Ryan observed in grim silence.

Ninety minutes after starting, Larabee straightened. There was no need to recap his findings. We’d heard him dictate every detail into a hanging mike.

The victim was a healthy thirteen-year-old female of average height and weight. She had no congenital malformations, abnormalities, or signs of disease. She’d eaten a hot dog and an apple less than six hours before her death.

The child’s body had no healed or healing fractures, scars, or cigarette burns. No bruising or abrasion in the area of the anus or genitalia. None of the hideous indicators of physical or sexual abuse.

Shelly Leal had been nurtured and loved until a maniac decided it was time she should die. And there was nothing to verify how that had happened.

“No petechiae?” I was asking about tiny red spots that appear in the eyes due to the bursting of blood vessels.

“No. Though the sclera is toast.”

“What’s that?” Slidell.

“Petechial hemorrhage is suggestive of asphyxiation,” I said.

“The lips are badly swollen and discolored, but I saw no surface or subdermal hemorrhage. No cuts or tooth impressions.”

“So, what? You thinking smothering? Strangulation?” Slidell said.

“I’m thinking I can’t determine cause of death, Detective.” Larabee’s voice carried a slight edge. He’d just dictated that conclusion.

Slidell’s cheeks reddened through the pallor. “We done here, then?”

“I’ll go over her with an ALS. Recheck the clothes. Not sure there’s much point, given the decomp, but I’ll try to get samples to send off for tox screening.”

Slidell nodded. Made a move toward the door.

“Ryan and I think we’ve found evidence of other victims.” No way I’d mention Mama.

“Yeah?” The pouchy eyes shot to Ryan. “You planning to share that?”

“We’re sharing it now.”

Slidell drew a long breath through his nose. Exhaled with a dry whistling sound. “I gotta explain this to the parents.” Flapping an arm at the table. “Ryan, you want to ride along, lay it all out on the way? Then we brief Barrow.”

“You’re the boss,” Ryan said.

When Slidell and Ryan were gone, Larabee and I got out the alternate light source kit, donned goggles, and killed the overheads. As we ran the wand over Leal’s body, I told him about Koseluk, Estrada, and Donovan. He listened without comment.

We found no latent prints, no hairs or fibers, no body fluids. No surprise but worth a shot.

Leal’s clothing hung on a rack by the side counter, stained and mud-stiffened. Yellow hooded nylon jacket, plaid shirt, red jeans, cotton panties, black and yellow Nikes, white socks.

We started with the jacket. Got nothing on the front. Flipped it.

“What’s that?” I pointed to a bat-shaped luminescence on one edge of the hood.

Larabee bent close but said nothing.

“I’ll bet the farm that’s a lip print,” I said. “Look at the shape. And the wiggly vertical stripes.”

“How’s a lip print survive a week in the elements?” Still studying the vaguely lustrous smear.

“Maybe it’s gloss? Or ChapStick?”

Our eyes met. Wordlessly, we crossed to Leal. Under our light, the bloated little lips showed not the faintest glimmer to indicate makeup or balm. Larabee wiped them and sealed the swab in a vial. “You thinking cheiloscopic ID?” Some researchers believe the patterning of a lip’s surface furrows is as unique to an individual as the lines and ridges on a fingerprint. Larabee was referring to the science of analyzing them.

“No. Well, maybe. Mostly, I’m thinking DNA. If there’s saliva and the lip print’s not hers …” I let the thought hang.

“Son of a biscuit. Could we get that lucky?” Larabee placed the jacket in an evidence bag and scribbled case info on the outside.

The rest of the clothes yielded zilch.

As Larabee and I removed our aprons, gloves, goggles, and masks, I mentioned an idea that had been percolating since I’d read Mama’s emails.

“Gower was abducted in Vermont in 2007. Nance was killed here in Charlotte in 2009. Koseluk was 2011, Estrada 2012, Donovan late 2013 or early 2014.”

“Now there’s Shelly Leal.” Larabee balled and dropped his gear into the biohazard bin. “An annual kill since the action moved to North Carolina.” The lid clanged shut. “With one gap.”

“I’m going to pull a file from 2010,” I said.

Larabee turned to me, face glum. He also remembered.

CHAPTER 11

I LOGGED ON to my computer and pulled up the file. Scanned the contents. As I feared, case number ME107-10 fit the pattern.

The skull had been found by hikers off South New Hope Road, near the town of Belmont, just west of Charlotte and just north of the South Carolina border. It lay in a gulley across from the entrance to the Daniel Stowe Botanical Garden.

The facial bones and mandible had been missing, and the calvarium gnawed and weathered. Remnants of brain matter had adhered to the endocranial surface, suggesting a PMI of less than a year.

I’d led a recovery team. For a full day we’d worked a grid shoulder to shoulder, poking under rocks and fallen trees, sifting through vines, leaves, and brushy undergrowth. Though we found a fair number of bones, much of the skeleton had been lost to scavenging animals.

I was able to determine that the remains were those of a twelve- to fourteen-year-old child. What was left of the cranium suggested European ancestry.

Gender determination based on skeletal indicators is unreliable prior to puberty. But articles of clothing found in association with several bone clusters suggested the victim was female.

A search of MP files turned up no match in North or South Carolina. Ditto when we ran the profile through NamUS and the Doe Network, national and international data banks for missing and unidentified persons.

So the child remained nameless, ME107-10. The bones were archived on a shelf down the hall.

I pushed from my desk and walked to the storage room, boot heels echoing in the quiet of the empty building.

After locating the correct label, I pulled the box and carried it to autopsy room one. Larabee’s closed office door told me he’d already left. The autopsy table was empty. Its small occupant had been stitched, zipped into her body bag, and rolled to the cooler.

I thought of the heartrending conversation Slidell was having with Shelly Leal’s grieving parents. Receiving autopsy results is never easy. Nor is delivering them. I felt empathy for all three.

Deep breath. Only a faint trace of odor lingered in the air.

After gloving, I lifted the lid.

The skeleton was as I remembered, stained tea brown by contact with the vegetation in which it had lain. And woefully incomplete.

Still psyched about finding the lip print, I spread paper sheeting on the table and placed all the bones and bone fragments on it.

The skull’s outer surface was scored by tooth marks, and the orbital ridges and mastoids were chewed. Most of the vertebrae and ribs were crushed. The one pelvic half had several canine punctures. Each of the five long bones was truncated and cracked at both ends.

I examined everything first with a magnifying lens, then with the ALS. Spotted no hairs or fibers snagged on or embedded in the bones. Detected not the faintest suggestion of a glimmer.

I was repacking the skeleton when my eyes fell on a bag tucked into one corner of the box. Odd. Had the clothing never left the MCME? Had it gone to the CMPD lab and come back? I’d noted no report in the electronic file.

I opened the bag, withdrew the contents, and placed everything on the sheet.

One lavender sandal, size marking abraded by wear.

One pair of purple polyester shorts, girls’ size twelve.

One T-shirt saying 100% Princess, size medium.