obvious signs of trauma to the head. “I thought you’d lined up a forensic anthropologist,” she said, turning the skull about in her hands. “Dr. Gilbert.”
“We have her notes and measurements,” Griffin replied, handing over several sheets of paper, handwritten. “We just need you to do the drawing.”
“We usually work in concert.”
“In this case, we, uh, made other arrangements.”
She glanced at the papers he gave her, saw the notations in pencil, some of them haphazard, as though these were the notes from a report that had yet to be completed. “These are Natasha’s notes?”
“She was the forensic anthropologist you recommended.”
It took a moment for his answer to register. Tasha Gilbert was neat, fastidious. “Are you sure you have the right report? This isn’t like her, never mind she’d want to be here.”
“Like I said, we had to make other arrangements. Time is of the essence, so how soon can you have a drawing done?”
“Hard to say until I know what I have to work with.” She looked over Tasha’s notations, the measurements of skin and flesh thickness, based on height, weight, race and approximate age of the victim, all things that a forensic anthropologist would relay to Sydney through the examination of the skeleton or remains, helping her to proceed in re-creating the victim’s face. It was a complicated process, certainly not an exact science, but a science nonetheless. She flipped through the few pages, curious as to why Tasha, a perfectionist if there ever was one, would allow her rough draft report to be turned over. “Crime scene photos?”
“In another file.”
“This is highly irregular.”
And Special Agent Griffin said, “For a reason.”
She glanced over at him, and for all his calm exterior, there was something about him that made her think he was worried, harried, not so unruffled after all. Interesting. “Clothing? Hair? I need a photo of the body as it was found. Blow it up, eliminate whatever you don’t want me to see, just get it to me if you want me to do my job. If you can’t release that, a frontal shot of her, pre-autopsy, before the skull was cleaned, will suffice. Again, the same. It will help me finalize the drawing, make sure it’s accurate.”
He nodded, unlocked and opened his briefcase, and pulled a single photo from a manila folder. “Crime scene only. I can get you the other tomorrow. This I’ll need back.” He handed it to her, then started pacing the room.
Apparently this was a case that wasn’t to be discussed, wasn’t to leave this room. Maybe that’s why Tasha had agreed to pass on her notes as rough as they were. Even so, had Special Agent Griffin just presented the damned photo with the skull, then let Sydney do her drawing at a normal hour, she wouldn’t have given any of it a second thought-probably wouldn’t even remember it as anything significant. At least that was her train of thought up until she viewed the crime scene photograph. It wasn’t as if anyone could view such a photo with hopes the image would fade. One look made it easy to understand why it was necessary to boil the skull. The victim’s face-along with her fingertips-had literally been removed. Peeled away. And it was more than someone simply not wanting the victim ID’d. There was something clearly ritualistic about the way the face had been removed, the shape of the wound. A triangle with its point at the top of the forehead, its base at her chin.
Damned hard to make that pattern on a skull, but there was no doubt about the shape, and she forced herself to look beyond it to what she needed for her work. The woman had dark, wavy, shoulder-length hair. Her shirt had been ripped open, exposing well-developed breasts, which put her past the age of puberty. The condoms trailing from her front jeans pocket gave her the appearance of being at least near the age of consent, and Sydney glanced at Tasha’s report and found that the victim was probably in her mid-to-late twenties.
She took out a pad of lined paper, started writing her own notes, when Griffin stopped his pacing, looked at her. “What are you doing?”
“Taking notations for my drawing. From there I intend to do a rough sketch of the victim’s hair length, noting the color, details about it, as well as the clothing. If that’s okay?”
He stepped back, didn’t ask any more questions, and she told herself that it wasn’t her place to decide how the drawing was done, or why the drawing was done. She was here to follow orders-something she used to be good at.
Three hours and five cups of coffee later, leading to several
Sydney stifled her umpteenth yawn, stared at the skull, the orbs that seemed to watch her in return, wondering about the victim, hoping she hadn’t suffered greatly before death-before she’d been disfigured. One could only hope it had all been done postmortem. She thought of the condoms, wondered if they were brought there by the victim, or left by the suspect. “Was this a sexual assault?” she asked.
And just as Zachary Griffin had avoided answering every other question she’d posed that might directly lead to the case, he didn’t respond to this one, either.
Fine. He might not need sleep, but she did, and if he wasn’t willing to talk to her, help her keep awake, then tough. “I’m sorry,” she said, pushing her chair back. “I can’t work any longer tonight.”
“You’re certain?”
“So you do remember how to communicate?”
He didn’t reply.
“Yes, I’m certain. I’ll need
“Yes.”
Sydney left her briefcase, drawing tools, and sketch pad behind, walked over, picked up her overnight bag, then stood there, waiting for him to unlock the door, let her out. When he hesitated, she held up her arms. “Either search me, or open the damned door. I’m tired.”
He glanced back at her things on the table, perhaps to assure himself she took nothing with her, then unlocked the door, letting her out before locking it behind him. And if that wasn’t secure enough, he escorted her to the elevator, then to the front lobby, where the guard who had taken her gun for safekeeping gave her the key to her room for the night. When it seemed her self-appointed escort intended to accompany her to her dorm, she held up her hand. “I can take it from here, thank you. Know the place well.”
A nod and he stepped back, allowing her to enter the elevator on her own. In her entire twelve years in law enforcement, the last four in the FBI, she wasn’t sure she’d ever experienced security this tight. Definitely not for a drawing, she thought, feeling the agent’s gaze on her even as the elevator door slid shut and she began her ascent.
Her room was on the third floor, a short walk through one of the many glass-enclosed hallways that connected each of the buildings. The glass enclosures reminded her of the tubes in a hamster cage and were often referred to as the same by the recruits housed there. Outside, a light dusting of snow covered the moonlit landscaping below, and all looked peaceful-as long as she didn’t think about the crime scene photo. It bothered her. She’d seen plenty of crimes over the years, plenty of violent scenes and photos. But this one was different. Forensic artists weren’t usually ushered into Quantico under cover of darkness, secreted away to a room where no one had entry, then guarded the entire time…
So who was the woman? Clearly someone of significance. Or a case of significance.
The photo had showed a woman who was made out to be a prostitute-or something similar, if the condoms were to be believed. Over the years, Sydney had seen dozens of sexual crimes, and this had all the earmarks of such a case. Until one thought of the overkill on security while she did her drawing.
Which certainly made her think twice when she unlocked her door, stepped into the room.
She tossed her bag on the twin bed, then shut and bolted the door behind her, slipping her phone from her belt and calling her former partner, Tony Carillo, back in San Francisco. He answered on the second ring, his voice sounding as though she’d woken him. She glanced at the clock, after two A.M. Eastern time.
