Chapter Twelve
Twelve
Izzy chewed on her lip as she stared at the photograph.
She’d missed it.
Five hours at that hellhole crime scene, and she’d missed a crucial piece of evidence. She clicked into another shot and zoomed in on her screen, hoping for a better result, but the oblong impression in the dirt was slightly cut off.
“Damn it.”
She toggled back to the original photo and sighed.
“What’s that?”
She jumped, startled, as Leanne stepped into the cubicle and leaned down to look at the computer screen.
Izzy’s shoulders tensed. She wasn’t ready to talk about this yet. But she recognized the look on Leanne’s face. She’d never let it go. When something caught her attention, the detective was like a dog with a bone.
Izzy cleared her throat. “This is from Sunday’s crime scene by the railroad tracks.”
“I can see that.” Leanne nodded at the screen. “Is that a shoeprint?”
“Maybe. I mean, yes, it’s a shoe impression. The question is, is it usable?” Izzy turned to the computer and zoomed in on the corner of the image that showed a faint impression in the dirt.
She looked back at Leanne. “So, the thing is, I didn’t see this at the time.
I was photographing the cigarette here.” She pointed at the flattened cigarette butt that was the actual subject of the photograph.
“We collected this as evidence, along with all the other trash inside the crime scene perimeter. The water bottles, the soda cans, the carpet squares. I photographed everything before we picked it up.”
Leanne nodded. “I remember. Zoom me out. Where was this, exactly?”
Izzy clicked open another picture that gave a wider view of the area.
“This is about ten yards west of the body. It’s a pretty faint impression.
I didn’t even see it originally when I was taking a shot of the cigarette.
But when I was combing back through these photos, looking for anything we might have missed, I thought I noticed something.
So, I increased the contrast, and there it is. ”
“Can you increase the contrast more?” Leanne asked.
“It’s maxed out.”
The detective leaned closer, and Izzy watched her study the photograph. Near the shoeprint was a red Tecate can bleached pink by the sun.
“Well, this probably isn’t clear enough to pin down a specific shoe type,” Leanne said. “I mean, it’s a wavy pattern—”
“Herringbone.”
“What?”
“The pattern on the sole is called ‘herringbone.’ ” Izzy nodded at the image.
“And it’s not consistent with the all-terrain boots worn by me or any of the first responders—I already checked.
Those all have heavy-duty treads. And the woman who found the body was wearing Nike running shoes.
This is more of a casual, all-purpose shoe. Like maybe a lace-up sneaker.”
“Okay.”
“But you’re right—the detail probably isn’t clear enough to pin down what type exactly. If I had noticed it at the time, I could have taken a better photograph using an oblique light source to pump up the detail. That’s on me. I missed it.”
“Well, don’t beat yourself up,” Leanne said. “It was a big crime scene. And there was a lot going on. You were focused primarily on the body.”
Her words didn’t lessen Izzy’s guilt.
“The good news,” Izzy said, “is that I did include my metal ruler in the frame for scale. With some research, I may be able to tell you the shoe size of whoever left this print.”
“Seriously? That could be useful.”
“I know.”
Leanne glanced around the empty bullpen and then perched on the corner of Izzy’s desk.
“There’s something else I wanted to ask you,” Leanne said. “About your other job.”
That caught her attention. “Yeah?”
“I know you exhibit some of your nature photographs at different art galleries.”
“Well, I’ve got some pieces at a gallery. And a piece on display at the chamber of commerce building.”
“Wow.”
“Not really ‘wow.’ I mean, every amateur photographer in town has their stuff there. Mark Gaffney, Justin Carr, Alex Contreras. Even Nadine has a piece on display there.” She glanced around to make sure the receptionist wasn’t walking by.
Leanne frowned. “Mark Gaffney. Why do I recognize that name?”
“He teaches yearbook at the high school.” He had been Izzy’s very first mentor. “My point is the chamber of commerce exhibits work from local hobbyists. Having your stuff there isn’t exactly hitting it big.”
“You said you have stuff at a gallery, too. Which one is it?”
“It’s in Marfa. The West Tex Art Co-op? It’s on Highland Street right down from the theater.”
“Have you heard of Dark Sky Gallery?” Leanne asked.
“Uh, yeah.”
“You ever exhibited there?”
“No way.”
“Why not?”
Izzy smiled. “They’re really exclusive. They show artists from New York and Los Angeles. Have you ever been in there?”
“Yeah. Yesterday, as a matter of fact.” Leanne folded her arms over her chest. “I met the manager, Zach Olmstead. He runs the place and shows a lot of his work there, too. You know him?”
“No. I’ve heard of him, sure. But I’ve never met him or anything.”
“What do you hear about him?”
Izzy studied Leanne’s green eyes, trying to read her expression. These definitely weren’t casual questions. What was she up to?
“Well…I have a friend who went out with him. She’s a textile artist in Marfa. She met him at some museum party there.”
“What did she say about him?”
“Not a lot. They only went out a couple times, and then it ended, I think. Why?”
Leanne shrugged. “Just asking around. He seemed a little high on himself when I talked to him. Just wanted to see what his reputation is.”
“I’m probably not the one to ask,” Izzy said. “His gallery is pretty famous. They don’t exactly carry my work.”
“They could, though. They exhibit local artists, too.”
“Yes, well. Some places say that, but it’s for PR. A lot of places only show big-name photographers whose work commands a higher price. Most of the galleries in Marfa won’t even look at locals.”
“You should try,” Leanne said. “Your work is impressive. I’ve seen it. And you have a degree from NYU. You can compete with anyone.”
Izzy glanced around uncomfortably. She wasn’t used to talking about her art in the middle of the police station.
Leanne’s phone chimed, and she pulled it from her jacket pocket.
“Everhart.”
She listened intently, and Izzy could tell it was something important.
Leanne twisted around to look at the clock on the wall. “Okay, got it. I’m on my way.”
· · ·
The skull stared out at her from the glass case, two hollow orbits that gave Leanne the creeps whenever she passed through here. The cranium was yellowed and old, with zigzag fissures along the sides, and it felt strange to think about how it once was part of a living, breathing person.
“It’s been a while.”
Leanne turned around as Jen Sayers breezed into the lobby. The forensic anthropologist wore a white lab coat and jeans, and her auburn hair was pulled back in a bun.
Leanne walked over. “Thanks for meeting.”
“No problem.” Jen nodded toward the glass case containing an array of skulls, including a cow and a bighorn sheep. “I see you’ve met Herman.”
“He has a name?”
“My students named him after Herman Munster. Here, come on back.”
As they crossed the lobby of the science building, Leanne looked Jen over. Freckles covered the bridge of her nose, and she’d gotten some sun recently.
“You been at the beach?”
Jen rolled her eyes. “I wish. I was on a dig in Guatemala over the holidays with some grad students.”
Dr. Jennifer Sayers wore multiple hats. She taught forensic anthropology at the university in Alpine and also consulted for law enforcement agencies whenever the need arose, so she got pulled in on all sorts of cases, from fires to drownings.
When bones of unknown origin turned up in the region, they typically ended up in her laboratory.
Jen pushed through a door marked Staff Only. The air was chilly, and Leanne tucked her hands into her pockets as she followed the anthropologist down a long corridor with checkered linoleum flooring. They reached another closed door, and Jen used her badge to swipe open the lock.
They stepped into a spacious laboratory with a stainless steel table at the center. Hoses and equipment hung down from the ceiling, and long metal sinks lined the walls. This room was even colder, and the air smelled faintly of bleach.
“Through here,” Jen said, ushering her past the exam table, which thankfully was empty at the moment.
Leanne had never been in the adjacent room before. It was small and cramped, filled with floor-to-ceiling shelves containing bones of all shapes and sizes. Along the side of the room was a tall slate counter with a pair of microscopes on it.
“Whoa. That’s a lot of bones,” Leanne said, walking over to one of the shelves. Atop a paper shelf liner was a row of long white bones arranged from smallest to largest. “Are these human?”
“No,” Jen said, pulling on a pair of latex gloves. “That’s the point, actually. This is our reference collection. You’re looking at femurs from a variety of species.”
Leanne walked over to the longest bone.
“This looks like a mastodon.”
“Good guess,” Jen said. “That’s an elephant femur.”
“Where’s it from?”
“A zoo in Houston. We get bones from all over. There’s a kangaroo in there somewhere. An anthropologist friend of mine in Tasmania sent it. Besides skulls, we like to collect femurs because they’re useful for determining size, age, all sorts of characteristics.”
Jen slid something from a manila envelope, and Leanne stepped up to the counter. She recognized the bone from Izzy’s crime scene photo as Jen placed it on a piece of butcher paper.
“Here we are.” She reached up and switched on an exam light, then adjusted the metal arm so that the light shone down on the specimen. “The bone from your crime scene.”
Leanne caught the shift in Jen’s tone as she rotated the bone beneath the light.
“To get straight to the point, this bone is, in fact, human.”
“Everyone thought it was from a deer,” Leanne said. “You’re certain?”
“One hundred percent. Microscopic examination reveals a scattered osteon pattern. Also notable—it’s a femur, the longest and strongest bone in the human body. Thus, they tend to be well-preserved.”
“How old?” Leanne asked.
“Hard to say. It’s not ancient, I can tell you that.
I’d say this bone has been out there exposed to the elements for at least a few years.
” She held the bone by the tip and rolled it over.
“You see these scratches here? Those are from teeth and claws. The skeleton was likely scattered by animals. Coyotes would be my guess.”
“No, I mean how old is the person? Or how old were they?” Leanne asked. “Is there any way to tell?”
“Yes. Although, it would be useful to have more than one bone to look at. But, by examining the epiphysis here”—she pointed to the rounded end—“I can estimate that this is from someone in their late teens.”
Leanne stared down at the bone. Another young person.
“Is there any way to know the gender?” Leanne asked.
“You mean sex. Gender is a social construct. And, yes, there is, but it requires further analysis. Given that we only have a partial bone to work with, versus a full skeleton, I’ll need to extract DNA.
” Jen stepped back. “That takes time, and I was under the impression you were in a hurry to get my findings. This was discovered at a homicide scene, correct?”
“That’s right. One of our officers came across this when we were collecting evidence near the body.”
“The train tracks girl?”
Leanne nodded.
“Do you know that victim’s postmortem interval?”
“The ME estimates a day and a half between the murder and when the body was found.”
Jen pursed her lips. “Any ID yet?”
“We’re working on it.”
Leanne looked down at the bone fragment and shook her head.
“Damn. What are the odds of two sets of human remains being found in the exact same place in that vast swath of desert?”
“Given the proximity to the highway? It’s not that surprising,” Jen said. “And it’s more than two.”
Leanne frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Off the top of my head I can think of four other instances of bones found along that same stretch of highway between Fort Stockton and Marfa.”
“Human bones?”
“Those are just the ones I’ve personally examined.”
“When?”
“Over the years. I’ve been here almost a decade now. The first set came during my second winter. Some hunter pulled over to take a leak and his dog sniffed out the remains. They were pretty much skeletonized at that point.”
Leanne stared at her, trying to get her mind around it.
“Any IDs?”
Jen shook her head. “Three of the sets of remains were female. The fourth—hard to tell. All I got in was a jawbone. That was three years ago over in western Chisos County, near the county line.”
That would have been the sheriff’s jurisdiction.
“Any clothes or personal items?” Leanne asked.
“What you’d expect for a body left exposed to the elements. Some tattered clothing, scraps of fabric. And—notably—some bits of duct tape.”
“Duct tape,” Leanne repeated. “That suggests—”
“A criminal element. Yes, I know. These weren’t migrants passing through the desert who died of dehydration, if that’s what you’re thinking. No, at least three of these four victims showed obvious signs of violence.”
“Specifically?”
“Fractured skulls and ribs. Another thing that stood out to me? In one of the cases, there was a chunk of hair missing.”
“Hair,” Leanne repeated.
“Hair is fairly durable compared to soft tissue. Stands up to the elements remarkably well. Despite the dried, desiccated state of the remains, the hair was pretty much intact, but—as I said—it looked like someone had cut a chunk out. Like maybe for a trophy or a souvenir?”
“That’s…” Leanne searched for a word.
“Fucked up. I agree.” Jen leaned back against the counter. “You know, the first set of remains was recovered near Madrone. I submitted a report to you guys, but as far as I know, nothing ever came of it.”
Leanne’s chest tightened with frustration.
“Guess your chief chalked it up to transients passing through,” Jen added.
Which was code for illegal immigrants. Who—in McBride’s mind—got what they deserved when they embarked on a journey across the border.
“Four unidentified bodies,” Leanne said. “All along that same highway?”
“Six if you count these recent two.” She nodded at the splintered femur under the spotlight.
Patty Paulson’s words echoed through her head. She’s not the first.
“I don’t know why I never heard of these cases,” Leanne said.
“Oh, come on.” Jen tipped her head to the side. “Yeah, you do. Not everyone who goes missing is from some connected family that’s willing to raise hell over it. And anyway, murdered women aren’t good for tourism. Some of the cops around here would just as soon look the other way.”
“That’s outrageous,” Leanne said.
Jen crossed her arms. “Doesn’t mean it doesn’t happen.”