from the central hall.
“Two bedrooms and a sort of alcove.”
“I was asking if the mother was upstairs.”
“You didn’t see her? EMT has Brandi Henegar outside in one of their trucks.” Merl lowered her voice. “The woman is totally destroyed. They’ve got her sedated, something quick-acting. I saw her fade out. I mean, my God, can you imagine?”
Remington turned toward the stairs.
Merl laid a hand on her arm. “Is what I heard right? You spoke to the mother tonight? At the D.A.’s missing-persons thing?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, you must have impressed her, because in between her bouts of hysteria she kept asking for you.”
Remington nodded. She wanted to get away from the talky lieutenant. As she climbed the carpeted steps to the second floor, she heard chatter from a trio of uniformed deputies gathered in the upstairs hall.
“The good news is your daughter’s back home, the bad news—”
The deputy who spoke, Chuck Santore, cut himself off as soon as he saw Remington, but his buddies were already laughing.
“You three, out,” Remington said.
“Detective—” Santore began.
She held up her hand. “Relieve the watch at the end of Border Drive.”
“Aw, come on! It was only…”
Remington looked back to check with Lieutenant Merl. “Okay? These guys are eighty-sixed from the scene.”
Merl shrugged her assent, and Remington continued into the hall. It ended at an expansive bay window that looked out on a darkened backyard. To her left was the alcove, small and well cluttered. Farther on to the left was an open door, and to the immediate right another one that led into a bedroom.
She lingered in that right-hand doorway. Wall posters revealed a teenager’s lair. The forensic technician, Bell Kelly, wearing Tyvek and a respirator, puffed out sprays of graphite fingerprint powder from a small rubber bulb, working along a window frame of stained-and-varnished wood.
Six people, all men, three in uniform and three in plainclothes, gathered around the queen-size bed in the middle of the room. None of them wore hazmat, but all had gloved up. Two of them knelt, and the other four stood.
“Detective.” Deputy Sergeant Johnny Velske was senior among the uniforms around the bed, and he backed away to make space for Remington. The mood in the bedroom was more hushed than it had been downstairs or outside. They were in the presence of the dead, after all.
“The mother asked for you,” Velske informed Remington, making it sound like an indictment.
She nodded her reply. She recognized one of the kneeling men as Neal Kropper, a field pathologist from the county coroner’s office.
“He just got here,” Velske told her. “First responders pronounced death at twenty-two hundred hours.”
The corpse of sixteen-year-old Merilee Henegar lay as if asleep. Her pillowed head was turned away from Remington, facing toward the back of the house. A spill of black hair showed against the crisp white linen of the bedclothes.
Somebody tucked her in,
Remington thought.
“What about this one, Johnny?” Remington kept her voice low, whispering to Velske. “Is she worth it?”
The ripe smell of death wafted up from the bed. It was faint, but it was there. Why the rot of human flesh was ever described as “sweet” or “sugary,” Remington could not understand. To her, it always smelled bitter. Soon enough, she knew, the insect swarms would heed the siren call of decay, the blowflies and bottle flies and parasitic wasps. It was time to get the body into a climate-controlled pathology lab.
Kropper used some sort of metal wand—a gun-cleaning instrument?—to carefully, slowly, tenderly clear the sweep of hair that concealed the neck of the dead girl.
“As I thought,” the pathologist said. “Do you see?”
From where Remington stood she couldn’t see a thing. Kropper shined a pocket-size flashlight into the shadowed cavity where the blanket covered flesh.
“Some sort of ligature mark there,”
“Two bedrooms and a sort of alcove.”
“I was asking if the mother was upstairs.”
“You didn’t see her? EMT has Brandi Henegar outside in one of their trucks.” Merl lowered her voice. “The woman is totally destroyed. They’ve got her sedated, something quick-acting. I saw her fade out. I mean, my God, can you imagine?”
Remington turned toward the stairs.
Merl laid a hand on her arm. “Is what I heard right? You spoke to the mother tonight? At the D.A.’s missing-persons thing?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, you must have impressed her, because in between her bouts of hysteria she kept asking for you.”
Remington nodded. She wanted to get away from the talky lieutenant. As she climbed the carpeted steps to the second floor, she heard chatter from a trio of uniformed deputies gathered in the upstairs hall.
“The good news is your daughter’s back home, the bad news—”
The deputy who spoke, Chuck Santore, cut himself off as soon as he saw Remington, but his buddies were already laughing.
“You three, out,” Remington said.
“Detective—” Santore began.
She held up her hand. “Relieve the watch at the end of Border Drive.”
“Aw, come on! It was only…”
Remington looked back to check with Lieutenant Merl. “Okay? These guys are eighty-sixed from the scene.”
Merl shrugged her assent, and Remington continued into the hall. It ended at an expansive bay window that looked out on a darkened backyard. To her left was the alcove, small and well cluttered. Farther on to the left was an open door, and to the immediate right another one that led into a bedroom.
She lingered in that right-hand doorway. Wall posters revealed a teenager’s lair. The forensic technician, Bell Kelly, wearing Tyvek and a respirator, puffed out sprays of graphite fingerprint powder from a small rubber bulb, working along a window frame of stained-and-varnished wood.
Six people, all men, three in uniform and three in plainclothes, gathered around the queen-size bed in the middle of the room. None of them wore hazmat, but all had gloved up. Two of them knelt, and the other four stood.
“Detective.” Deputy Sergeant Johnny Velske was senior among the uniforms around the bed, and he backed away to make space for Remington. The mood in the bedroom was more hushed than it had been downstairs or outside. They were in the presence of the dead, after all.
“The mother asked for you,” Velske informed Remington, making it sound like an indictment.
She nodded her reply. She recognized one of the kneeling men as Neal Kropper, a field pathologist from the county coroner’s office.
“He just got here,” Velske told her. “First responders pronounced death at twenty-two hundred hours.”
The corpse of sixteen-year-old Merilee Henegar lay as if asleep. Her pillowed head was turned away from Remington, facing toward the back of the house. A spill of black hair showed against the crisp white linen of the bedclothes.
Somebody tucked her in,
Remington thought.
“What about this one, Johnny?” Remington kept her voice low, whispering to Velske. “Is she worth it?”
The ripe smell of death wafted up from the bed. It was faint, but it was there. Why the rot of human flesh was ever described as “sweet” or “sugary,” Remington could not understand. To her, it always smelled bitter. Soon enough, she knew, the insect swarms would heed the siren call of decay, the blowflies and bottle flies and parasitic wasps. It was time to get the body into a climate-controlled pathology lab.
Kropper used some sort of metal wand—a gun-cleaning instrument?—to carefully, slowly, tenderly clear the sweep of hair that concealed the neck of the dead girl.
“As I thought,” the pathologist said. “Do you see?”
From where Remington stood she couldn’t see a thing. Kropper shined a pocket-size flashlight into the shadowed cavity where the blanket covered flesh.
“Some sort of ligature mark there,”
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