Mandy’s body began to bloat when the icy depths of the pond began to warm. She noticed that the fringe of the unraveling nylon fabric was slightly uneven in several places.
She looked up as if to speak to someone, though no one was there.
Emily looked at the top edge of the bag and followed the lines of the machine stitching. It was clear that there was a start and stop to the seam. It wasn’t one continuous line of thread.
She dialed Chris’s number and he answered.
“Early for you, isn’t it?” after hearing her voice.
“Chris, I know it’s early,” she said, knowing he wouldn’t mind as he went running along the Seattle waterfront at 6 A.M. every morning anyway. “I’ve been down here looking at the Crawford evidence.”
“Either you’ve got insomnia or you’re overly dedicated.”
“Somewhere between the two, if you must label me. Anyway, I’m not sure what it means, but I was looking at the sleeping bag. Remember the tear on the bag?”
“Sure. I guess so.”
“It isn’t a tear. It’s a cut. Someone cut out a window of fabric.”
“I guess I’m not following, Em.”
“When you rip nylon, it is a clean tear between the threads. There’s some jaggedness here. It’s subtle, but unmistakable.”
“OK. So what you’re saying is someone cut that hole in the sleeping bag and they did it on purpose.”
“Right,” she said, “I’ll bet the killer cut the hole to remove something that pointed to him as the owner of the bag.”
“OK. So the person had their name written on the bag.”
“I doubt that,” she said. “This fabric’s too dark for someone to ink a name and address. Even the fattest Sharpie would get lost on it. And really, why would you put your name there anyway? When the bag is rolled up you couldn’t see the name and address.”
“Again, I’m not following you. Sorry, babe.”
Emily exhaled. “No worries. You haven’t seen what I’ve just seen and you’ve never sewed a stitch in your life. I have. I made most of Jenna’s Halloween costumes.” The mention of it brought a warm smile to her face. “Anyway,” she said, returning her thoughts back to Mandy and the sleeping bag, “it looks to me like the top edge was re-sewn.”
“What does that mean?”
“Not sure,” she said. “You driving or flying over?”
“I’ll be there for dinner. I’m driving.”
They exchanged their “I love yous” and Emily snapped her phone shut and signed out of the evidence room. Despite the lack of sleep, she felt energized.
Gloria Bergstrom was fixing coffee in the break room when Emily emerged from the basement. “The best little dispatcher in Cherrystone” as she called herself, was wearing a pretty black-and-white wool dress with a toffee-colored cardigan.
“You look lovely. Something special about today?” Emily said.
Gloria filled the coffee carafe with water and poured it into the coffeemaker.
“Not at all. Every now and then I dress up just to prove that I still can.” She smiled and Emily returned the favor. “Hey, you’re in mighty early today. What’s up with that?”
“Couldn’t sleep.”
“Personal or professional?”
Gloria had a knack of cutting to the chase. She knew that Emily and Chris had gone through their ups and downs. Although Emily tried to keep a reasonably tight lid on her personal life, privacy was hard to come by in a small place like Cherrystone. Besides, during those ups and downs, Emily’s mood sometimes betrayed her need to stay professionally detached from those who worked for her. Working day in and day out, Gloria, however, had become family.
“Professional, thankfully,” Emily said.
“Crawford, of course. I’ve lost sleep over that one, too.”
Emily rinsed out a mug and watched the brown stream of fresh coffee fill the carafe. She explained how’d she’d gone into the evidence vault and how she’d seen the irregularities of the tearing on the nylon sleeping bag.
“Interesting,” Gloria said, trying to mull it over, but coming up empty. “But what does it mean?”
Emily poured her coffee and looked for a package of Equal. “The only explanation I can find is that the square of fabric that’s missing once held a monogram.”
Gloria, once more, looked mystified. “A monogram? Who monograms their sleeping bags?”
Emily gave up on the Equal and poured some sugar into her black coffee.
“Someone with a big ego and too much money, that’s who.”
Recognition clicked behind Gloria’s eyes. “Mitch Crawford?”
“Seems like the type to me. I’ll dig into that some more. See what Jason can turn up with embroidery shops around here.”
Gloria smiled and let out a laugh. “Oh boy, he’ll love that one.”
Emily laughed, too. Jason had expected a lot more out of police work than running around sporting-goods stores and embroidery businesses.
“This is the kind of excitement that never makes TV,” she said, disappearing down the hallway.
Chapter Fifty-two
The invitation to be heard was almost too much. Michael Barton looked at the comment feature on Jenna Kenyon’s blog. He read what some of the other readers had to say.
Jenna! You rock! You are the most awesome consultant in the whole world. I don’t know what we would do without you and your advice!
—Cherie, BZ, Biloxi
Hey! If you ever come back to Huntsville, we have to hook up! You are smart, funny, and a blast to hang out with. Don’t forget your BZ sis Megan!
—Megan, BZ, Huntsville
I have some more ideas to brainstorm with you. I’ll send you a PowerPoint with the particulars! You know me, I love bullet points!
—Donatella, BZ, Bowling Green
Michael clicked the pencil icon that indicated he could leave a comment. A window popped open. The blank space stared at him. Yeah, he wanted to leave a comment. But what he had to say wasn’t going to be so upbeat. What he wanted to say could be traced back through his Internet provider or IP address.
He started to type.
Hi bitch! You think that you’re something pretty special, don’t you? You think that you’re so smart, talented, pretty. You’re a piece of garbage, that’s what you are. I’d like to use a dull knife and take my time hacking off your head from your bony ass body. I’d like to take dynamite and stuff it in every orifice and light the goddamn fuse. You’re nothing. You and your sisters think that you rule the world. But you don’t. I won’t let you. You’re indifferent
