Caitlin?
“Was the victim sexually assaulted?” she asked, her voice steady.
“I can’t tell. If she was, we may never know, but I think there’s a chance she might have been. I found nylon fibers from her clothing melted onto her upper torso, but none below her waist or on her legs. She might have been wearing cotton, but...” He let the thought trail. “I’ll test further, but I’d guess she was only wearing a shirt.”
“Wonderful,” Solliday muttered. “One more thing to tell her parents.”
On this they could agree. “We need to see them,” Mia murmured. “As soon as possible.” She turned away from the charred corpse and closed her eyes for the space of a deep breath. “First the parents, then the crime scene.”
Monday, November 27, 11:00 A.M.
The Burnettes lived in a tidy little house, the kind you’d expect on a cop’s salary. Pretty curtains hung from the windows and a picture of a turkey still covered the door.
Solliday parked his SUV on the street. They’d been silent the better part of the trip as Mia reviewed the notes he’d made of the Dougherty fire scene, but now Solliday’s heavy sigh cut through the silence between them. “You want to lead this?” he asked.
“Sure.” This was the kind of visit she hated most, the kind that made her feel most inept.
I miss Abe.
Her partner always seemed to know what to say to grieving parents. “This could have been a grudge kill or a random stalking. But -Caitlin could have been involved in something. We’ll need to explore possibilities no parent wants to consider.”
“I know,” he said grimly. He wasn’t looking forward to this any more than she was. Mentally she’d reevaluated Reed Solliday. Having made his point, he hadn’t belabored it, instead giving her quiet on the drive over. It allowed her to settle her mind and consider the morning from his point of view. He’d been polite, compassionate. Generous, even. Had circumstances been reversed, she might not have been as nice.
The notes she’d reviewed were concise, his handwriting square and neat. She glanced at his crisply knotted tie and the clean lines of the thin goatee that framed his mouth. His shoes were buffed to a shine. Square and neat. That about summed him up.
But something inside her balked at dismissing him so easily. There was more to this man than met the eye, although what met the eye was really quite nice. He’d given her his umbrella when he thought she was in need. It was... sweet. Unsettled, she focused on his notes. “Three points of origin?”
“Kitchen, bedroom, and living room,” he confirmed. “He meant that house to burn.”
“And for Caitlin’s body to be destroyed.” She slid from the SUV. “I hate these visits.”
“Me, too.”
Fire marshals had to pay these kinds of visits, too. She’d never given it that much thought before. Then again, who knew which was worse—telling a parent their child had been murdered or that they’d died in a fire so severe that their body was no longer recognizable? Either way, it was the part of the job that sucked the very most.
Mia rapped on the door. The blue curtains parted and a pair of eyes peeked out at them, widening when Mia showed her shield. In a few seconds the door opened and a woman in her late forties stood before them, her face already showing signs of panic.
She was small, like the body on the table. “Are you Mrs. Ellen Burnette?”
“Yes.” She turned. “Roger! Roger, come here. Please.”
A burly man appeared in his bare feet, his eyes flickering in fear. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m Detective Mitchell and this is Lieutenant Solliday. May we come in?”
Wordlessly Mrs. Burnette led them into the living room and lowered herself to the sofa. Her husband stood behind her, his hands on her shoulders.
Mia sat down on the edge of a chair. “We’re here about Caitlin.”
Ellen Burnette flinched as if she’d been slapped. “Oh God.”
Roger Burnette’s hands clenched.
“Was the victim sexually assaulted?” she asked, her voice steady.
“I can’t tell. If she was, we may never know, but I think there’s a chance she might have been. I found nylon fibers from her clothing melted onto her upper torso, but none below her waist or on her legs. She might have been wearing cotton, but...” He let the thought trail. “I’ll test further, but I’d guess she was only wearing a shirt.”
“Wonderful,” Solliday muttered. “One more thing to tell her parents.”
On this they could agree. “We need to see them,” Mia murmured. “As soon as possible.” She turned away from the charred corpse and closed her eyes for the space of a deep breath. “First the parents, then the crime scene.”
Monday, November 27, 11:00 A.M.
The Burnettes lived in a tidy little house, the kind you’d expect on a cop’s salary. Pretty curtains hung from the windows and a picture of a turkey still covered the door.
Solliday parked his SUV on the street. They’d been silent the better part of the trip as Mia reviewed the notes he’d made of the Dougherty fire scene, but now Solliday’s heavy sigh cut through the silence between them. “You want to lead this?” he asked.
“Sure.” This was the kind of visit she hated most, the kind that made her feel most inept.
I miss Abe.
Her partner always seemed to know what to say to grieving parents. “This could have been a grudge kill or a random stalking. But -Caitlin could have been involved in something. We’ll need to explore possibilities no parent wants to consider.”
“I know,” he said grimly. He wasn’t looking forward to this any more than she was. Mentally she’d reevaluated Reed Solliday. Having made his point, he hadn’t belabored it, instead giving her quiet on the drive over. It allowed her to settle her mind and consider the morning from his point of view. He’d been polite, compassionate. Generous, even. Had circumstances been reversed, she might not have been as nice.
The notes she’d reviewed were concise, his handwriting square and neat. She glanced at his crisply knotted tie and the clean lines of the thin goatee that framed his mouth. His shoes were buffed to a shine. Square and neat. That about summed him up.
But something inside her balked at dismissing him so easily. There was more to this man than met the eye, although what met the eye was really quite nice. He’d given her his umbrella when he thought she was in need. It was... sweet. Unsettled, she focused on his notes. “Three points of origin?”
“Kitchen, bedroom, and living room,” he confirmed. “He meant that house to burn.”
“And for Caitlin’s body to be destroyed.” She slid from the SUV. “I hate these visits.”
“Me, too.”
Fire marshals had to pay these kinds of visits, too. She’d never given it that much thought before. Then again, who knew which was worse—telling a parent their child had been murdered or that they’d died in a fire so severe that their body was no longer recognizable? Either way, it was the part of the job that sucked the very most.
Mia rapped on the door. The blue curtains parted and a pair of eyes peeked out at them, widening when Mia showed her shield. In a few seconds the door opened and a woman in her late forties stood before them, her face already showing signs of panic.
She was small, like the body on the table. “Are you Mrs. Ellen Burnette?”
“Yes.” She turned. “Roger! Roger, come here. Please.”
A burly man appeared in his bare feet, his eyes flickering in fear. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m Detective Mitchell and this is Lieutenant Solliday. May we come in?”
Wordlessly Mrs. Burnette led them into the living room and lowered herself to the sofa. Her husband stood behind her, his hands on her shoulders.
Mia sat down on the edge of a chair. “We’re here about Caitlin.”
Ellen Burnette flinched as if she’d been slapped. “Oh God.”
Roger Burnette’s hands clenched.
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