The Last Sister (Columbia River)(71)

“Four copied original films at the top, and the four I took at the bottom. Film images versus digital images again, so mine will be grainy.” She picked up a pencil and pointed at a tooth on a lower X-ray, outlining a small shape. “Can you see the filling here?”

He could. It was whiter than the rest of the tooth. Automatically he checked the coordinating film above it. The same exact shape appeared in that tooth.

“It’s the same as the film from the state police.”

“Yes. And here is the other one.” Her pencil tapped the odd shape of another, whiter filling.

He compared it to the film above it. “But it doesn’t match the original X-ray.”

“Correct.”

“Why not?”

“She had the filling placed after the dentist took the films.”

“But you can’t know for certain. Doesn’t this bring everything into doubt?”

“It doesn’t.” She touched the state police’s film with a pencil and moved her phone in close to the film. “You probably can’t see this, but she has a cavity in this tooth. The dentist would have filled the cavity after diagnosing it on the films he took.

“A virgin tooth can acquire a filling. But you can’t return a tooth to its virgin state or make a filling disappear—there will always be something in that tooth once it has been worked on. It can be a bigger filling or a crown, or the tooth might have been removed.

“There are many other things that match up in the films. Bone levels, root shapes, sinuses. But the fillings and wisdom teeth confirm it for me. Teeth shape and positions are unique. You won’t find the same dentition in two people.”

“What if they’ve had braces?”

“The tooth positions and angles will be different, but the fillings and tooth shapes will be the same.”

He mulled it over.

Lacey appeared on his screen again. “Trust me. I can’t explain everything I learned in four years of dental school and ten years of practice in this call.”

She was right.

“I believe you. The missing filling made me doubt for a moment.”

“Good. I’m glad we identified her. Her family has been waiting a long time.”

“Did Dr. Peres find a cause of death?”

Lacey looked grim. “No. That’s common when the remains are completely skeletal. I’m sure you’ll have a report from her tomorrow. I’ll email my findings later tonight.”

Zander thanked her again and ended the call.

Cynthia Green. Nineteen-year-old African American woman. Missing twenty years.

What happened to you?

Vanished two weeks before Emily’s father was hanged.

She’d disappeared from the coast and turned up miles away in the forest. How?

It bothered him. In his short time on the northern coast of Oregon, he’d learned there usually wasn’t a lot of violent crime. Two incidents so close together made his senses tingle.

Zander checked the time. It was late, but he suspected he could reach his contact at the prison.

He needed a favor.





29

Zander studied his computer monitor early the next morning, waiting for the start of the video interview with Chet Carlson, the convicted killer of Emily’s father, from the state prison.

Chet shuffled into the frame and sat down.

He looked like a murderer.

If Chet had been cast in a movie, the audience would know he was the killer the moment he appeared on-screen.

He was big, intimidatingly big, with hands that appeared to be twice the size of Zander’s. The shaved head and neatly trimmed goatee enhanced the stereotype.

Chet studied Zander on his screen as a guard chained his hands to the bar in the table. His weight was on his forearms as he leaned on the table, curiosity on his face.

According to Zander’s research, Chet Carlson had lived at a dozen addresses before he was arrested in Astoria for Lincoln Mills’s murder. He was a wanderer, never in one place for very long, with a lengthy record of arrests for vagrancy, theft, and DUI. He’d been using a suspended driver’s license when he was arrested.

Zander introduced himself. “I have some questions about Lincoln Mills.”

“That was a long time ago.”

“It was.”

“What is the point of revisiting it now?” Chet spread his hands as far as the chains would let him, the restraints clinking. “I’m here. Lincoln’s dead. End of story.”

Zander had expected a low, rough voice to emerge from the large man, but instead Chet spoke in mellow tones. Not feminine, but serene and calming, as if he were settling a wild animal. Or an overstimulated toddler.

“Everything I read says you claim you didn’t kill him.”

“That is correct.”

“But you pled guilty to murder.”

“Also correct.” Indifference came through Zander’s monitor.

Zander considered the man. “Explain.”

Chet shrugged and averted his gaze.

“Did you kill Lincoln Mills?”

Chet picked at a notch in the tabletop. “It doesn’t matter now.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t have proof I didn’t do it.”

“Lincoln’s bloody jacket was found in your motel room.”