by Anne Frasier
Uriah cut right to it. “These are not the same people.”
“I agree,” the specialist said. “I know you were expecting a different answer.”
Ingrid stepped forward. “Since this is such a surprise, given the mother’s input, I thought it would be good to go over the details before we present the information to the press.”
Using a mouse, the specialist circled all the various areas of discrepancies between the two sets of X-rays, explaining as she went.
“What about age?” Jude asked.
“The second molars have erupted. From that, we can determine the victim from the lake was eleven to fourteen years of age. More likely twelve or thirteen.”
“It might make things go smoother if you could actually attend the press conference,” Uriah said. “Reporters are going to have a lot of questions.”
“Happy to.”
The focus shifted from the press conference back to the John Does still in the cooler. “So the first victim didn’t die twenty years ago.” Uriah sounded baffled.
“That’s debatable,” Ingrid said. “The body isn’t completely thawed, so I’m still waiting to perform the autopsy. I’m seeing signs of decomposition that don’t mesh with a death that might have occurred, say . . . last month, before the lake was safe to walk on. During autopsy, I should be able to tell if the body has gone through partial thaws over time. I’ll be looking for cell breakage. When a body is frozen and thawed, blood cells rupture and leak intracellular fluid. It’s a pretty obvious clue if you’re looking for it. I’m also seeing clothing that looks dated.”
“Vintage clothing is popular,” Jude pointed out.
“But not typically with young kids,” Uriah said.
Jude looked up at him, noting the circles under his eyes, feeling a fresh pang of worry. “Might not have been a style choice but an economical choice.”
“How much longer before the autopsy?” Uriah asked.
“I’m hoping tomorrow.” Ingrid seemed to be eyeing him a little closely too. “Since we have media camping right outside the doors, why not share this information with them immediately?”
“I’d rather schedule an official press conference,” Uriah said. “I’ll let the reporters outside know. Police department in thirty minutes?”
Jude didn’t like that idea. “I need to speak to Mrs. Ford before this goes public.”
Uriah checked his watch. “Okay, let’s make it an hour.”
An hour was going to be a challenge. It took Jude thirty minutes to get to Gail Ford’s house. She didn’t like the way they’d rushed the press conference, and had been surprised that Uriah had agreed to hold it so quickly with little or no prep. With the current road conditions, it didn’t look like she was going to make it back in time. She tried to call him. No answer, so she followed up with a text.
The street Gail lived on had been given a quick pass with a plow, just enough for a car to drive through. Jude didn’t want to get stuck, so she parked a few feet from the curb, barely leaving room for another car to squeeze by. She’d have to make this quick.
Gail’s sidewalk had been cleared with a snowblower. Jude could tell by the pattern in the shallow layer of remaining snow, and the precision of the cut. She knocked, and a curtain moved in the picture window. Seconds later she heard footsteps and the front door opened.
With no hello, Gail said, “You have news.”
“Yes.”
“My neighbor cleared my walk.” She motioned for Jude to step inside. “Everybody has been so nice since the story broke. Bringing food, asking if I need any help.”
Jude stopped on the entry rug. She didn’t want to get the hardwood floors wet.
“Don’t worry about the snow.”
“The forensic odontologist met with us today.” Jude remained where she was. Minnesota nice. There was no way to ease into this slowly, and Gail knew something was up. “I’m sorry, but the records your dentist supplied did not match the dental X-rays taken of the body found in the lake three days ago.” She paused, then added a final sentence for clarity. “The boy from the lake is not your son.”
Gail stared, hands clasped in front of her, nodding, looking as if she understood what Jude had said.
“When can I have his body picked up? I need to plan a funeral.”
“Mrs. Ford. Listen carefully. Are you with me?”
“Yes.”
Jude looked directly into the woman’s eyes. “The body found in the lake?”
“Yes.” She nodded.
“Does not belong to your son.”
“Does not belong to my son.” Before Gail finished the sentence, she began to shake.
Jude kicked off her boots and led the grieving mother to the couch. The woman dropped down heavily, mouth open, eyes glistening. “I could have sworn . . .”
“I’m sorry,” Jude said. “I’m very sorry.”
“Can you tell me that again?”
“The body from the lake is not your son.”
Gail sat in a daze as a clock in a distant room ticked loudly. “That’s impossible.” She came around pretty quickly, got brave, blinked, and sat up straighter, coming in for a verbal attack and blame. “You did something wrong. Run the tests again. Get another specialist. Do whatever you have to do. Do your job. Whatever you did, whatever you compared, do it over because that’s my son.”
“We can send the files to another specialist,” Jude said. “I have no problem putting in that request. But I’ve seen the X-rays, and I can assure you the results will be the same.”
“I was planning a funeral. I was going to have closure. I wanted to tell him I was sorry for being such a bad mother.”
“Everybody has regrets when they lose someone,” Jude said. “But you did the best you could do at the time. Remember that.”
Gail started crying softly.
“Is there someone I can call?” Jude asked. “A neighbor, maybe? A relative?”
“I don’t want to talk to any of them now. I already told them my son had been found. They were so happy for me. I can’t face telling them otherwise.”
Jude padded to the kitchen in her wool socks, where she filled a glass with water from the tap. In the living room, Gail took the glass with shaking hands, drank a little, and put it on the coffee table. Jude sat down at the other end of the couch.
The house was like a cave. She wanted to open the curtains to let in some light. From outside, laughter carried across the street as kids enjoyed the second snow day in a row. Maybe they were making a snowman. She hadn’t gotten the chance to make one with the boy. She felt bad about that.
“This means my son could still be alive,” Gail suddenly announced.
“It’s possible,” Jude said carefully.
“So, I’ll keep waiting.”
In truth, her son had probably been murdered twenty years ago, and the body might never be found. Gail might never have the closure she needed to get at least a little of her life back. “I have to tell you something else,” Jude said. “Something you’ll be hearing about soon.”
“I hope it’s not bad news. I don’t know if I can take any more of that.”
Life was cruel. “This hasn’t been released to the press, but we found another body in the lake very near where the previous one was discovered. And as far as we can tell, it’s another young boy with blond hair.”
Gail sniffled and dabbed at her eyes with her sleeve. “Do you have a photo?”
Jude pulled out her phone and scrolled to one of the pictures she’d taken the day before at the lake. Gail looked intently at the screen, then shook her head. With a sob, she said, “That’s not my son either.”
Either. At least she’d said either, which meant she was beginning to accept the painful truth.
The roads were no better on Jude’s return drive. By the time she parked and was inside the police department building, the press conference was under way in one of their large meeting rooms. Rows of tables and chairs. An elevated platform un
der blinding lights, the US and Minnesota state flags flanking the podium. She was surprised to see Ortega and Valentine running the show, along with Ingrid and the forensic odontologist. No sign of Uriah.
When they broke the news about the original John Doe, the noise level of the room exploded. Hands were raised, and questions were shouted. They were told about the second body, and all hell broke loose.
Someone spotted Jude and shoved a microphone in her face. She declined to comment but made her way through the throng of reporters. At the podium, she removed her knit cap and unzipped her jacket. Where the hell was Uriah? Times like these, the press really wanted to talk to the head of Homicide. She picked up his slack, dropped into media mode, going over topics most likely already covered. But her presence and words seemed to bring some reassurance to the crowd. She ended by asking for the public’s help.
Conference over, she sent another text to Uriah, asking him where he was.
His reply raised more questions than it answered.
Be back soon. Followed by a thumbs-up.
CHAPTER 17
Awareness brought pain. Simple as that. Nan had never been much into drugs. Surprising, since she liked oblivion. But her preference had always been hard liquor. That was until she started coughing up blood and had to quit for good. Bleeding ulcers weren’t fun. The pain, the blood, anemia so bad she’d lived in bed for a while and slept most of the hours away. But quitting drinking . . . it was harder than she’d expected. She’d never even thought of herself as having a problem, but the withdrawal had been tough. And once she beat it, she missed the blur and buffer alcohol gave her. The numbness that had gotten her through many years.
But this floaty stuff was nice. And now that she thought about it, it was the first real mental relief she’d had since she quit drinking. She wanted to float forever, and she didn’t like it when the nurses came in and talked and tried to move her around, bathe her.
“Ms. Perkins?”
Was she dreaming? Or was someone really in the room?
“Ms. Perkins? We’re going to remove your IV tomorrow. That means you’re only going to have the PCA pump one more day.”
PCA pump—meaning the narcotic she was able to administer to herself with the push of a magic button. To demonstrate that she wasn’t ready for such a drastic measure, Nan moaned and repeatedly pressed the button cradled in the palm of her hand.
“That won’t do any good. You can press it a million times, but it won’t deliver medication more than once every twenty minutes.”
Nan opened her eyes a crack. It was daytime, the windows letting in the kind of bright and blinding light that came with snow-covered roofs and ground—that harsh bounced brilliance that was almost worse than the fluorescents overhead. Not only was the room torture, the nurse’s face was too friendly for the seriousness of Nan’s situation. She was like a clown at a funeral.
“How about trying to drink something? I’ve brought some ice water and apple juice.” The girl set a plastic pitcher and a bottle of apple juice on the narrow wheeled table. “And I’m going to turn on the TV.” The wall-mounted flat-screen responded to the click of a remote. “Sometimes it helps to have a little something to distract you from pain.” The nurse went through channels, stopping on a soap opera. She demonstrated how to use the control for the television, the lights, the bed, and to call for help, before clipping it to the railing just inches from Nan’s hand.
Soap operas. What the hell? Did she look like someone who watched soap operas? Maybe she did. That was depressing.
“Anything else I can get you?”
The nurse was young, maybe in her twenties, straight dark hair, pretty. Annoying. And now she was moving around the room, collecting things, smoothing the thin white blanket over Nan’s uninjured leg, the other leg suspended in the air by a little hammock, her toes popping out of the end of the cast like fat sausages. The crash had shattered her tibia, and surgery had resulted in pins and screws and metal plates.
As if the girl had read her mind, she said, “Doctors say you’re lucky to be alive.” She shook her head. “That accident. I saw pictures of it. And it’s amazing you were found.”
“Would’ve been better if I’d died.” How would she afford the medical bills? How would she get anywhere now that she didn’t have a car? What a stupid idea. Driving to Minneapolis in a blizzard. All for a damn kid who was just like any other damn kid. Nothing special about him. Her first mistake had been making him her pet.
“Don’t say that!” the nurse said. “Life is precious.”
Precious.
That deserved a loud snort, but Nan didn’t have the energy. These were the kinds of situations that reinforced her feeling of being different. Life is precious. That was some bullshit right there. Thinking those glittery thoughts had gotten her into this mess. And thinking life was precious was what had screwed things up so badly for her in the past. Why hadn’t she learned her lesson? Why had she fallen into the trap of thinking the kid deserved to live? Thinking he was at least semiprecious? That boy was just a body, just blood and bones and skin. Disposable. Replaceable.
Nan grunted and grabbed the television remote, quickly thumbing through channels, wanting the foolish girl to see she had better things to do than waste her time on soap operas. Nature channels were soothing and informative. She especially liked the ones about faraway places like Africa. Nothing more entertaining than watching a big cat bring down a gazelle.
In her search for a bearable channel, she paused briefly on the local news. The morning crew. They weren’t as proficient as the people in the evening and always looked a little like they’d just stumbled in from a long night on the town.
Right now, the male and female anchors at the desk were discussing the recent blizzard and the upcoming Winter Carnival. Rather than being the promised distraction, the sound of their tinny voices worked like some kind of trigger, causing fresh pain. And once that pain got a foothold . . . It started deep and radiated out, causing her to produce mental images of metal pins drilled and anchored into meaty bones, scraping against swollen muscle. Her teeth clenched, and the pain increased rapidly. Soon she was panting.
Her hand dropped the remote, and her fingers blindly searched for the magic button. She found and pressed it several times in a row, fast, like a madwoman, even though only one press would supply her fix. It beeped, and she let out a sigh just knowing the drug was being released into her veins and relief would come soon.
Within a couple of minutes, her breathing leveled out and her jaw began to unclench. The episode was proof of how inhumane it was to take her off the pump.
While the newscasters droned on, her eyes fluttered closed and she began to dream. She remained in that limbo state of pain-masked stupor and half sleep for a minute or two. Maybe through a commercial, then the news was back.
“We’re looking for the public’s help in solving a mystery that took place the night of the recent blizzard,” the man said.
They bounced the story back and forth; now it was the woman’s turn.
“This is sure to capture the heart of the nation and beyond. Two nights ago, a small, innocent child was discovered abandoned in a snowbank on a Minneapolis doorstep during one of the worst blizzards this city has ever seen. What’s even sadder, the child is unable to tell police or CPS who he is or how he got on that doorstep. The final tragedy? Nobody has reported him missing. Nobody seems to be looking for this poor child.”
No, it couldn’t be. Could it?
“Given the severity of the storm,” the guy said, “this might have had a dark ending, but luckily the child was rescued by none other than Detective Jude Fontaine.”
Nan pressed her elbows into the mattress and strained to sit taller despite her trapped leg. “Boy,” Nan whispered in disbelief. Then louder, “Boy.”
“The police and Child Protection Services are reaching out to the public in hopes that someone might know something,” the woman said with cheerful sadness.
A photo of a familiar face appeared on the left side of the screen while the woman at the desk kept talking.
She’d told him to go inside the building. Why hadn’t he gone inside the building? She would never have abandoned him in a snowbank. Now it had become some ridiculous drama, the story of the day, and she was being made out to be a horrible person, when the truth was she’d been saving him. Saving him!
The guy was talking now. “If you have any information about a missing child or if you recognize this child, call the number on the bottom of the screen. You can also visit our website for updated information as it comes in.”
“At this point,” the woman said, “the only name he’s given his rescuers is Boy.”
Nan heard a gasp and turned her head. The nurse was still in the room, watching television along with her. And now she was staring at Nan, eyes big, mouth open.
Nan tried to rouse her sluggish brain. Normally good at covering her ass, she said the first thing she could think of. “I saw the same news earlier today.”
“Your TV hasn’t been on,” the nurse said. “I had to give you the control and show you how to use it.”
“The drugs are confusing me. I just pushed the button. Don’t pay any attention to me.” She glanced back at the photo on the mounted TV. “I mean, he’s a boy. That’s what I meant.” She rallied somewhat and managed a shrug. “What’s the big deal?”
The nurse pulled a phone from her pocket. The number was still on the television. She poked at her device. Nan would have knocked it from her hand, but she was too far away. She looked for a weapon, found the plastic apple juice bottle, threw it. The nurse ducked. Juice exploded against the wall. “I’m just watching television,” Nan said. “I just made an innocent comment.”
The nurse lifted the phone to her ear. A moment later, arm crossed over her stomach and supporting an elbow as she kept an eye on Nan, she began talking to someone at the other end. “I might have information about the boy who was found in the blizzard.”