When You See Me (Detective D.D. Warren #11)(15)

“Once we had a name, I requested Lilah’s full case file, including medical records. I found a notation regarding a fractured left humerus, which I was able to match with a healed fracture in the same place on the remains.”

“In other words, you’re certain this is her,” D.D. states.

“As certain as it gets in this kind of work.”

“But you don’t have a cause of death?”

“The remains were discovered fully skeletonized. Unfortunately, there are many CODs that bear no impact on bones. Asphyxiation. Drug overdose. Poisoning. Even exsanguination. As long as the blade didn’t hit bone upon entry, there would be no indicator of the initial wound, or the act of violence that led to death.”

“Can you tell if she was . . . tortured?” I’m not sure how to ask the question. “Signs of cutting, knife work. Maybe not major damage, but something more subtle?”

“Assuming the blade struck bone,” Dr. Jackson says, “yes, we would find evidence. And assuming we had the bone in question. Unfortunately, we’re still missing significant pieces of this skeleton. For example, most of the rib bones are still unaccounted for. At this time, there are more things I don’t know about these remains than I do.”

“Signs of sexual assault?” D.D. again.

“I would need soft tissue to make that determination.”

“But it’s possible she was kidnapped and raped?”

“Physical restraints can leave markings on a skeleton, especially if utilized long-term.” Dr. Jackson flickers a glance in my direction and I realize she knows exactly who I am. Of course she does. I rub my right hand self-consciously. I still have pale scars around both my wrists. There were times, especially in the beginning, when I struggled so hard it certainly felt as if my shackles cut to the bone.

It’s an unsettling thought. I’ve always known that Jacob lives in my head. But to think he’s still in my bones, that even if I live another fifty years, when I die and my flesh falls away, I will still be a girl who was kidnapped for four hundred and seventy-two days . . .

Keith’s fingertips whisper across my elbow. As usual, he has followed my line of thinking.

“What about fingertips?” I hear myself ask. “Any evidence of trauma?” Say, endless months clawing against the locked lid of a coffin-sized box?

“I have no phalanges for analysis. Small bones are the first to be snatched by predators. Some might be tucked away in nearby animal dens.”

“That’ll be a fun search effort,” D.D. mutters.

Dr. Jackson shrugs. “You want more information, bring me more bones. As it is, I was able to run tests on lipid degradation in the right tibia’s bone marrow to estimate a postmortem interval of fifteen years.”

“She died fifteen years ago?” I ask uncertainly.

Keith chimes in, “Lipid degradation?”

“It’s a fairly new analysis for establishing time of death in fully skeletonized remains. We know lipids remain in bone marrow for decades. So after taking a biopsy of the marrow—a bone plug removed from the tibia—I analyze it using a high-resolution mass spectrometer to determine the amount of lipid breakdown. The result: I can say with some degree of certainty this girl died fifteen years ago. Can I state she was buried then, as well? No. But given the condition of the bones, that’s a fairly safe assumption.”

I nod slowly, then return to studying Lilah Abenito’s reconstructed face.

If what Dr. Jackson is saying is true, then Lilah Abenito was dead before I ever headed off to college, danced naively on a Florida beach, and woke up screaming in a pine box. But I feel a connection to her. Whether we have all the answers or not, I already imagine she gazed into Jacob’s leering face, flinched at the feel of his greasy fingers, recoiled at the stench of his body.

The room is closing in on me. I curl my fingers into fists, force myself to focus. They’re looking at me. Dr. Jackson, D.D., Keith. Waiting for me to cry, to break down, to scream wildly—something.

But I don’t want their pity.

And I won’t give Jacob the satisfaction.

“What can you tell us to help us find more of the remains?” I ask Dr. Jackson.

“Dogs,” she states immediately. “I have a lab filled with millions of dollars’ worth of equipment, and I can tell you none of it works as well as a good dog’s nose. I’ve witnessed canines hitting on hundred-year-old remains. What they even smell, none of us can tell you. At that point, there’s no organic matter left; the bone is little more than a dried sponge. But the dogs always know.”

“Approximate search area?” Keith asks.

She shakes her head. “Impossible to tell. The search bias is to head downhill, as it’s easier to walk. When looking for a skull, which rolls, that might help. But we have the skull. We need vertebrae, ribs, phalanges, and plenty of animals head up to stash their treasures, not down.”

“In other words, hike up.” D.D. sighs.

“I’ve found bones in hollow trees,” Dr. Jackson offers. “A decaying log makes a great den for all sorts of small animals, which is what you want to be looking for.”

D.D. frowns. “What do you do, knock on surrounding trees or something?”

“Exactly.”

D.D.’s eyes widen.