The Blessed Bones

by Kathryn Casey

  Seventeen

  By the time I clicked over, Doc had hung up. Before I could call him back, my phone dinged. On my laptop, I opened an email from Doc’s address. Under a heading that read “Smith County Medical Examiner,” I saw a thumbnail of a black and white sketch. Excited at the prospect of seeing our girl’s face, I clicked on the sketch and blew it up. A cute thing, she had big round eyes and a button nose. I printed off half a dozen copies.

  In the conference room, I held the emailed sketch next to the first photo on the whiteboard, the girl who’d been missing the longest. The eyes looked fairly similar but the nose and the chin were completely off. I removed the magnets and took down that photo, leaving ten. The second girl had a wider mouth and rounder cheeks. The third had a pointed chin, one of those that juts forward. In the sketch the girl’s chin appeared more rounded.

  I kept going.

  Others looked promising, with enough similarities to leave them on the board. The girl with the closest resemblance was Carrie Sue Carter. She’d disappeared two years earlier, and her family lived on a farm just over the county line. I also kept the photo of Eden Young. Not an exact match, but a maybe. The final girl I compared the drawing to was Christina Bradshaw. I held her photo up and examined their facial structures. I felt an overwhelming disappointment when I noticed subtle differences, yet they did look a bit similar. Although doubtful, I didn’t want to let go of that particular possibility. I couldn’t bear to put Christina in the pile with the discards, so I left her in the display with the could-bes.

  When I finished, I had only Carrie Sue Carter, Eden Young, and Christina Bradshaw’s photos hanging on the whiteboard.

  “Anyone look familiar?” Max asked, when I got him on the phone.

  “I’ve got a line-up of three missing girls who could match. One is Christina. I’ll email all of them to you. Anything on your end?”

  “No, I’ve been working a robbery case all afternoon waiting on the sketch to arrive. I just got a confession out of the guy and he’s on his way to the jail. I haven’t had time to work the bone case. Besides, knowing you, Clara, I felt certain you’d run with it, so there was no need for me to duplicate your work.”

  Maybe I should have been insulted that Max found me that predictable, but then, it was hard to argue since I’d done exactly as he’d expected.

  “Now that we have it, my office will email the sketch to the press along with a media advisory,” he said. “It’ll be in the hands of reporters throughout the state and the region within the hour. On TV this evening, I’m sure.”

  I felt my hopes rising, the sense that we were moving forward, that I finally had in my hands what I needed to piece the clues together and uncover the answers. All across Utah folks would turn on their televisions and see the sketch. It had to help. “We’ve got a real shot at this. Someone’s probably going to recognize her, Max. Don’t you think?”

  “Hope so, but you know how these things are. Sometimes that doesn’t happen,” he cautioned. I knew that, of course. This was far from my first missing person case. But I had to believe we had a good shot. Max paused for just a second, then asked, “How do you want to handle the leads you’ve dug up?”

  “I’ll email one of the girl’s photos to you: Carrie Sue Carter. How about you run out to her family’s place? It’s a half hour or so from your office. Talk to her parents. Meanwhile, since Christina Bradshaw is one of the maybes, I’ll drive to her sister’s place.”

  “You think it’s Christina?”

  “I don’t know, but she does look a little like the sketch.”

  “What about the third one? Do you want me to take it?” he asked.

  “Let’s do that one together. It’s a girl named Eden Young. I found her on a website asking for information on her disappearance.” I went over what I’d been able to make out about the case from the website, mentioning that Eden’s disappearance hadn’t been reported to NCIC, and that basic information like the date of her disappearance was missing. “The Young family lives in Smith County, your jurisdiction.”

  “I don’t remember seeing any reports on that case,” Max said. “I would remember, I think. Who did you say runs the website?”

  “Her aunt.”

  The phone was quiet, and I assumed Max was thinking that through. “And there’s no date. That is odd. Any mention of a pregnancy?”

  “No. Nothing. It could be a waste of time, but there’s just not enough information to know.”

  “Do you want me to pick you up?” Max asked.

  Instead I suggested that we meet at his office when we finished our separate interviews. I felt anxious, wondering if we were chasing red herrings or truly making progress. My mind kept churning over the fear that the dead girl might not be an isolated case. Before we hung up, I had to ask: “Max, I’m wondering: The thing is, it didn’t take me long to find these three missing girls, and I have a file of others I dug up this afternoon from other parts of the state. I know kids disappear, some run away, bad things happen to others, but…”

  I hesitated, and he asked, “You’re worried that this isn’t an isolated case? That there could be more girls like the one we found buried?”

  “Max, it’s just that…” I gulped hard. I felt sick even saying it. “Yes. I am.”

  Eighteen

  On the drive to the Carter house, Max mulled over what Clara had said, her fears that the murder of the girl found on the mountainside might be part of a series. Although they didn’t have any evidence pointing in that direction, he understood her concerns. Eight months earlier the disappearance of one girl had led them on a trail that revealed the brutal killings of others. So it wasn’t surprising that Clara’s instincts would dissect the current situation and lead her in that direction.

  Max thought back to the terrible scenes, the desecrated bodies. God, I hope not. Please, not again.

  The miles clicked past and he saw the Carter place up ahead, a sprawling one-story house surrounded by acres of farmland. The first thing he noticed was that the fields hadn’t been plowed to get ready for spring planting, as they should have been. The house, too, looked worn-out and ill-kept, its white paint faded and peeling off the wood siding. As he got out of his squad car, he took a better look at the fields. The shape they were in, he suspected it had been a couple of years since they’d last been planted, probably as long as Carrie Sue had been missing.

  He knocked on the door, and a woman in her forties, faded brown hair and sad hazel eyes, answered. When she took in Max’s uniform and glanced at his badge, she looked frightened. “Can… can I help you, officer?”

  “I’m Chief Deputy Max Anderson from Smith County. I’d like to talk to you and your husband about your daughter, Carrie Sue.”

  “Oh, Lord!” the woman cried out. She turned back to the house, “Father, sisters, come. Come quick! It’s about Carrie Sue!”

  Max found himself being almost pulled into the house, surrounded by two more women, a man in his fifties with salt-and-pepper hair, and a swarm of teenagers and younger children.

  “I’m Joshua Carter, Carrie Sue’s father,” the man said. “Have you found her?”

  A murmur went through the room, the children gasping, and one of the women sprang into action, rounding the young ones up, worried about what might be said, not wanting them to hear. “Everybody outside, now. Outside!”

  The teenagers protested, but the three sister-wives stretched their arms around them and pushed them all toward the back door. As they rushed out, one girl sobbed and covered her face with her hands. “Carrie Sue’s dead, isn’t she, Mother?” she whispered.

  The woman the girl addressed bent close and hugged her, gave her a kiss. “Go outside, dear. We’ll call you when we know.”

  When Max turned back to the man, he noticed that Joshua Carter’s hands were trembling ever so slightly and his eyes had become moist. Max took a hard gulp. These were tough calls, families suffering. He cleared his throat, not wanting to tell them about the discovery
of a girl’s body.

  “Mr. Carter, ladies, I’m here because of the listing for your daughter on NCIC. It’s my understanding that Carrie Sue disappeared about two years ago. Can you tell me what happened?”

  “She ran away,” one of the women shouted. “Just left, and disappeared.”

  “We think she left on her own, but we’re not sure,” said another of the women. “Carrie Sue went to school that morning, and everything seemed fine. But she never came home.”

  “The local police investigated and said she was seen walking off into the woods behind the school. She must have run,” the first woman said again. “What else could have happened? But we don’t know why.”

  The man turned to them and shook his head to quiet them. His voice gravel, he asked, “Why are you here? Did you find her?”

  “I don’t know.” Max cleared his throat again as he looked around at the women, who were all bunched together. With each passing second, Joshua Carter appeared increasingly distraught.

  “If it’s bad news, you need to tell us,” the man said, a crack of emotion in his voice. “We’ve been on pins and needles in this house for two years, dreading bad news. Don’t keep us waiting.”

  Max nodded. “I don’t know if we’ve found her. I have some questions. Can you tell me, was there any reason to believe Carrie Sue might have been pregnant?”

  At that, they all hushed and looked from one to the other. “Pregnant?” one of the women questioned. “Why pregnant?”

  “Just tell me,” Max insisted. “Could she have been pregnant?”

  The father released a deep sigh. “If she was, we didn’t know about it. But if she did run away, that might explain it. We’d been upset with her. She was sneaking out with a boy from a nearby town. They were sweet on each other.”

  “But you didn’t know if—” Max started.

  “No, she didn’t tell us that,” the man said.

  “If she was, she must have been scared,” one woman said, her eyes wild with worry. She turned to her sister-wives. “Didn’t she know that we would have taken care of her?”

  “Wouldn’t she know that we’d still love her?” the woman who’d answered the door whispered. “Is that why she left?”

  “No, no, I’m not saying that,” Max interrupted, trying to refocus them. “Let’s sit down.”

  At that, they insisted he take the leather recliner in the corner, and they sat across from him on a gray plaid couch. Max fingered the file he’d carried in as he spoke. He told them why he was there, what had been found: a pregnant teenage girl’s buried body. As he spoke, the women moved closer to their husband, one put her arm around his shoulders, and he held the hands of the other two.

  When he asked, the man’s voice barely reached a whisper. “Can we see the sketch, please?”

  Max pursed his lips and opened the file, handed it across to the father. “Do you think this looks like it could be your daughter?”

  All of them barely breathed as they stared at the sketch. The man turned it one way then another, showed it to one of the women, then the other. Each time, their faces seemed to drain of more color. One of the women shook her head. “That’s not her. Can’t be. Carrie Sue’s eyes are brighter.”

  “It’s in black and white, sister,” one of the other women said, pointing at the sketch. “The chin and the nose look like hers, don’t you think, husband?”

  The man nodded.

  They talked among themselves, and Max didn’t rush them. One of the wives walked over to a small table against a wall. Max hadn’t noticed it until then, but there were candles, small angel statues, and a photo of Carrie Sue in the center. It was a memorial to their lost daughter. The woman picked up the photo—the same one that had been on the NCIC website, Carrie’s last one before she vanished. She handed it lovingly to her husband, who held it side by side with the sketch. They all grew quiet as they compared the two. Time passed without comment, until Max finally asked, “What do you think? Could it be her?”

  The man looked at his wives, who barely reacted, except for one who gave a soft shrug. All had eyes overflowing with tears as they whispered among themselves. Turning back to Max, Joshua Carter said, “We don’t know. It looks a little like our girl, but we can’t tell.”

  Max did his best not to appear disappointed. The women and their husband had tried hard, he knew, had done all they could. Identifying someone from a sketch was difficult. There were too many variables. The computer had drawn the face with hair pulled back. Carrie Sue wore bangs. The eyes had no color. The mouth was a straight line giving no expression.

  “Maybe if she was smiling, we could tell,” one of the women said. “Carrie Sue was the happiest girl. She was always smiling.”

  Before he left, Max took out a collection kit he’d brought and had the man run the swab inside his mouth to collect a DNA sample. Not long after, Max drove off the property in his squad car. He’d made no progress with the visit. He hadn’t known if it was Carrie Sue when he arrived; he still didn’t know. Joshua Carter and his wives had wept openly as Max had walked away to the car. To lose a child? What did that do to a family? To a father? To a mother? That made Max consider his own tragedy. It had been more than three years since his wife, Miriam, had died, since he nearly lost Brooke in the car accident. He’d fought so hard to reclaim their lives. Without Brooke, would he have been able to continue living?

  Driving toward the office, he thought of Clara. He hoped she was having better luck with Christina Bradshaw’s family, getting a clear answer. Clara on his mind, Max reflected on how she’d changed his life. Now that they were together, he and Brooke were no longer like that unplowed field, left abandoned.

  Nineteen

  I found Jessica exactly the way I’d first seen her, working on the ranch. The place brought back bad memories. I’d been there the previous August when my sister was missing and all I could think of was that I had to find her.

  Last time, Jessica had been cutting grass on a small tractor. This time, she was aerating a plot of land on the side of the house to ready it to plant summer squash. She’d seen me drive up but didn’t walk over to greet me, and I understood why. Seeing me frightened her: After all, I may have been bringing very bad news, that her sister was dead. Under those circumstances, it wasn’t unusual for families to experience a confusion of emotions, including panic. I waved at her and smiled, and she stood and knocked some of the dirt off the skirt of her careworn prairie dress.

  As I plodded closer, she called out: “Is it Christina?”

  I took a long breath and smelled the mossy soil she’d turned up in the garden. In the spring, our mountain valley enjoys frequent rains, and the wet earth looked rich, the dark brown of used coffee grounds. Although I didn’t want to make her wait, I didn’t speak until I stood beside her. “I’m not sure.”

  Jessica threw her head back, not in relief but I assumed in overwhelming exasperation. A missing loved one does that to families, preys on their minds, keeps them on edge, as if they’re always waiting for bad news. “What do you mean, you don’t know? Haven’t you gotten the face yet?”

  “I have it with me, but you’re a better judge than I am. I didn’t know your sister.” I didn’t want to influence her opinion, so I didn’t tell her mine: that it seemed like a long shot. I said only, “If you walk over to the Suburban with me, you can take a look.”

  “Okay.”

  We trudged toward my SUV as solemnly as mourners who truly didn’t want to arrive at the grave. Once we got there, I grabbed the folder out of the front passenger seat. I took out the computer-generated sketch. I left the photo of Christina in the folder because I wanted Jessica to assess the face strictly from memory. At first, her face gave no clue to her thoughts. She picked the drawing up, held it in her hands, examined it. She ran a finger down the outline, stopped at the lips and traced them, considered. I didn’t rush her.

  As long as it took, I waited. Then, Jessica let her hand holding the drawing fall to her side.
She slumped against the SUV’s bumper. I thought for a moment that she might collapse on the ground.

  “No,” she said. “I-I don’t think so.”

  “Are you sure?” I asked.

  Her hands were coated in dirt from digging, but Jessica didn’t seem to notice. She left behind a trace of mud on her face when she wiped away a thin trail of tears. “Yes. I think so. As much as I can be. It’s been a while, but I don’t remember Christina looking like this.”

  “Would looking at a photo of your sister help?”

  She gulped hard, then nodded. Out of the folder, I pulled the copy of the photo I’d printed of Christina and handed it to Jessica. Again, silence, then Jessica shook her head. “It’s not her.”

  I couldn’t hide my disappointment. Jessica handed me back the copy of the sketch. She still held her sister’s photo in her hand. “May I keep this?”

  “Sure,” I said. “Absolutely.”

  The tears kept coming, and although I had to meet Max, I couldn’t bring myself to push Jessica away. A deep sadness washed over me when she whispered, “Is it wrong of me to wish it had been her? I mean, if it was her, she’d be dead. Since it wasn’t, there’s at least some chance that Christina is still alive, right?”

  I hated to answer. I couldn’t imagine an outcome that would bring her sister back to her alive. Yet, on the surface, that all made sense. Still, my response didn’t go in that direction. I couldn’t bear to offer false hope. “It’s not wrong of you. It’s a perfectly normal reaction. You and your whole family need answers. It’s natural to want to know.”

  I felt the weight of Jessica’s disappointment like a physical presence pressing down on my shoulders. Cases where families endured year after year without learning the fates of their loved ones were the most difficult. Not knowing was simply heartbreaking. I felt relieved for the distraction when my phone rang just as I was driving off.