Shelly Leal had been nurtured and loved until a maniac decided it was time she should die. And there was nothing to verify how that had happened.
“No petechiae?” I was asking about tiny red spots that appear in the eyes due to the bursting of blood vessels.
“No. Though the sclera is toast.”
“What’s that?” Slidell.
“Petechial hemorrhage is suggestive of asphyxiation,” I said.
“The lips are badly swollen and discolored, but I saw no surface or subdermal hemorrhage. No cuts or tooth impressions.”
“So, what? You thinking smothering? Strangulation?” Slidell said.
“I’m thinking I can’t determine cause of death, Detective.” Larabee’s voice carried a slight edge. He’d just dictated that conclusion.
Slidell’s cheeks reddened through the pallor. “We done here, then?”
“I’ll go over her with an ALS. Recheck the clothes. Not sure there’s much point, given the decomp, but I’ll try to get samples to send off for tox screening.”
Slidell nodded. Made a move toward the door.
“Ryan and I think we’ve found evidence of other victims.” No way I’d mention Mama.
“Yeah?” The pouchy eyes shot to Ryan. “You planning to share that?”
“We’re sharing it now.”
Slidell drew a long breath through his nose. Exhaled with a dry whistling sound. “I gotta explain this to the parents.” Flapping an arm at the table. “Ryan, you want to ride along, lay it all out on the way? Then we brief Barrow.”
“You’re the boss,” Ryan said.
When Slidell and Ryan were gone, Larabee and I got out the alternate light source kit, donned goggles, and killed the overheads. As we ran the wand over Leal’s body, I told him about Koseluk, Estrada, and Donovan. He listened without comment.
We found no latent prints, no hairs or fibers, no body fluids. No surprise but worth a shot.
Leal’s clothing hung on a rack by the side counter, stained and mud-stiffened. Yellow hooded nylon jacket, plaid shirt, red jeans, cotton panties, black and yellow Nikes, white socks.
We started with the jacket. Got nothing on the front. Flipped it.
“What’s that?” I pointed to a bat-shaped luminescence on one edge of the hood.
Larabee bent close but said nothing.
“I’ll bet the farm that’s a lip print,” I said. “Look at the shape. And the wiggly vertical stripes.”
“How’s a lip print survive a week in the elements?” Still studying the vaguely lustrous smear.
“Maybe it’s gloss? Or ChapStick?”
Our eyes met. Wordlessly, we crossed to Leal. Under our light, the bloated little lips showed not the faintest glimmer to indicate makeup or balm. Larabee wiped them and sealed the swab in a vial. “You thinking cheiloscopic ID?” Some researchers believe the patterning of a lip’s surface furrows is as unique to an individual as the lines and ridges on a fingerprint. Larabee was referring to the science of analyzing them.
“No. Well, maybe. Mostly, I’m thinking DNA. If there’s saliva and the lip print’s not hers …” I let the thought hang.
“Son of a biscuit. Could we get that lucky?” Larabee placed the jacket in an evidence bag and scribbled case info on the outside.
The rest of the clothes yielded zilch.
As Larabee and I removed our aprons, gloves, goggles, and masks, I mentioned an idea that had been percolating since I’d read Mama’s emails.
“Gower was abducted in Vermont in 2007. Nance was killed here in Charlotte in 2009. Koseluk was 2011, Estrada 2012, Donovan late 2013 or early 2014.”
“Now there’s Shelly Leal.” Larabee balled and dropped his gear into the biohazard bin. “An annual kill since the action moved to North Carolina.” The lid clanged shut. “With one gap.”
“I’m going to pull a file from 2010,” I said.
Larabee turned to me, face glum. He also remembered.
CHAPTER 11