Cut and Run(53)

Hayden didn’t speak to her but watched as the tech unearthed the bones. He’d lived in a moment just like this one when Sierra had died, and though their losses were different, he seemed to understand that words, no matter how well intentioned, would fall short and ring hollow. Still, having him close was comforting. It made her feel a little less alone, less adrift in a life that now appeared to have been built on sand and lies.

Her breath caught in her throat as she watched the tech remove the top portion of the skull. The lower jaw, no longer attached by ligaments and muscle that had decomposed a long time ago, stayed anchored in the soil.

“Dr. McIntyre, would you like a closer look?” Chesterfield asked.

PJ’s information, the mug shot, and the initials on the back of the dresser were all parts of an equation that added up to the harsh fact that this skull belonged to her birth mother. This calculation could of course be proven wrong, but deep in her bones she knew it wasn’t.

That conclusion led to another argument. She was too close to this case and should not be present at the crime scene. And maybe sooner rather than later she would recuse herself, but for now, she felt an obligation to Macy, Josie, and the faceless women who’d been imprisoned in that forgotten basement cell to be here and bear witness.

“Yes, I would like a closer look,” she said. Again, Hayden didn’t speak, but she heard him shift his stance and felt the tension radiating from his body. He might not have liked her response, but he understood it enough not to challenge it.

As Chesterfield shot more photographs, Faith knelt down and held out her gloved hands, accepting the skull. Her heart raced, and she turned it around and peered into the eye sockets.

She didn’t speak until she was certain her tone and inflections were carefully under control. She pushed aside her feelings and focused on the facts. “The nasal bridge and aperture are high and slim, respectively. This suggests the victim was likely of Caucasian descent.”

“Hard to be sure with a look.” Hayden played devil’s advocate, a roll well suited for his analytical mind.

Professionally she understood it, and personally she appreciated it.

“You’re correct, Captain,” she said. “Though each race has its own unique characteristics, defining this individual’s race with a cursory glance isn’t scientifically sound. It will take more analysis in the lab to confirm the individual’s ethnic origin.”

But if he’d asked her to put money down, she’d have bet large. She ran her thumb over the brow ridge. “The bone is relatively smooth, and the brow ridge less pronounced, suggesting a female. The orbitals have a sharper ridge, which also suggests a woman. But again, the final call can’t be made until we examine the pelvis.” A female’s pelvis was broader to accommodate childbirth. And if these bones were indeed female, there could be markers on the pelvic bones that would indicate childbirth.

“Any idea about cause of death?” Hayden asked.

“There’s no damage to the skull,” she said. Head trauma would have left cracks, but if the manner of death did not impact her bones, determining cause could be difficult, if not impossible. “I’ll need the full set of remains to make a definitive statement.”

Faith handed the skull back to Chesterfield and studied the faint outlines of the bones just below the thin surface. The woman had been laid in the ground in a fetal position. Had whoever buried her been rushed? Were they stunned by her death, or had her ending been planned since the day she’d been locked in the room?

“This is going to take some time,” Hayden said. “We won’t solve any of this today.”

Pollard nodded. “We’ll be out here today and the better part of tomorrow. We’ll start sending the remains to the medical examiner’s office as soon as we excavate each site.”

“Yes, this can’t be rushed. I don’t want any potential evidence lost.” Faith rose, brushing the dust from her gloved hands. “I could stay, but you have this under control. If you need me, I’ll return to the site immediately.”

She turned from the grave, grateful not to be hovering. She yanked off her gloves and wiggled her fingers, wishing she could forget the weight of the skull in her hands.

There was never any such thing as an easy death investigation. Death, even when it was a mercy, was never stress-free. She’d learned over the years to guard her emotions. Country music, Nancy’s steady comments, and the exhaustion after a long run all kept her mind on an even keel. However, this site would require every tool in her bag of tricks.

“I’d like to show you something we found in the basement room.” Hayden’s long strides caught up to her easily as she reached the forensic van.

“What is it?” She tossed her gloves in a disposal bag.

“It’s better if you see it,” he said, giving no hint.

She braced, truly not wanting to return to that wretched prison. “Of course.”

He guided her back toward the house and up onto the porch. They each paused on the front steps and pulled on fresh gloves as well as paper booties. This house was now an active crime scene and the less contamination they brought into it, the better.

Her eyes adjusted to the interior as she followed Hayden through the house and down the basement stairs. Inside the room a light flashed as a forensic technician snapped photos.