Page 113 of Cold, Cold Bones
“Please keep your head up. Sometimes serial offenders get bored and try to up the ante.”
“Listen, my daughter was discharged from the army recently. I think she may be suffering from PTSD.” I swallowed. “I haven’t heard from her in a week. Should I be worried?”
“Is that normal for her?”
“I’m not sure what’s normal lately.”
“I’d try very hard to find her,” he said.
“Thanks,” I said, trying not to show the anxiety that at that moment had me vowing to do just that, Katy’s possible annoyance be damned.
“Keep me updated.”
“I will.”
I sat gripping the phone so hard my metacarpals bulged white. I jumped when my mobile rang in my hand.
“Dr. Brennan. I’m so sorry to keep interrupting you like this.” Nguyen’s somber tone raked my already frayed nerves. “I am performing an autopsy, and, sadly, I think you must view this young woman.”
Dear God. Not Katy!
“What happened to her?” Barely masking my fear.
“When you get here.” Brisk and clipped, but with a terrifying note of compassion.
I bolted.
Racing across the lobby, I ran into none other than Slidell, his scowl as deep as the Mariana Trench. I wondered if he, too, had been summoned to the autopsy.
Oh, God. Why?
When I pushed open the door, Nguyen’s back was toward us. She was staring down at what lay on the stainless steel. Two feet splayed outward at the far end of the table, the skin cinnamon brown, the toenails a fiery red.
Relief flooded through me. It wasn’t Katy. Guilt followed swiftly. I was spared, but this girl was someone’s daughter or sister or wife. Some family would be changed forever.
I couldn’t tell if Nguyen had yet cut herY. She was standing motionless, regarding the body.
Shielding it from me? From Slidell? From the many who’d poke and probe and photograph and dissect?
Odd thought. But true. The cold process had begun. Slidell and I had been asked to take part.
I scanned the room. X-rays glowed on a computer screen. Cranials. I knew the tech would also have taken a full-body series.
A pair of boots sat on one counter, black suede with fringe and faux gems rimming the top. Caked with mud.
And small. Maybe size five. Tiny feet striding in big cowgirl boots.
Clothing hung from a drying rack. A denim dress. A brown corduroy jacket. A pink cotton bra. Pink cotton panties with little red dots. A locket in the shape of a sunflower.
Looking closer, I noted that the sunflower split down the center. The wordsTú eres mi solwere inscribed on a disc below the petals.
Slidell walked to the rack, spread his feet, interlaced his fingers, and dropped his hands low over his genitals. A quick nod to Nguyen, then he assessed the clothes and the body, his frown neither softening nor deepening.
I stepped to the table. And felt my heart shrivel. Sweet Jesus. Who could be capable of such cruelty? Why?
Squelching such reactions, I kicked into scientist mode.
First rule: No emotion. Leave sorrow, pity, and outrage for later. Anger or grief can lead to error and misjudgment. Mistakes do your victim no good.
