Through the closed door I heard male voices, then laughter. The squad room banter seemed a callous intrusion.
“So who the hell is she?” Galiano’s voice sounded a step lower than normal.
“A teenager with a terrifying secret.”
“And Daddy wasn’t looking to be a family man.”
“Maybe Daddy already was one.”
“Or the pregnancy could be coincidence.”
“Could be. If this is a serial killer, his victims could be random.”
The voices in the corridor receded, fell silent.
“Time for another visit with the innkeeper and his wife.” Galiano.
“It wouldn’t hurt to check out women’s clinics and family planning centers in the neighborhood. She might have sought an abortion.”
“This is Guatemala.”
“Prenatal care.”
“Right.”
“Better get pictures before I collect these.” I waved at the blouse.
Xicay arrived in minutes. I handed him my ABFO ruler and pointed out the bones. As Xicay filmed, Galiano shifted gears.
“What about size?”
“Size?”
“How big was she?”
“The clothing suggests average to petite. Muscle attachments are slight. What we call gracile.”
I flipped through the photos until I came to the leg bones.
“I could estimate stature with the femur using the ruler for scale. But it would only be a ballpark guess. Do you know heights for the four MPs?”
“Should be in their files. If not, I’ll find out.”
“Got it,” Xicay said.
Taking two more vials from my pack, I marked one and added the words
“Standard shots of the clothing?” Xicay asked.
I nodded.
Watching him move around the table, I had a sudden thought.
“Where are the tibia and foot bones that were in the jeans?” I asked Galiano.
“Diaz dropped paper on those, too.”
“And left the jeans.”
“The guy wouldn’t know evidence if it pissed on his shoe.”
“What’s your take on Lucas?”
“The good doctor didn’t look thrilled with his assignment.”
“I got the same impression. Think Diaz is putting the screws to him?”
“I’m meeting with Mr. DA this afternoon.” He unfolded and slipped on his shades. “I intend to stress the importance of candor.”
An hour later I drove through the gates at FAFG headquarters. Ollie Nordstern stood on the front porch, one shoulder propped against a post, jaw working a wad of gum.
I considered reversing, but he was on me like a shark on a blood slick.
“Dr. Brennan. The woman that tops my list.”
I dug my pack from the back of my rented Access.
“Let me get that for you.”
“Something has come up, Mr. Nordstern.” I slung a strap over one shoulder, slammed the door, and headed past him toward the house. “I won’t have time for an interview today.”
“Perhaps I could sweet-talk you into a few minutes.”
Perhaps you could drown in a spittoon.
“Not today.”
Elena Norvillo sat at one of several computers clustered in what was once the Mena family parlor. Her hair was hidden under a blue scarf knotted at the nape of her neck.
