Both officers took a seat on one sofa and she chose the one across.
“It appears to be the skeletonized remains of a child,” Morgan said. “We believe the child’s age would’ve been between four to six years old at the time of death.”
Sadness pressed against her chest. She mourned for the child who had died far too young. “How intact is the skull?”
“We have it all.”
“Including the mandible?” The mandible was the lower jaw, which after decomposition became detached from the top of the skull. Animals often scavenged the remains spreading them far afield.
“Yes,” Morgan said. “The body was wrapped in a blanket and then encased in a plastic bag.”
She opened the manila folder and laid out the crime-scene pictures. In the center of the shallow hole was a black muddied plastic bag that had been sliced open like a large pod. Lining the bag was the blanket. Pink. Detective Bishop had not said pink. Seeing the pink added an element of humanity that jostled her concentration. Pink. A little girl. A chill crackled through the woman even as the cop celebrated a clean sample. It would make the work easier. “Was there any other identifying information in the bag?”
“No,” Morgan said. “Just the blanket.”
The pink blanket. “What about remnants of clothing?”
“No signs of clothes.” If the blanket had remained so should have the clothes. She’d been naked when she’d been buried.
“Okay.”
“Georgia said you used to be a forensic artist,” Morgan said. “You worked for Baltimore Police Department but you quit.”
She noted the extra emphasis on quit. “I haven’t quit. I’ve taken a six-week leave of absence.” She’d told herself the day she’d left that the break was temporary. But each day away from Baltimore took her another step away from the job. One day she might cross the thin blue line and find herself on the outside, unable to get back. She suspected this detective had already branded her as lacking. A failure.
“You drew for them,” Detective Morgan said.
“Correct.” There were still some cops who didn’t put much stock in her work, leaving her always at the ready to recite the facts about cases closed by a forensic artist. Whereas fingerprints caught criminals ten percent of the time, forensic artists had a success rate closer to thirty percent. She’d encountered skepticism in Baltimore at first, and then she’d started to work with victims, many traumatized, and painstakingly re-created the faces of their attackers. Many faces would later prove to be dead-on matches to mug shots.
“I’ve heard the stats on your kind of work,” Morgan said. “Impressive.”
His tone, bordering on boredom, stoked her temper. Who was this guy to get an attitude with her when she was doing him the favor? If not for the child, she’d have called it quits. Told him to get the hell out. “Wait until you see the sketch I draw for you. You’ll be impressed.” Yeah, she was letting her annoyance get the better of her. But she’d be damned if she’d let this guy judge her or her work.
“You can give this victim a face?” Detective Bishop asked.
“Yes.” She sat back, confident in her skills. “You aren’t from around here?”
Bishop shrugged. “Boston. But I been here ten years.”
A challenge underscored the last two words. Still an outsider. “What brought you to Nashville?”
Bishop’s brow arched. “I could ask you the same.”
A smile tweaked the edge of her lips at the dodge. “I heard good things.”
“Me too.” Bishop leaned back on the couch and folded his arms. “We don’t have a budget.”
“That’s what Georgia said. I told her I’d donate my time.” She dropped her gaze to the photos and zeroed in on the empty eye sockets that glared up at her. Who are you?
“Why?” Rick asked.
“Why what?” Jenna asked, raising her gaze.
“Why’re you donating your services?”
Her shoulders lifted in a small shrug. “I’ve a skill.” She tapped her index finger, calloused from holding a drawing pencil for countless hours, on the photo. “I can give this child a face. Isn’t that enough?”
He studied her, shaking his head. “Just seems odd a sworn cop ends up in a bar drawing faces. Who takes that kind of path?”
She closed the file but fell short of pushing it back toward him. “I didn’t realize volunteering would come with so many questions.”
“Wouldn’t you be asking the same questions?”
“Sure. I’m on leave but I’m still a cop. Hard not to help.” And now she had the last kind of case she’d ever wanted. A lost little girl. In a pink blanket.
Detective Bishop put his hands on his thighs and pushed to his feet. “I’ve seen your work. Checked it out before we came. You’re good. Real good. And frankly I’m not worried about the whys driving you. I want this case solved.”
Jenna rose, meeting his gaze. “Me too.”
“When can you get started?” Detective Morgan stood and shifted his stance as if he was working out a painful kink in his hip.
She searched for a grain of pity but couldn’t find one. “I’ve a freelance project but I can work around it. When do you want me to start?”
“The medical examiner will have a clean sample for you by tomorrow afternoon. She said you could start any time.” Clean sample. That meant that the skull would be stripped of any remaining flesh and ready to accept the clay she’d use to create muscle and flesh.
“Tomorrow then at two at the medical examiner’s office?”
“I’ll be there.”
“You know where it is?” Detective Morgan asked.
“I can find it.” She’d have to do some figuring, but she’d not ask Detective Morgan for help. His you quit rattled in her head, making it impossible to ask him for help.
You quit.