Jeff still looked shell-shocked, as if he wasn’t totally in touch with reality. Well, at least this wouldn’t be as bad as some of the interviews she had done over the years. Sticking her microphone into the faces of grieving parents and saying, “Your son just died. How do you feel?” all the while hating herself. But give this Jeff guy a day or two, and he would probably be glad for his newfound celebrity status. After all, he hadn’t known the girl. He had never even seen her—just her hand. That was a pretty small price to pay for your fifteen minutes of fame. People would ask for his autograph, take his picture, buy him drinks. All the good stuff.
Ten minutes later, Andy gave Cassidy the go signal on the tipster’s lawn while curious neighbors gathered to watch. Jeff was starting to look a little wobbly, so Cassidy grabbed his elbow.
She said rapidly, “We are here at Forest Park where human remains have been found. It is possible that they are those of Katie Converse. And here with us to tell us what he found is runner Jeff Lowe.”
CONVERSE RESIDENCE
January 4
If anything, the crowds had grown outside the Converses’ house. And it wasn’t just the media anymore. The media circus had attracted its own onlookers, as if they hoped to see real tigers leaping through flaming hoops, or at least catch a glimpse of a weeping family member or a famous talking head. It was as big an attraction as Portland’s Peacock Lane had been only a few days before, where neighbors vied with each other for the most over-the-top Christmas lights and decorations.
As soon as Nic—accompanied by the Bureau’s victim witness specialist and a police chaplain—turned up the walk, the crowd surged forward. The three of them ignored the shouts and the clicks of hundreds of cameras.
“Why are you here?”
“Is there something new on the Katie Converse case?”
“What’s happened?”
They kept walking, never looking around. Valerie answered the bell. She was wearing a white apron and holding a potato peeler.
They did not wait for an invitation before stepping inside. Nic closed the door behind them. The vultures didn’t need to film this.
“Is your husband here?” she asked gently. “We need to talk to both of you.”
Valerie sagged against the wall. “No!” The cry was ripped from her. “No, no, no.” Instead of getting louder, her words got softer.
Wayne hurried around the corner, drying his hands on a dish towel.
Nic made herself meet their pleading eyes. “Mr. and Mrs. Converse, I’d like you to meet Denise Anderson, our victim witness specialist, and Bob Greenfield, a Portland police chaplain.” She turned to Katie’s parents. “Could we please go into the living room and sit down?”
“I’m not going anywhere until you tell me why you’re here,” Wayne said. He stood as straight as a fireplace poker, but Nic knew a single touch could knock him over. “Tell us now.”
She took a deep breath. “I’m afraid we have bad news. Human remains have been found in Forest Park. They appear to be Katie’s.”
With a wail, Valerie fell to her knees. “Did, did she suffer?” she gasped out. The potato peeler was still clasped in her hand, forgotten.
“There are no signs of a struggle.” This was true, as far as it went. But even after the oxygen was cut off, the brain still functioned for several minutes. And who was to know what those minutes were like?
“You said it appeared to be Katie,” Wayne said. He let the dish towel fall to the floor. “So you don’t know for sure.”
Opening the hall closet, he pulled out a coat. Nic saw how his shirt hung slack over his arms, how his pants sagged on his hips. He must have lost fifteen pounds in the three weeks since Katie’s disappearance.
“Maybe it’s not her. I have to see for myself. There’s probably been some mistake.”
“I’m afraid you can’t,” Denise said.
No parents should ever have to witness their child reduced to a piece of discarded carrion.
“The scene is still being investigated,” Nic said. “And then we’ll need to take the body to the medical examiners so that we can determine what happened.”
Nic would rather be dead than have to answer the next question about her own daughter. She asked, “Does Katie have any identifying marks—scars, tattoos, birthmarks, moles?”
Despite what was shown on TV or in books, in Oregon it was the medical examiner’s job to identify the body—never the family’s.
“She has a two-inch scar on her knee,” Wayne said. “Her right knee. From when she was seven and went ice skating. Why? Have you looked? I told you, it’s probably not her. That’s why I have to go. I could take one look and tell you right away that it’s not her.”
She hated having to kill his hope. “The body is dressed in the same clothing Katie was wearing. And judging by the girl’s age and the color of the hair and how long the body appears to have been there—it’s her. It’s Katie.”
Nic had a flash of Katie’s face—or what was left of it—and pushed the memory aside.
“Why are you saying all those things about scars and moles?” Still on her knees, Valerie looked up at her with desperate eyes. She was trembling, the potato peeler shaking back and forth. “We gave you her photo. You should be able to take one look at this body and know if it’s Katie’s.”