much to live for. So much snuffed out.
Vislosky’s question brought me back.
“And the older kid?”
“She had an abscess near her upper second left molar, active when she died, so she might have been in some pain. Doubtful she was being treated by a dentist.”
Two desks over, a phone rang.
“Each suffered a single gunshot wound to the occipital.”
Vislosky’s eyes rolled up.
“The back of the head. The trajectory suggests the victims were on their knees, the shooter standing behind them.”
