“Prior to the IDRU, things were handled piecemeal with individual police departments doing their own thing. However, in order for the IDRU to be able to investigate, we needed information on missing persons, which of course falls under police mandate and not the Coroner’s Service mandate. So the IDRU came up with a system—our office sends out MPQs, or missing persons query forms, to various police agencies. Officers will then dig up old files—cold cases, missing persons reports on anything from newborns to seniors—and they’ll fill in the forms providing us details like name, height, weight, possible tattoos, information from dental records, DNA profiles, and any other pertinent information. It all goes into our GIS database. It’s rare for us to get a cold hit like this, but when we do, it’s a total rush.”
Angie couldn’t breathe. Her skin prickled with heat under her uniform. “Fine,” she said slowly. “I’ll provide a sample.”
Tranquada didn’t hesitate. She opened her kit, snapped gloves onto her hands, extracted the buccal swab from its sterile packaging, and came to her feet. Angie opened her mouth, her eyes on Pietrikowski as Tranquada gently rubbed and rotated a sterile swab against the inside of her cheek. Five to ten seconds. Standard timing to ensure the entire swab tip made proper contact with skin—Angie knew the drill. Except this time she was on the other side of the interview table. Sitting in her rookie uniform.
“I half wondered if we might find you wearing a prosthesis,” Tranquada said as she extracted the buccal swab from Angie’s mouth, careful not to touch it to her lips, teeth, or any other surface in the process. She inserted the swab into a dry collection envelope and sealed it. “I figured maybe you’d lost your leg as a child in some freak event—like a boating accident or a plane that went down into the water, and the foot finally floated free of the wreckage.”
Angie wiped her hand over her lips. They’d gone dry. “Any idea how long that foot has been in the water?” she said.
“Hard to say given the formation of adipocere. It’s—”
“I know what adipocere it is.”
Tranquada nodded. “Well, it helped preserve the DNA, but it makes it hard for our anthropologist to gauge time in water from the bones. That girls’ shoe model, however, was manufactured only between 1984 and 1986. It’s possible it’s been in water all this time.”
“Age of the child?”
“Around four. No tool marks or any signs of mechanical removal.”
Angie rubbed her brow. 1986. Age four. Same as her when she’d been abandoned in the cradle.
“And you’re certain you have no memory of a shoe like it?” Pietrikowski said.
“Yes,” she said quietly, struggling to reframe everything she’d just learned through this new window. “How did you connect the cradle Jane Doe’s DNA with me?”
“Detective Voight provided the details of your adoption and the identity of your adoptive parents on the MPQ,” Tranquada said.
So I’ve been sitting there in a database all this time, just waiting for a hit.
“Can you recall anything at all of your childhood prior to the cradle event?” Pietrikowski said.
Her gaze flared to the cop. “No. Nothing. I told you.”
Apart from hallucinations. A ghost girl in luminous pink. A Polish song. Strange words. It struck her suddenly like a bolt of light from the dark—Alex, her psychologist friend and old mentor from her college days, had suggested the girl in her hallucinations might be a projection of Angie herself, a subconscious attempt to recall repressed memories, her child self from the past reaching out to her adult self in the present, but . . . could it be the memory of a sibling? A little ghost girl doppelg?nger in pink reaching out for help, needing to be laid to rest properly? Needing a heinous wrong avenged?
My sister. A twin.
Angie’s heart skipped a beat at the concept. The Asian guy, Ken Lau from the Pink Pearl Chinese Kitchen—his grandmother had seen a woman with only one child on her hip. But there’d been a curtain obscuring the bottom half of the woman. What if the young woman in the snow had been holding the hand of another little girl as they’d fled across the road?
Ah-ah-ah . . . two little kittens . . . there were once two little kittens.
Uciekaj, uciekaj! . . . Run, run!
Wskakuj do srodka, szybko . . . get inside.
Screams.
Angie struggled against a sudden urge to throw up.
“Have you attempted to search for your biological parents, Ms. Pallorino? Ever been contacted by a biological family member?”
“I only learned that I was the cradle child a few weeks ago,” Angie said. “I’ve never been contacted, and I’ve only just started my own search for my biological parents.”
“I understand from Detective Voight’s widow that you’ve taken possession of the angel’s cradle case files along with the evidence that Voight removed from the locker prior to scheduled destruction,” said Pietrikowski.
Something inside Angie went stone still. Her gaze snapped back to his. “That’s correct. I took my case files.”
“The RCMP requests that your transfer those files and evidence to us. We’re reopening the cradle case in conjunction with the discovery of the child’s foot because of the DNA match.”
Adrenaline, conflict whipped through Angie. Yes, she wanted her investigation reopened. She wanted the full resources of the RCMP thrown at the floating foot case. And her own. But she also didn’t want her personal inquiry to be cut off at the knees. She could not handle being completely disempowered. Not now. She regarded Officer Pietrikowski, taking in his cold, classic cop demeanor. His overt lack of emotion and empathy.
“I’d like to be involved in that investigation,” she said.
His gaze touched quickly on her uniform, then returned to her eyes.
“I’m a detective,” she said. “I’m with MVPD sex crimes. I’m just wearing this uniform temporarily.” And she hated herself instantly for having stooped to explain her predicament to this cop.
“It’s an RCMP investigation at this point, ma’am. As the victim, we will keep you apprised of—”
“I am not a victim.” She leaned forward, gaze drilling into his. “Let’s get that one thing straight, Officer Pietrikowski. I’m a survivor. That’s special victims one-oh-one.” She paused, waited for him to blink. “You don’t call them victims to their face. You don’t give them the burden of that label. Then again, you’ve probably never worked sex crimes or with special victims, have you?”
He repositioned himself in his chair. Tranquada remained motionless. The Mountie held Angie’s gaze, then reached into his pocket, taking out a card. “As I said, the RCMP will keep you apprised of any developments. And the IDRU will let you know the results of the buccal swab in about four to five days. Feel free to call me if you have questions or if you remember anything from the cradle event or your childhood prior to that.” He pushed his card across the table toward Angie. “When I have further questions, I will be in contact. Now, if you could hand those case files and evidence over, Ms. Tranquada and I could potentially head back to the Lower Mainland before the last ferry leaves.”
“The file boxes are not on these premises,” Angie said, coming to her feet. “And I need to return to my workstation. I could possibly have them here for pickup in the next few days.” Urgency crackled through her. How long could she stall this Mountie? Long enough for Anders Forensics to complete the tests?
“I can come by your residence this evening.” Pietrikowski closed his file and stood up.