The Vanishing Season (The Collector #4)(74)

“Warn them?”

“If he prepared them all this way, they’re not going to find the expected rate of decomposition. Most of the graves could be expected to have only or mostly bones, but some of them—the most recent ones—will be, um . . . well, let’s say ‘fleshier’ than planned for.”

“In case you’re wondering, Kearney,” Burnside says with a sigh, “this is why we haven’t tried to steal you back.”

She gives him the evil eye. She does not, however, try to argue with him, so I’m guessing they were more grossed out by science-over-meals than we are.

Officer Todd pulls out his phone. “I’ll call the ME to come retrieve the body. Best we leave the wrapping in place, yes?”

“Yes,” Kearney replies firmly. “By measuring each layer, they can calculate a pretty close estimate of how much the wrapping retarded decay, and get a date of death from there.”

“She was barely a foot down,” I point out. “If the others were buried that shallowly, they should have been found a long time ago.”

“Maybe he panicked? Kendall’s death was unexpected; it threw off his routine. He didn’t expect to need a new Lisa for another year, and he would have left soon afterward. Kendall died significantly ahead of his schedule, so he got her in the ground as quickly as possible so he could focus on finding a new girl. Maybe he would have come back and done it properly once he had Brooklyn settled.”

“True. And if everyone’s searching the neighborhood for a missing girl, you probably don’t want to risk the neighbors seeing you digging a grave in your backyard. It would have been a huge risk to keep Brooklyn here for a whole year with everyone searching for her.”

“Think he would have broken his lease and left early?”

“Maybe. Or if he was accelerating Brooklyn’s sickness to match his usual timeline, maybe he would have kidnapped another girl before leaving.”

“Two eight-year-old blonde girls from the same area a year apart? We definitely would have figured something out then.”

My work phone buzzes, and I strip off a glove to get it out of its case, flicking the ringer back on before answering it on speaker. “Sterling.”

“It’s Gala. A girl’s body was discovered in the backyard of Davies’s Houston residence about eight years ago. It was never identified. He moved there eighteen years ago, moved away sixteen years ago. I contacted the field office; they’re pulling the medical records for both Tiffany King and Lydia Green. Tiffany went missing nineteen years ago from Seattle. Lydia is the one who went missing from Houston itself.”

“So the body is probably Tiffany. Did they say how it was found?”

“A year after Davies left, the owners he’d rented from sold the house. Six years later, the new owners sold the house. The third set of owners decided to dig out the backyard to install a swimming pool, and the body was found.”

“Any details about the body?”

“It was wrapped in plastic. The construction workers didn’t realize it was a body, apparently, so they opened it to find out what was inside. It was summer, and by the time they finished freaking out and called the cops and the cops got there . . .”

“Decomp had already accelerated beyond whatever preservations the plastic had offered,” I finish with a sigh. “They weren’t able to assess a time of death. What did the investigation look like?”

“That’s the thing: there really wasn’t one. Not much of one. The middle set of owners had a reputation for being a sort of halfway house for undocumented immigrants, so when the police found the body . . .”

“They assumed it was an immigrant child and that the parents hid the body rather than report the death and risk deportation.”

“Bingo.”

“Did they determine a cause of death?”

“No. Like I said, they weren’t looking very hard.”

“Okay. We’ve got a warning for you to pass on to the other field offices, but it’s pretty gross. You ready for it or do you want to hand the phone off?”

Officer Wayne looks startled until Kearney leans over and mutters, “Brand new analyst. We like this one. Don’t want to break her.”

Gala sighs gustily into the phone. “I have to get used to it at some point, right?”

“Atta girl.” I pass on Kearney’s caution about the decomp, and to her credit, Gala doesn’t sound like she’s going to vomit when she acknowledges it. “Is Vic nearby?”

“Umm . . . I can see him in the bullpen. Hang on.” There are muffled footsteps, the sound of blinds swaying against an opening door, and a yelled “Unit Chief Hanoverian! Call for you, sir! It’s Sterling!”

“I think my phone just blew out,” I say.

“Sorry, I forgot I was wearing the headset. Give me a second and I’ll transfer it to the speaker while he comes up.”

“Sterling?” Vic asks a moment later, huffing slightly. Vic is pretty fit for his age, but he’s not field-fit anymore. Every now and then it shows. “What have you got?”

“Kendall Braun, most likely. We need her medical records sent to the Richmond ME, Gala, while I’m thinking on it.”

“Roger that.”

“Vic, do you think it would be possible to ask Tampa and Omaha to delay executing their searches until we can get there?”