The reporter walked back to Josh and stood next to him. Facing both Kerry and Hunter, she began the interview.
“Detective Markham, you’ve brought in Dr. Herlihy, a forensic anthropologist, to reconstruct the face of one of your Jane Doe victims. Why? Couldn’t you have identified her some other way?”
“We’re running some tests in the lab on evidence we found at the crime scene, but so far haven’t much to go on.”
“And Dr. Herlihy’s model will help?”
“We hoped by creating a visual, such as the recreation, a relative or friend might identify this woman sooner than we could.”
“Could you state the victim’s age and nationality?”
Hunter nodded to Kerry. Here goes. “From her facial structure, we believe she’s African American, though the bone density scan indicates a mix of white European.”
“Were you able to determine how old she was?”
“She’s most likely between twenty-five to thirty-five.”
Liz’s expression didn’t change. “Can you tell how she died?”
Kerry spent about a minute discussing the woman’s injuries. Because the interview was being taped, Kerry bet her boring explanation would land on the cutting room floor.
Liz Culbertson asked Hunter a few more questions, then had the cameraman shut off his equipment. “We’ll have the detective’s telephone number appear on the screen after the story airs.”
The reporter and her cameraman disappeared as quick as they had arrived. Now that the drama was over, Kerry smiled at Hunter. “That wasn’t as bad as I’d thought.”
Hunter unbuttoned the top button of his uniform. “I can’t wait to get out of this monkey suit.” Only now did he look uncomfortable.
“I appreciate you setting up this interview. I think we’ll reach a wider audience when the video appears on the evening news,” she said.
“Let’s hope.”
Hunter said nothing more as he escorted her to her car. She could have found her way herself, but she was thankful he wanted to walk her out. They were a team, both focused on finding the identity of the victim.
“So now what?” she asked.
“We wait and we pray.”
No way. The victims’ families had waited long enough. She planned to begin work on the other women, and then she’d pray someone identified the poor soul.
“You looked as pretty as your mother,” Grandpa said, as he clicked off the six o-clock news. He grabbed his beer off the coffee table and took a drink.
“I wouldn’t go that far, but thank you.”
Her mom. Now there was a unique woman. She would disappear for weeks to audition for the perfect movie role and leave seven-year old Kerry in the hands of her thirteen-year old sister. Too bad Susan often played hide and seek and left Kerry to fend for herself.
She’d loved her mom despite the fact the woman wasn’t capable of keeping a husband around for long. Kerry definitely missed having supportive parents.
“You came off as very professional,” he said.
A high compliment indeed. “You couldn’t tell I was shaking?”
“You looked cool and calm to me.”
Hunter Markum had been the cool one. “Thanks.” Kerry stood. “I need to fix dinner before the poker boys come over.”
As she made her way into the kitchen, the phone rang. “I’ll get it,” she yelled back to the living room. “Hello?”
“Is this Dr. Herlihy?”
“Yes.” It wasn’t Hunter.
“I saw the news tonight.”
Her pulse shot up to over a hundred. Had someone recognized the woman? “Yes?”
“You didn’t get the chin right, and her cheekbones were more refined than you made them.”
“You know this woman?” Kerry gripped the phone. The man should be thanking her for finding his wife, or daughter, not chastising her for sculpting the face incorrectly. “Who was she? And what’s your name?”
“Next time, pay more attention to the details.”
Then he hung up.
8
“Stupid bitch.” News Channel 8 shouldn’t have aired that shit.
Who did Dr. Herlihy think she was trying to ape such a fine creation? She screwed up the shape of Tameka’s ears and the fullness of her lips, not to mention the cheek line was all wrong. Tameka’s face had been beaten so many times, her cheeks had sunken.
And I fixed her. Made her beautiful.
Then Tameka’s stupid boyfriend had to mess with her face again. Christ. Why couldn’t the woman listen to good advice and leave the prick?
And to think Tameka planned on bringing a baby into the world. Bitch deserved to die. It’s my duty to keep unborn children away from harm.
If Tameka had realized how abuse destroyed self-confidence, ruined children’s lives, and caused so much pain, she’d never have stayed with Jamal.
Like dad’s abuse did to me.
Maybe worse than the actual abuse was the fact Mom knew what Dad was doing and refused to leave the SOB. Where would we go, she’d cry? Who would pay for food?
Fathers were supposed to discipline their children. Fine, but did it have to include punches, belts, and dark closets?
And Roger. As the older brother, he should have been the protector. Instead, he escaped. He’d never given a warning to stay hidden when Dad went on one of his rampages either. But Roger had gotten his due from his own son. Ha. Served him right. Fathers should know better than to treat their sons like dirt.
Just as sure as there were more abusive assholes like Dad, there would also be more women and children who needed to be saved. Unfortunately, now that the cops had found the gravesite, disposing of more bodies just got harder.
Thank God, he’d been careful and so far, and no one had been able to identify the victims or connect them to him.
If anyone did figure out who they were, that someone would have to die.
Her mind reeling, Kerry dropped the phone onto the cradle. Her legs weakened and her hands shook. She couldn’t process the conversation. She had to call him back.
Heart racing, she sat down at the kitchen table and punched *69 to redial his number. The call wouldn’t go through. Dammit. Maybe that didn’t work with cell phone. Shit. She had no idea.
Grandpa entered the kitchen. “Was that David?”
When she didn’t answer, he shuffled over to the table and eased down onto the chair across from her. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Tell me what happened.” He reached out and took her hand. His dry palm was warm and comforting.
Kerry detailed the strange conversation.
“And he didn’t tell you the name of the victim?”
“No. He was angry I’d gotten some of the features wrong. That’s all.”
Grandpa scratched his chin. “If he recognized the victim enough to know what you’d done wrong, you must have had quite a bit about her correct.”
That gave her some consolation. “True, but without a name, what good does it do?” Kerry slipped her fingers from his, closed her eyes, and ran her hands down her face. “Why wouldn’t he tell me her name?”
“I have no idea. Maybe you should call your detective.”
Hardly her detective. Her heart pounded. “You’re right. Maybe he can trace the call.”
“Plus, the man knew our number. The only one given out on television was the detective’s I believe.”
The ramification hit her. “Ohmigod. You’re right. How did he get our number? Our last names are different. There’s no way he could know I’m staying with you.”
“That’s why you need to find out. Call the detective.”
How could Grandpa remain so composed when she was about to have a nervous breakdown? Kerry jumped up from the table and paced, needing to release her anxiety. Buster raced in and began barking.
“Stop that noise. Come here.” Grandpa bent and picked up the dog who immediately licked his face.
Seeing the two act so normal together eased her fear a bit. Kerry stepped to the fridge and poured a glass of diet Coke from the near empty quart bottle. Her hand shook so much, she spilled some of the drink onto the floor. Get a grip. She grabbed a rag and cleaned up the mess.
“I thought you were going to call,” Grandpa said. Now he sounded annoyed.
“I am.”