“Anyone fit your profile?”
“They all do. Chantale Specter doesn’t work for race, but that’s always iffy. I’d feel more confident if I could take measurements and run them through a data bank. Even then, race can be a tough call.”
Behind me, the large detective transferred boxes to the dolly.
“What about timing?” I asked.
“Claudia de la Alda was LSA in July. The septic tank was serviced in August.”
“Last seen alive doesn’t equate to date of death.”
“No,” Galiano agreed.
“If she is dead.”
“Patricia Eduardo vanished in October, Gerardi and Specter in January.”
“Anyone LSA wearing jeans and a pink floral blouse?”
“Not according to witness accounts.” He indicated a stack of folders. “The files are there.”
“First, I’d like to take a look at the clothes,” I said.
Galiano followed me to the table, watched as I lowered the evidence bags to the floor, pulled a plastic sheet from my pack, and spread it across the tabletop.
“I need water,” I said, lifting the first bag.
Galiano shot me a questioning look.
“To clean labels.”
He spoke to one of the detectives.
Pulling on latex gloves, I untied the knot, reached in, and began extracting filthy clothing. A stench filled the room as I disentangled and spread each garment.
Detective Hair Oil brought water.
“Jesus Christ, smells like sewer slime.”
“Now why do you suppose that would be?” I asked as he left, closing the door behind him.
Jeans. Shirt. Mint-green bra. Mint-green panties with tiny red roses. Navy-blue socks. Penny loafers.
A cold prickle. My sister and I got penny loafers the fall I entered the fifth grade.
Slowly, a scarecrow took shape, headless, handless, flat and damp. When the bags were empty, I began a close inspection of each item.
The jeans were navy blue and bore no logo. Though the material was in good condition, the garment had separated into individual components.
I checked the pockets. Empty, as expected. I dunked the tag, scrubbed gently. The lettering was faded beyond legibility. The pant legs were rolled, but I estimated the size as similar to mine, a woman’s six or eight. Galiano recorded everything in his spiral pad.
The blouse had no identifying labels. For now I left it buttoned.
“Stab wounds?” Galiano asked as I inspected one of several defects in the fabric.
“Irregular shapes, ragged edges,” I said. “They’re just rips.”
The bra was a 34B, the panties size 5. No brand name was visible on either.
“Weird how the jeans are falling apart but everything else is almost perfect.” Galiano.
“Natural fibers. Here today, gone tomorrow.”
He waited for me to go on.
“The jeans were probably sewn with cotton thread. But the lady had a definite fondness for synthetics.”
“Princess Polyester.”
“They may not make the best-dressed lists, but polyesters and acrylics are decomp friendly.”
“Longer lasting through chemistry.”
Sludge oozed onto the plastic as I unrolled the right jeans leg. Aside from dead roaches, I spotted nothing.
I unrolled the left.
“Luma Lite?” I asked.
What had been grudgingly lent was an alternate light source that caused fingerprints, hairs, fibers, semen, and drug stains to fluoresce brightly.
Galiano dug a black box and two sets of tinted goggles from the case Hernandez had brought. While he found an outlet and turned off the overheads, I slipped on the plastic glasses. Then I flipped the switch and moved the Luma Lite over the clothing. The beam picked up nothing until I came to the unrolled hem of the left pant leg. Filaments flared like sparklers on the Fourth of July.
“What the hell is that?” I could feel Galiano’s breath on my arm.
I held the beam on the cuff, and stepped back.
