“Hmm.”
Kira went over to the coffeepot. She poured two mugs of fresh brew. It was the second pot she’d put on since coming into the office at 6:00 a.m. It was now almost 9:00 a.m.
“What did the anthropologist say?” Ricky said as she brought the two mugs over to his desk.
“Left foot bones of a three-or four-year-old child. No sign that it was removed by mechanical means—no tool marks like a knife or a saw.” She set Ricky’s mug down beside him. “Grave wax makes it tough to tell how long the foot has been out there, but the CBC news appears to have been on the mark with the manufacture period for that brand of shoe.” She sipped from her mug, watching Ricky’s bank of monitors. “That ROOAirPocket-Zero high-top model was produced only between 1984 and 1986 before it was discontinued.”
“Doesn’t mean the kid went into the water then,” Ricky said, reaching for his mug.
“No.” Kira took another sip and nodded toward the monitors. “I met a cop the other night who still thinks this GIS stuff is a crock. He figures there’s not much more you can do with GIS that he can’t do with a big ol’ map and pushpins. He said smart cops have been doing the pushpin thing for years—they figure out patterns in their brains.”
“Luddite.” Ricky set his mug back down beside him without taking his eyes off his work. “Old-school law enforcement said the same thing about Vancouver cop Kim Rossmo. He went on to become the first officer in Canada to obtain a doctorate in criminology, and his dissertation resulted in the geographic profiling methodology and software now being used by the FBI.”
“Yeah, I told him. I also explained that if a plane crashes and there’re no bodies found, but we know that there were passengers and a pilot on that plane, our system keeps track of that, too. If a foot washes up fifteen years down the road, or a piece of finger bone is found in fishnet a decade later, we’re going to be able to tell right away if it came from that crash. Just like that body that was pulled from the Fraser River in Coquitlam a quarter century ago,” she said, taking another sip. “It was identified as a Prince George man whose corpse floated downstream nearly eight hundred kilometers. No one had even thought to look for a match against missing males that far north—investigators were shocked.”
Ricky froze. “Shit,” he muttered. He leaned forward sharply, hitting his keys. “We got it. We got a cold fucking hit!”
Chills raced down her spine as she peered over his shoulder. “Holy—” She grabbed the phone on the desk, hit the number for the head of the IDRU. “Dr. Colbourne, you’re going to want to see this. We got a direct cold hit on the kid’s foot.” She spoke fast, her gaze riveted on the information being displayed on Ricky’s monitor. “And the person is not missing.” She paused as new information populated Ricky’s screen. “Not deceased, either. She’s very much alive.”
CHAPTER 16
Maddocks received the call at 8:18 a.m. Thursday—one of the barcode girls had agreed to speak to him. She appeared to understand some English and had indicated to their victim services counselor that she was Russian. Maddocks had immediately contacted a female interpreter and arranged for her to meet him at the hospital where the girls were being held. He and Holgersen had driven over, stat.
Maddocks and Holgersen now strode alongside the victim services counselor and the interpreter toward the room in the wing where the girls were being treated.
“She’s the oldest one?” Maddocks asked, thinking of the girl who’d been poking at her plate of food while the others sat listless.
“She appears to be,” the counselor said, leading the way. “And she’s definitely the strongest mentally.” She came up to a closed door, stopped, and turned to face the detectives and interpreter. “She’s waiting inside with a female orderly. I’ll sit in on the interview. The orderly will not. If at any time I feel that our survivor is coming under stress, I will call the interview to a halt. Is that understood?”
“Loud and clear,” said Maddocks.
She hesitated. “Possibly two males interrogating her might be too much.”
Maddocks turned to Holgersen. “Why don’t you go hang in the cafeteria until I need you?”
“Anything you says, boss.” He turned and loped away, fiddling in his jacket for his nicotine gum as he went. Maddocks inhaled, mentally preparing himself, striving for a calm, nonthreatening demeanor from the outset. Ideally, he’d have liked to have had Angie conducting this interview. But there were no other females on the task force right now who were qualified to handle this delicate situation, and the last thing Maddocks wanted was to wait and have their victim to clam up again.
The counselor reached for the door handle but paused once more. “She’s still twitchy—still being weaned off the narcotics they were giving her.”
“Understood,” said Maddocks.
They entered. The girl sat with a nurse at a small round table under a long window that cast them in a wintery light. It was the one who’d been poking at her food. Her dark hair was once again scraped back. No makeup. Today she wore a simple gray hoodie over a white T-shirt, yoga pants, and slippers that someone must have brought for her. Maddocks felt a clutch in his chest—in this light she looked much younger than his Ginny. Barely sixteen. That she was the oldest of the six sliced even deeper.
The nurse placed her hand over the girl’s and then got up and left the room. The interpreter took the nurse’s seat and introduced herself to the girl in Russian, explaining why they were here.
Maddocks placed his file and notebook on the table. “I’m Detective James Maddocks,” he said. “Do you mind if I remove my jacket and take a seat?”
The interpreter relayed his words in Russian.
The girl nodded. Her hooded black eyes flicked nervously around the room, and she fidgeted with her nails in her lap. They were chewed to the quick. Visible around the thin column of her neck were fading bruises. A taste of bile rose up the back of his throat as he recalled his interview with Zaedeen Camus.
What do these tattoos denote? Expiry date? Ownership?
Ownership. The origin and age of the merchandise. And the date a girl was first put into service. The tattoos have been scanned into a computerized database for tracking. The girls go out for a fee, generally for a period of two years. They can be returned for new ones after that period, if so desired.
He draped his jacket carefully over the back of the chair and seated himself. “You’re a long way from home,” he said.
Again, the translator conveyed his words.
The girl nodded.
Maddocks said, “I want you to know that you can stop talking whenever you want to, okay? Just let me know. You can raise your hand like this.” He raised his hand, palm facing the girl.
She listened to the interpreter, then nodded.
“Are you okay that we record this interview?”