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Pine cleaner. The scent lingered in Jenna’s new home, a holdover from the big scrubbing she’d given the home when she’d moved in her few belongings. Jenna inhaled and opened the door.
Her gaze landed first on the cop who faced her. He had dark eyes reflecting disbelief and curiosity. Those eyes would be hard to capture on paper. Too elusive and she’d always wonder if what he chose to reflect was indeed true.
Dark Eyes reached in his pocket and removed a slim black wallet and with the flick of his fingers revealed a shiny, new police shield. “Jenna Thompson?”
She studied the badge an extra beat and then nodded. “That’s correct.”
“I’m Rick Morgan. I’m a detective with Nashville Metro Homicide. This is my partner, Detective Jake Bishop. My sister, Georgia, said you’d be expecting us.”
At the sound of his name, Bishop turned. His eyes, a vivid gray, flickered over her, cataloging her loose peasant top, faded jeans, short nails dirtied by paint and charcoal, and a long, black braid that looped over her square shoulder. “Ma’am.”
“You’re Georgia’s brother?” She studied him for a family resemblance but didn’t find one.
“Yes. She said you might be interested in working with us on a case.”
Those eyes studied her and she suspected he was trying to peel back the layers. No doubt he’d asked around about her. He knew about Baltimore, knew she’d taken leave abruptly to visit Nashville. Dark Eyes wouldn’t be satisfied with the facts in her employee file. He’d keep looking and searching until all the stones had been flipped over and examined.
A fist of tension clenched in her chest. She’d said yes because she’d liked Georgia but now questioned the decision. “She said you had a tough case.”
Rick drew in a breath. “You’ll help?”
“Yes.” When Georgia had called her an hour ago, Jenna had said no. She needed a break from police work. It had been police work that had triggered this need to come to Nashville. But Georgia had not heard her first or her second no. She’d pressed and pointed out the victim was a child.
Hearing that, Jenna’s opposition had melted. She’d agreed to this one favor.
Detective Morgan raised a manila folder she’d not noticed before. “I’ve pictures I can show you. Can we come in?”
“Sure.” She stepped aside and allowed them into the cabin. As they moved toward the large A-framed living room, she slid her feet into a pair of flip-flops and followed behind.
As if he’d entered a crime scene, Detective Morgan’s gaze wantonly roamed the room. He absorbed the scene: two small sofas that faced each other, the coffee table between and the stack of art books arranged neatly in the center, a kitchen counter sporting only a bowl of apples, and then the easel that faced away. The furniture had come with the house, but the books and small touches were hers.
“I hear you do portraits at KC’s now,” Detective Morgan said.
“Yes.”
He moved toward the picture and for a moment she was distracted by the very small hitch in his step. He was doing his best to hide it but she catalogued the detail as if she’d never left the job.
“She said a few weeks.”
“That’s about right.” An image of half-erased eyes crossed her mind. “And I don’t allow anyone to view my work before it’s finished. So if you don’t mind.”
Detective Morgan hesitated just inches from the canvas but to his credit didn’t overstep. He faced her, a measure of curiosity now humming behind those eyes. “Sure.”
Extending a hand toward the couches, she looked at the other detective, taking comfort in his lack of interest. “Have a seat.”
Both officers took a seat on one sofa and she chose the one across.
“It appears to be the skeletonized remains of a child,” Morgan said. “We believe the child’s age would’ve been between four to six years old at the time of death.”
Sadness pressed against her chest. She mourned for the child who had died far too young. “How intact is the skull?”
“We have it all.”
“Including the mandible?” The mandible was the lower jaw, which after decomposition became detached from the top of the skull. Animals often scavenged the remains spreading them far afield.
“Yes,” Morgan said. “The body was wrapped in a blanket and then encased in a plastic bag.”
She opened the manila folder and laid out the crime-scene pictures. In the center of the shallow hole was a black muddied plastic bag that had been sliced open like a large pod. Lining the bag was the blanket. Pink. Detective Bishop had not said pink. Seeing the pink added an element of humanity that jostled her concentration. Pink. A little girl. A chill crackled through the woman even as the cop celebrated a clean sample. It would make the work easier. “Was there any other identifying information in the bag?”
“No,” Morgan said. “Just the blanket.”
The pink blanket. “What about remnants of clothing?”
“No signs of clothes.” If the blanket had remained so should have the clothes. She’d been naked when she’d been buried.
“Okay.”
“Georgia said you used to be a forensic artist,” Morgan said. “You worked for Baltimore Police Department but you quit.”
She noted the extra emphasis on quit. “I haven’t quit. I’ve taken a six-week leave of absence.” She’d told herself the day she’d left that the break was temporary. But each day away from Baltimore took her another step away from the job. One day she might cross the thin blue line and find herself on the outside, unable to get back. She suspected this detective had already branded her as lacking. A failure.
“You drew for them,” Detective Morgan said.
“Correct.” There were still some cops who didn’t put much stock in her work, leaving her always at the ready to recite the facts about cases closed by a forensic artist. Whereas fingerprints caught criminals ten percent of the time, forensic artists had a success rate closer to thirty percent. She’d encountered skepticism in Baltimore at first, and then she’d started to work with victims, many traumatized, and painstakingly re-created the faces of their attackers. Many faces would later prove to be dead-on matches to mug shots.
“I’ve heard the stats on your kind of work,” Morgan said. “Impressive.”
His tone, bordering on boredom, stoked her temper. Who was this guy to get an attitude with her when she was doing him the favor? If not for the child, she’d have called it quits. Told him to get the hell out. “Wait until you see the sketch I draw for you. You’ll be impressed.” Yeah, she was letting her annoyance get the better of her. But she’d be damned if she’d let this guy judge her or her work.
“You can give this victim a face?” Detective Bishop asked.
“Yes.” She sat back, confident in her skills. “You aren’t from around here?”
Bishop shrugged. “Boston. But I been here ten years.”
A challenge underscored the last two words. Still an outsider. “What brought you to Nashville?”
Bishop’s brow a
rched. “I could ask you the same.”
A smile tweaked the edge of her lips at the dodge. “I heard good things.”
“Me too.” Bishop leaned back on the couch and folded his arms. “We don’t have a budget.”
“That’s what Georgia said. I told her I’d donate my time.” She dropped her gaze to the photos and zeroed in on the empty eye sockets that glared up at her. Who are you?
“Why?” Rick asked.
“Why what?” Jenna asked, raising her gaze.
“Why’re you donating your services?”
Her shoulders lifted in a small shrug. “I’ve a skill.” She tapped her index finger, calloused from holding a drawing pencil for countless hours, on the photo. “I can give this child a face. Isn’t that enough?”
He studied her, shaking his head. “Just seems odd a sworn cop ends up in a bar drawing faces. Who takes that kind of path?”
She closed the file but fell short of pushing it back toward him. “I didn’t realize volunteering would come with so many questions.”
“Wouldn’t you be asking the same questions?”
“Sure. I’m on leave but I’m still a cop. Hard not to help.” And now she had the last kind of case she’d ever wanted. A lost little girl. In a pink blanket.
Detective Bishop put his hands on his thighs and pushed to his feet. “I’ve seen your work. Checked it out before we came. You’re good. Real good. And frankly I’m not worried about the whys driving you. I want this case solved.”
Jenna rose, meeting his gaze. “Me too.”
“When can you get started?” Detective Morgan stood and shifted his stance as if he was working out a painful kink in his hip.
She searched for a grain of pity but couldn’t find one. “I’ve a freelance project but I can work around it. When do you want me to start?”
“The medical examiner will have a clean sample for you by tomorrow afternoon. She said you could start any time.” Clean sample. That meant that the skull would be stripped of any remaining flesh and ready to accept the clay she’d use to create muscle and flesh.
“Tomorrow then at two at the medical examiner’s office?”
