Chapter 15 Rachel
RACHEL
“Rachel?”
A week after the Jane Doe in the Millgate Cemetery was sent to Toronto for forensic analysis, Crystal, the secretary at the police headquarters, appears in Rachel’s doorway.
“Yes?” Rachel sits back in her chair, tamping down her frustration.
Crystal is Green’s daughter, working at HQ for the summer before she starts university in the fall.
Rachel would like to think Crystal’s just being friendly by using her first name, but no one calls any of the male detectives by their first names.
They’re always Detective So-And-So, delivered with respect and something bordering on reverence.
But Rachel isn’t about to correct her on how to address a detective; this girl is her boss’s daughter.
Crystal could practically take a shit on Rachel’s desk if she wanted to, and Rachel couldn’t say a damn thing about it.
She looks at Crystal with some dread. The last time she’d appeared in Rachel’s doorway, the day after the discovery, she’d announced Tamara Cooper was waiting for her in the lobby.
Tamara had sobbed as Rachel explained that the body was not, in fact, Stacy’s.
There was still some minor buzzing from a couple of reporters in the county eager for more information, but Rachel had put them off, telling them it was now an active investigation and there would be no further comment on the matter.
“There’s someone named Sawyer on the phone for you,” Crystal says now. “From something called…CFF, I think?”
Rachel blinks, then the penny drops. “CFS?”
“Maybe. What’s that?”
“The Centre of Forensic Sciences.” You should know this.
“Oh!” Crystal laughs. “Yeah. I guess! Sounds right.”
She floats away and Rachel takes a moment to breathe before she reaches for the phone.
“This is Mackenzie.”
“Hi, Detective Mackenzie,” a deep female voice says. “It’s Sawyer.”
“Hey Sawyer.” She’s a forensic archeologist Rachel has worked with before. She’s efficient and thorough.
“Got your body here, Jane Doe from the cemetery?”
“Yeah. Weird one.”
“Agreed. Got a bit of info though. Do you have a minute?
“Absolutely.” Rachel agitates the mouse to wake up her IBM, and the screen comes alive with a tiny plink sound. She opens the word processor and pins the phone between her ear and shoulder. “Go ahead.”
“Okay, I’ll fax you the full docs for your records, but the summary is that the body is definitely female, height approximately five foot five, age between twenty and forty years, dating from the early 1960s.”
“Sixties? Huh. Okay.”
“Yeah. The skeleton is mostly intact, but she’s missing two teeth.
I assume they would have been found in the initial excavation if they were elsewhere in the grave, so I think she must have already had fewer teeth to begin with when she died.
Could be a genetic defect, but most likely just lost at some point during her lifetime. ”
The keyboard clacks too loudly as Rachel takes notes, so she gives up in favour of a pen and paper.
“As for the casket,” Sawyer continues, “aside from the damage from the initial discovery—they said a gravedigger found it, hit it by accident?”
“Yup.”
“Well, aside from the hole and splintering from that, it’s in decent shape. Moisture levels in the area must not have been too bad. But it’s very basic, just a pine box, no lining or anything. It’s from around the same time, early sixties.”
“Excellent, thanks. Anything else?” Rachel jots it all down.
“There’s a small brass plate, like a plaque, that was found in the soil and debris removed from the area.
It has traces of adhesive on the back, and we found the same traces on the side of the casket, so it was affixed at some point.
I imagine it’ll be helpful; looks like the name of the company that made it. ”
Rachel lets out a little breath of relief. It’s a place to start. “What does the plaque say?”
“Cartwright-Cambridge Co., Toronto. Very legible.”
Rachel asks for the exact spelling, makes a note. “Got it.”
“Also,” Sawyer says, “you’re going to love this: There are numbers stamped on the side of the casket, like a serial number. They’re faded, but still legible.”
Excellent, Rachel thinks. “Go ahead, Sawyer.”
“MWP0326–P. That’s Mike-Whiskey-Papa-zero-three-two-six-dash-Papa.”
Rachel pauses, looking at the letters and numbers she’s just written down. “That seems…institutional, somehow, doesn’t it? Official? I’ve never seen that on a casket before.” Her mind is already whirring.
“I agree,” Sawyer says. “The casket has been processed into evidence here if you want to come see it in more detail, but the photos of the plaque and serial number are on their way to you.”
“Thanks, Sawyer. And any idea on cause of death?”
“Can’t tell yet, honestly. Nothing obvious. But I’ll fax over my report with all the nitty gritty. Let me know if you have any questions after you’ve reviewed it.”
They sign off, and Rachel slumps a little in her chair, eyes narrowed at her notes. She can’t make sense of all this. Not yet. But she will.
She turns to face the corkboard behind her desk, which is a third full of details from the Stacy Cooper case.
She wonders briefly if it’s time to take it down, but it’s the girl’s face staring at her every day that stokes the flames of her burning need to solve it.
Because once a victim’s face disappears from view, it’s too easy to let it go.
And Rachel can’t let it go. Not yet. She’ll just set up a second board for Jane Doe right beside Stacy’s.
She makes her way toward the break room for a coffee to fuel her upcoming brainstorm, stopping first at the fax machine where a stack of papers wait for her in the tray.
She picks them up, confirms they’re the documents Sawyer was sending over.
It’s always a rush, starting to tack up evidence, but she’s usually at it for a couple of hours before she emerges with a list of questions and next steps.
This time is a bit different; she already knows she’ll have to locate this Cartwright-Cambridge company and work from there, but she wants to see the casket again in person, for a closer look.
She’ll head into Toronto tomorrow. But for now, coffee.
Stevens is the only other person in the break room when she enters.
“Hey Mackenzie,” he says, not looking up as he stirs a revolting amount of sweetener into his drink.
“Hey,” she replies, setting the CFS documents down on the counter beside her and retrieving a mug from the cupboard.
He glances over at the top sheet. “That from the cemetery Jane Doe?”
“Yeah, just came in.” She pours herself a cup of coffee and recaps Sawyer’s summary as they both stand by the sink, sipping. “It dates from the sixties, and there’s a good lead from the casket, a company name. They might have records.”
Stevens nods slowly, taking in the update. “All right. Well, let me know if you need any backup with it.”
She studies him for a moment. He’s in his early twenties, a little nondescript-looking with brown hair and eyes, pale skin. A buzz cut his uncle probably recommended.
“You interested in a detective track, Stevens?” she asks, lifting the mug to her lips.
He nods. “Yeah. You know my uncle is—”
“Tom Stevens.”
He watches her, and in that moment she knows that her name has definitely come up at Stevens family dinners.
She shouldn’t be surprised. And she isn’t angry.
Not really. Tom Stevens was Rachel’s boss and mentor until he retired two years ago and Green took over as chief.
It’s been a while since she’s seen Tom, but even having lunch with him would be seen as some kind of insubordination by Green, like she’d be somehow undermining his authority by daring to have a Reuben and coffee with her former chief.
He’s already suspicious that Tom and Rachel’s relationship wasn’t above board.
He’s been making sidelong, sexist comments for years about her “working under” Tom and being his favourite for unknown, suspicious reasons.
He couldn’t just call her Tom Stevens’s protege.
Fucking asshole.
The younger Stevens glances now at the open break-room door, then back to Rachel. He has something discreet to say.
“Come to my office,” she prompts. He nods gratefully and follows her. She shuts the door behind them, ignoring the raised eyebrow from Crystal at the reception desk twenty feet away.
“My uncle said I should shadow you,” Stevens tells her. “Instead of…well…”
Green. Neither of them needs to say it.
“He says you’re the best,” Stevens continues, “and that I should just watch what you do.”
Rachel smiles with a bittersweet pang in her gut. She misses Tom Stevens, and his opinion still means a lot to her.
“All right,” she says. “If you want, you can come to CFS with me. I’m heading out first thing tomorrow.”
“Ah, I can’t,” Stevens says regretfully. “Sorry. Green’s got me on patrol with Garrison. But I’ll check in with you when you’re back.”
“Sounds good.” Rachel nods to him to signal the end of the conversation. She needs to look over these docs before tomorrow. But Stevens stays put, running a hand over the guest chair in front of her desk as he examines the corkboards on the wall behind her, stalling.
“Out with it, Stevens,” she says, not unkindly. “I’ve got work to do.”
“Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“How do you do murders? Investigate them, I mean,” he quickly adds, stuttering. “Doesn’t it…I don’t know. I’ll be honest, I’ve wondered since my uncle told me about you.”
Rachel’s nervous system gives an unpleasant lurch.
“With respect,” Stevens continues, his face reddening. “It seems strange that you’re a detective, after…you know.”
Rachel clears her throat. “What did your uncle tell you?”
He looks a little sheepish, shrugs. “Just your name, and like I said, that I should shadow you. But then I realized I knew your name from—”