Bones Never Lie (Temperance Brennan, #17)(20)

“When torture’s no longer enough, these sickos up the ante.”

Something else had been bothering me. “That last night on de Sébastopol. Pomerleau set the house on fire.” And left me in it to die. I didn’t say that. “She escaped before Claudel could arrest her. Why was her DNA in the Canadian system?”

“Couple of years ago some counties in California started collecting DNA from violent offenders who’d died before authorities got their genetic profiles.”

“Using what?”

“Old court exhibits, blood or saliva from a vic or a crime scene. They’ve been comparing those profiles to genetic profiles obtained from unsolveds.”

“Cases with DNA from unidentified perps.”

“Right.”

“Will that hold up in court?”

“Doubtful. But they’ve managed to close some cold cases.”

“So Canada’s doing the same thing?”

“I’ve been out of the loop. But I’m guessing it’s something similar. When we first found Pomerleau, she went to Montreal General, right?”

Flashbulb image. Deathly white bodies in a pitch-black cell. I nodded.

“Doctors probably took blood from Pomerleau when she was admitted. Crime scene collected biological material from the house on de Sébastopol. The profiles matched. When Pomerleau became a suspect in the homicides, she went into the NDDB.”

“That tracks.”

Back upstairs, Ryan continued reading the witness interviews while I turned to the next folder: Related Investigations. I’d been at it an hour, and was well into a section headed Investigators’ Notes, when an entry caused me to sit up straighter.

The note was described as handwritten, dated 5/2/2009. There was no name to indicate who had made it.

Forensics computer tech F. G. Ferrara called to advise that the Dell Inspiron 1525 laptop computer collected from the victim’s bedroom had yielded no useful information. Email and browser history empty.

I raced through the rest of the page. The next. Found no further reference to the computer or to Ferrara. “Ryan.”

He looked up. I rotated the page and jabbed the entry with my finger. While he read, I dialed Slidell.

My call rolled to voicemail. I left a message: “Phone me.”

I dialed Barrow. Asked him to come back to the CCU. He was there in under a minute. “What’s up?”

I showed him the entry.

“What’s Slidell say?”

“He’s not answering. Is Ferrara still up on four?”

“Hold on.” Barrow stepped out, returned moments later.

“Frank Ferrara moved to Ohio in 2010.”

“Pay was too high here, hours too short.” The old Ryan wit.

“Something like that.”

“What’s the chance that PC is still around?” I asked.

“Was it logged as evidence?”

“No.”

“Five years?” Barrow wagged his head slowly.

“Does Cynthia Pridmore still live in Charlotte?”

“Oh, yeah. She calls every few months asking for updates. Mainly to keep us thinking about Lizzie.”

“Give her a buzz?”

Barrow hesitated. “I hate to raise hopes.”

Ryan and I waited.

“Let me see what I can do.”

Barrow was back in twenty minutes. His face spoke of a painful conversation. Of a woman’s days again haunted by guilt and grief. Of her nights again filled with dread of what lay within sleep.

“Pridmore remembers a cop collecting the Dell, along with other items from her daughter’s room. Recalls questioning about Lizzie’s use of email and the Net. That’s it.”

“Where’s the laptop now?” I asked.

“Pridmore got it back. Two years later used it to trade up to a newer model.”

“Did you ask if Lizzie’s other files were saved first?”

Barrow nodded. “They were. Pridmore copied the photos and Word docs to disk before wiping the drive for resale. Remembers a school report on ER nursing. The assignment was to research a career—that’s what the kid wanted to be. After reading it, she couldn’t bear to look at anything else.”

“We should get those disks.”

“I’ll give it a go.”

“Any chance of tracking the laptop?”

Barrow spread his palms in a “Who knows?” gesture.

“Either no one paid attention to Ferrara’s report, or no one realized the significance of an eleven-year-old kid selectively clearing her own history,” Ryan said.

“So Pomerleau may have been finding victims online as far back as 2009,” I said.

“Let’s get through this.” Ryan flipped a page in the interview file.

In the end, it wasn’t Pomerleau’s cyberstalking that changed Ryan’s mind about staying.

It was the call that came in at half past nine.





CHAPTER 9


RYAN AND I kept with it until well after seven. Uncovered nothing else of interest.

As we were leaving, I suggested dinner. He agreed. With a remarkable lack of enthusiasm.

We walked to the Epicentre, a two-story extravaganza of shops, theaters, bowling alleys, bars, and restaurants commanding an entire square block of uptown acreage.