Girls Like Us(14)

After the shot to the head, the killer dissembled her limbs, and tied them to her torso with twine. It’s a surreal, macabre presentation; gory and precise at the same time. In my experience, you could tell almost as much about a person by the way they died as anything else.

“Ria Sandoval was shot in the head, too, wasn’t she?”

“Yep,” Lee says, his voice hoarse. “Point-blank range. And then . . .” He gestures to the body. He swallows hard as though the word dismembered is lodged inside his throat.

“Strange way to kill a working girl.”

“Why’s that?”

“It’s clean.”

“You call this clean?” Lee stares at me incredulously.

“Professional, I mean. Like an execution.”

“So maybe gang related?”

“Possibly. It’s meticulous. Almost ritualistic.”

The light catches something in the sand. I gesture to Lee. “There’s something there. Metallic, I think.”

Lee drops onto his knees. He pulls a pen out of his back pocket. With it, he scoops out a thin gold bracelet.

He holds it up to the light. “Cartier.”

“Bag it.”

“It’s Grace Bishop’s. Look. It has her initials on the inside.” He takes an evidence bag and drops the bracelet inside. “We should get this back to her. Poor woman.”

I bite my tongue and say nothing. It bothers me when the cops out here kowtow to the summer people. Especially Lee. I used to see him down here when we were both in high school. He threw beer cans at Meadow Lane with the rest of us. The bracelet should go into evidence. I’d hazard a guess that Grace Bishop has another one to wear while she waits to get it back. She probably doesn’t even know it’s gone. But it’s not my case. Not my problem.

“I’ll take it,” I tell him. I hold out my hand for the bag. “I’d like to talk to her, anyway. You said she’s on the board of the Preservation Society, right?”

“Yeah. And I think she knows Morales. Your dad talked to her about him last summer.”

“Where’s the pathologist? I’d like to speak to him before I go.”

“It’s a her. And she’s here somewhere.” Lee turns and points to a woman—a girl, really—trudging toward us. She’s wearing jeans, hiking boots, and a backpack. Her thick blond hair is pulled back into a braid that trails down her back. She’s unsettlingly attractive, with a long, lithe body and a perfect heart-shaped face. “That’s her.”

I stare at her, then look back at Lee.

“You’re joking.”

“I’m not. Jamie Milkowski. She’s young but good.”

“How young?”

“Just started this year.”

“So it’s her first serial. Maybe even her first murder. How exciting for her.”

Lee gives me a look. “Everyone says she’s brilliant. Stop being so judgmental, Flynn. You of all people should know that an attractive young woman can do her job just as well as a grizzled old man.”

I ignore the compliment, but heat rises to my cheeks. “You can’t have someone green on a case like this,” I argue. “You know that. You have to send it into the city if you want this done right.”

Lee sighs. Though he’d never admit it, I know he agrees with me. Our jobs are learned through a slow and steady accumulation of experience. There’s science to crime scene evaluation, but there’s also artistry. The best teacher is a dead body. If it were up to me, the body would be sent to Nicole Prentice. Nikki is a nationally recognized forensic anthropologist who leads a team at the New York City Medical Examiner’s Office. I’ve worked with her before. She’s the best. Of course, it isn’t up to me, nor is it up to Lee. It’s Dorsey’s decision and he will assuredly keep everything in-house for as long as possible. To do anything else would read as a lack of confidence in the Suffolk County team. It would also send a signal: this is not just a murder. It’s a serial. And it’s time to call in the Feds.

“Dorsey wants the Suffolk County ME to give it a try. If they’re overwhelmed, or the body is really badly decomposed, they’ll send it into the city for DNA analysis.” Lee speaks with finality, as though this has already been discussed and decided.

“The body is decomposed. Jesus Christ, Lee. Sending it to Suffolk County is just a waste of time.”

Lee nods his chin. I turn around. Milkowski is standing behind me. She extends her hand. “Jamie Milkowski. Suffolk County ME,” she says, without a trace of animus.

“Nell Flynn. FBI.”

“Glad you guys are here.”

“No guys. Just me,” I say.

“Nell is Marty Flynn’s daughter,” Lee explains. “I asked her to consult on the case. She’s with the Behavioral Analysis Unit.”

“I’m sorry about your dad. He was a good man.”

I nod, unable to muster up a response. I’m starting to regret being a part of this investigation.

“It’s good you’re here,” Milkowski says diplomatically. “We could use the help. And I agree with you about sending the body into the city. If we could get Nikki Prentice to look at it, all the better.”

“Sorry. I wasn’t trying to be disrespectful.”