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She’d laid trembling fingers on the door handle and opened it slowly. At first she found no signs of life. The closet was large and dark but it smelled of urine, fouled clothes, and rotted food. And then, she’d heard a faint rustle and she’d shone her flashlight into the dark recesses of the closet. When her light landed on the face of a young girl, Jenna had started and nearly dropped the flashlight. The child had long, matted, black hair and a large, stained, white T-shirt engulfed her thin frame. She had stared at Jenna with a gaze hovering closer to feral than human. A loud mew had escaped the child as she shielded startled eyes that winced under the light’s glare.
In that moment, Jenna was the child. This little girl hadn’t been rescued in nine days, but had languished in that closet for years.
You are the lucky one.
Lucky.
Yes, she had been lucky but the luck had exacted a price. She’d been rescued from the closet but a dark fear had remained lurking silently for nearly twenty-five years. And now it was free.
She’d called for her partner, heard the hiss of his breath when he’d seen the child. She’d kept it together until rescue crews had arrived. The next day she’d filed her report and requested leave. Baltimore, like a skin that had grown far too tight, was squeezing the life out of her.
“Lady, are you going inside or not?”
She turned to find the assessing gaze of a woman with red hair and dark-rimmed glasses.
Jenna mumbled an apology and then reached for the cold metal handle of the door and entered the building. She crossed to the information desk, gave her name, showed her driver’s license. She accepted a visitor’s badge and as she pinned it to the collar of her shirt, she faced the window that overlooked the parking lot and rolling fields. The receptionist announced her name over the telephone.
Five minutes later, a side door opened and a tall woman with dark hair and almond eyes appeared. She crossed to Jenna, her strides smooth and exuding an enviable confidence.
The woman extended a long hand with nails that had been cut short and buffed. “I’m Dr. Miriam Heller. You’re Jenna Thompson?”
Jenna accepted the outstretched hand. “Yes.”
“I understand you’re going to help us with an identification.”
“That’s correct.”
“Do you have your supplies?”
“They’re in the car. I wanted to see where I’d be working before I started unpacking. They can be bulky and unwieldy.” In Baltimore, she’d had a small office that had been her base of operations. People came to her so it wasn’t necessary for her to pack her equipment unless she was visiting a victim in the hospital.
“I’ve the specimen and as soon as Detectives Morgan and Bishop arrive, we can decide where you can do your work.”
She would have liked to work in her studio at home. There she had the sunlight and the space to create. But the cops, worried about the chain of custody, would never release the skull to her. When she came up with a face, cops would have to defend her work in court and that meant keeping a strict eye on the evidence.
“Of course.”
Dr. Heller glanced at a simple black watch on her wrist and checked the time. “Detective Morgan called me minutes ago and said they were on their way. Another case pulled them away.”
“No need to explain. I understand.”
Dr. Heller slid her hands into the pockets of her white lab coat. “You worked for Baltimore Police Department, didn’t you?”
“I’ve been with them for nine years. I’m currently on leave.”
Questions sparked in the doctor’s gaze but she didn’t voice them. “I’ve seen some of your work. Very impressive.”
“Thanks.”
“The detectives can meet us in the exam room.”
“Sure.”
“Mind if we take the stairs? About all the exercise I get when I’m working long days are the stairs.”
“Love the stairs.”
As they moved toward the locked door, Dr. Heller swiped her key card and the door opened. Jenna stepped through with the doctor on her heels. As the doctor turned to close the door a deep masculine voice called out, “Dr. Heller!”
They turned to see Rick Morgan and Jake Bishop entering the building. Detective Morgan moved with a controlled, steady gait, his gaze resting squarely on Jenna. She sensed the detective did not like her. Whereas Detective Bishop didn’t seem to care one way or the other about her, Morgan acted as if he had a burr under his saddle when it came to her.
You quit.
He wouldn’t be the first cop to criticize her. She refused to justify her choices.
Morgan flashed his badge to the receptionist behind the glass and he and his partner joined Jenna and the doctor. As Dr. Heller headed to the stairwell, Morgan hesitated and Jenna sensed him brace before nodding to Dr. Heller to lead the way. He kept pace with them and the four made their way down to the exam room. The doctor escorted them to a stainless-steel table where a box sat.
Dr. Heller donned rubber gloves and then lifted the lid off the box. Gently, she removed the small skull as the others gathered around. “The skull belongs to a female, who would’ve been about five when she died. I determined age based on the presence of baby teeth still in place. If the child had been six or older, there’s a good chance some of the front teeth would’ve been missing.” She turned the skull sideways. “Also note the delicate ridge of bone above the eye sockets is slight, suggesting female. And based on the width of her nasal cavity, I’d say she was Caucasian.”
“Do the bones tell you anything else about the victim?” Morgan asked.
Dr. Heller’s face grew more solemn. “Malnutrition. Her bones are brittle, which suggests to me she didn’t eat well.”
Jenna thought about the confines of the closet that had been her prison for nine days. Many nights, she’d been hungry and her belly had ached. “Did she starve to death?”
“No,” Dr. Heller said as she turned the skull revealing spiderweb-like cracks. “Blunt force trauma to the head. A single blow. It would’ve killed her almost instantly.”
“Suggestions on the object?” Morgan asked.
“Maybe a fist. A wall. A hammer would’ve left a small indentation. It also could have been a fall. One hard push back and, if she hit a hard surface, that would have done it.”
The four stood silent for a moment as the doctor carefully set the skull down.
“May I hold the skull?” Jenna asked.
Dr. Heller handed her gloves. “Sure.”
Carefully, Jenna donned the gloves and then gently lifted the skull. Light, fragile, so delicate. She turned the skull over, staring into the empty eye sockets. Already, she imagined the muscles that banded across a human face and gave it shape and depth. She imagined skin, hair and, of course, the eyes.
“How long will it take you to give her a face?” Detective Morgan asked.
“A week.” That was a conservative estimate. Already she knew she’d put aside her portrait work and make this job her priority. This child deserved a face. An identity. She studied the nasal cavity. “Any other thoughts about her appearance that would be helpful?” Jenna already knew when she created the face it would be smiling. The child deserved to be remembered as happy.
“She was found only with the pink blanket,” Detective Morgan said. “We don’t know anything else about her.”
Jenna set the skull down, her body already humming with a need to work. It had been like this in Baltimore. Her need to create a face, a likeness, of a killer, rapist, or lost soul was always powerful. The Baltimore cops had called her the Mistress of Lost Souls, a moniker she’d always thought fitting.
The walls of the exam room tightened and the craving to be in her brightly lit studio tugged hard. “My supplies are in my car. I can bring them in and get started as soon as possible.”
Dr. Heller glanced at the clock. “You want to start today?”
“I can work for a few hours this afternoon.” She’d be late
getting to KC’s tonight but decided the tourists could wait.
“I don’t see how you can create a face,” Detective Morgan said.
“Just know that I can,” Jenna said.
Dr. Heller’s gaze sparked with approval. “I’ve set aside an office space that’s all yours for as long as you need it.”
“I’ll help you bring in your supplies,” Officer Morgan said.
Her skin prickled at what sounded more like an order than an offer. What was he expecting? Her to go to her car and not return? For her to quit?
As much as she’d have liked to refuse his help, she wasn’t foolish. Many hands made light the work as her aunt used to say. Let him lug the easel.
“I’m parked out front.”
Detective Morgan held out his hand, telling her to lead the way. As she moved into the hallway, the elevator doors dinged opened and Georgia appeared. She wore jeans, a blue blouse, and red cowboy boots, and had twisted her red hair into a topknot that left a sprinkle of curls free to frame her face. Despite her choice of soft colors, it only took a glance to see that intensity all but radiated around her. Her movements were crisp and her steps short, clipped, and hard as if she were annoyed. She was like that onstage, a trait many of the men seemed to like.
Georgia, Tracker at her side, appeared to check an invisible box in her head. “Good, you’re here. Have you started work?”
“What’re you and Tracker doing here?” Detective Morgan challenged. “I thought you were done for the day?”
“I was and then after I took Tracker for a walk I got to thinking about this meeting. I thought I’d touch base. And you know how Tracker likes to ride in the car.”
No good-evenings or how’s-it-goings for Georgia or her brother. This clan cut to the chase.
When Jenna had met her at KC’s that first night, she wasn’t sure if she’d liked Georgia. No doubt, the woman had real singing talent, but she could be cutting and direct. After they’d crossed paths the third night, she’d found the forensic tech’s brutal directness had its own charm. She’d not been able to say the same for Rick Morgan.
“Good afternoon,” Jenna said.
Georgia blinked, nodded, as if computing the words. And then she seemed to realize she’d skipped a pleasantry. “Yeah, hey. Have you started yet?”
“She’s known for her lack of tact,” Detective Bishop said. “A real steamroller.”
