Stolen Daughters

by Carolyn Arnold

“For you, I’ll make an exception.”

  “Thank you. Again, I’m sorry about this.”

  “I’ll make sure you make up for it.” He chuckled and hung up.

  Trent looked over at her. “Logan?”

  “Just watch the road.” She pointed out the windshield. She could tell that Trent was just expressing interest, but she didn’t exactly want to chat with her partner about her lover. She was uncomfortable enough with the situation she’d found herself in with Logan. It was somewhere between dating and the one-night stand where they had begun. After losing the love of her life, she didn’t believe it would come again. That kind of romance only happened once in a lifetime. While Logan was fun to hang out with, easy to talk with, had culinary skills to rival a gourmet chef, and an incredible sense of humor, what they had was casual at best. That’s really all she wanted out of life at this point. But life had taught her before just how unpredictable it could be.

  Ten

  He’d been so busy he had missed seeing his work on the six o’clock news. It was about six thirty now, and all the headline stories would be over and done. But he had good reason for being late. Besides client appointments, he had taken care of a personal matter. He smiled thinking about what he had done. It might have been risky, but it had felt right.

  He let himself into his mother’s farmhouse. She was puttering around in the kitchen, wearing an apron and singing some Louis Armstrong song that tried to pitch the lie that the world was a wonderful place. She must have been in one of her good moods. He loved her like this.

  “I’m home, Ma.” He hung his light jacket on a hook near the door and entered the room. She said nothing to him, didn’t give any indication she’d seen him. He was still invisible. All the time, invisible. Yet he was determined to win her approval before she left him.

  She’d been sick for a long time, if the doctors were to be believed. To him, she looked just fine, though she was prone to violent mood swings and sometimes isolation. But through her ups and downs, he was always there for her, even if she didn’t see him.

  He got himself a cup of coffee. “I grabbed something to eat on the way home. Hope you don’t mind. Figure you would have eaten earlier.”

  She wiped her hands on her apron and took it off, hung it on a hook by the door, and went into the living room. He followed, and she sat in her favorite rocking chair. She collected her ball of yarn and her knitting needles from a sack on the floor and got to work.

  “Whatcha making, Ma?” He hunched on the floor near her feet.

  She started whistling the tune she’d been singing earlier. She looked in his direction, but it was like she was seeing through him. Maybe she didn’t know how she made him feel so worthless, so less-than. After all, she looked so harmless sitting there, rocking, doing what she enjoyed. Would she continue to look that way if he told her what he’d done? Would she be proud or angry? Would she finally see him?

  He took her hands into his, stopping her from knitting. “There’s something I want to tell you. You’ll be proud of me. You will. What I did, I did it for us—for you and me, Ma.”

  She ceased rocking, met his eyes, and pulled her hands free of his. She started to move the needles again, and rage balled in his chest along with frustration.

  “I need you to listen to me.” He put his hands on hers.

  She freed one and touched his cheek, tenderly. “Talk to me, sweetheart. You can tell me anything.”

  Her contact and her words made him well up with pride. She was finally listening; she would hear him, and she would understand. “I helped a girl see how selfish she had been, and now she’ll never hurt anyone again.” The words spilled out, and they felt right, though they were a little off base. He’d done what he had due to the hatred festering in his soul that needed an outlet. He recognized that now, just by how much he had enjoyed taking that girl’s last breath.

  His mother returned her needles and the yarn to the sack.

  He held his breath, waiting for her response.

  She asked him, “You did this for me?”

  “That’s right.” And for more reasons than you know.

  She grinned, the expression lighting her eyes. “I’m so very proud of you, my boy. Come here.” She motioned for him to lean in, and she kissed his forehead.

  “Thank you, Ma.” Tears wet his eyes, and he palmed them dry as he got to his feet. “Sleep well.”

  “You too. You earned it.” She rocked again, the wood floor groaning beneath the chair’s rails.

  He headed for the loft in the horse barn. While his mother lived in the main house, he’d favored the loft since he was a teenager.

  He went to a desk where he had his laptop and brought up the internet, looking for the latest on the fire and the girl. He searched the local TV station’s site and found a link to watch a replay of the night’s news.

  He started the video, waited out two annoying ads he couldn’t skip, and prepared to hear the anchorwoman, some Diana Wesson, talk about the fire and his work. All the story got was a thirty-second recap geared toward a Good Samaritan who had called 911.

  He opened another internet tab, hoping the newspaper had done him more justice. He did a search and clicked on an article by Fraser Reyes. He scanned its length and thought, More like it. He read and savored the spotlight. Included was a quote from Sergeant Topez with the PWCPD’s Public Information Office: “I can confirm that the body of a young woman was found in the house, and an investigation into her identity and her death is underway.”

  He smiled, pleased that the police were taking him seriously. But they’d never figure out who the girl was or trace her to him. Surely, even though the fire was put out far earlier than he would have liked, it must have obscured some evidence.

  He kept reading.

  “The body was in fairly good condition thanks to a heroic citizen who called 911.”

  Fraser had briefly interviewed the caller, Shannon Fox, a nurse at Prince William Medical Center. She said she did what anyone in her place would have done.

  He balled his hands so tightly that his nails pierced his palms. So she was why the fire was put out so soon! His mother, if she knew how botched up this was, would be disgusted by his failure. And she’d blame him.

  That Fox lady should have minded her own business. Then the story would have read quite differently. He had to set this right the best way he knew how and since there was no going back, he had to look ahead. But first, one little unexpected detour. He’d take care of that Shannon Fox lady and make his message clear.

  People needed to mind their own business, and more importantly, he had no plans to stop—ever.

  Eleven

  There were several stations in the morgue, and another autopsy was underway. Rideout waved Amanda and Trent over from the corner of the room. Next to him was a steel gurney with the body of Jane Doe covered with a white sheet.

  “Good evening,” Rideout offered in greeting once they got close to him.

  “Hi, Hans.” Amanda’s gaze went to the draped body. She glanced at a nearby table where there was a bulging paper evidence bag. It probably held the girl’s clothing as paper didn’t degrade DNA like plastic did. “Tell me we have a better idea of what happened to her.”

  “We’ll get to all that, but there are a few things I’d like to discuss first.” He grabbed a small, sealed plastic bag and handed it to her. It contained the dragonfly pin. She looked from it to Rideout. He went on. “There’s an engraving on the back.”

  She flipped the bag over. “‘To our dear Crystal,’” she read aloud, then passed it to Trent for him to have a closer look. “It could be her name, or she could have come into possession of the pin from someone named Crystal.”

  “By stealing it, even,” Trent suggested. “It looks like real gold, and possibly mother-of-pearl in its wings?” He regarded Rideout, obviously seeking an answer, and gave the bag back to him.

  Rideout took it and set it back on the table. “I’m not a jeweler, Detec
tive.”

  “I’d like to get the piece appraised,” Amanda inserted, “to find out its makeup and value.”

  “I’ll make sure someone in the lab gets that done,” the ME assured her.

  “Thanks.” She could use the dragonfly pin as a parameter for searching reported missing persons, but additional markers would certainly aid the endeavor. “Anything stand out about the body? Birthmarks or tattoos?”

  “I’ll get to that.” Rideout’s voice was firm and didn’t allow room for negotiation, and Amanda found that strange given his normal easygoing nature. He went on. “I will be taking a dental mold that can be run through Missing Persons. But depending on when—and assuming if—a report was made, it might not be that useful to us. I’ll also be running her DNA through the system. I should have a computer-rendered photo of her for you by tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Sounds good.” That would be something that she and Trent could use during their inquiries instead of showing people the face of a corpse.

  “Now, I X-rayed the body,” Rideout continued, “and was able to determine the hyoid was broken. Sometimes it doesn’t show up that way. Regardless, I’ll still be conducting a neck dissection to get a better look.”

  “So she was strangled,” Trent surmised.

  Rideout met his gaze and nodded. “I’ve conducted more tests to confirm TOD and stand by my original assessment. The victim was dead by the time the fire was started. A closer look at the contusions on her neck tells me she was likely strangled by a man. Though I guess it could have been a woman with large hands. Whoever it was, it’s not easy to break the hyoid bone. It takes strength and determination.”

  “Whoever killed her really hated her,” Trent chimed in.

  “They were determined anyhow,” Amanda corrected, sticking closer to the heart of what Rideout had said. “Strangulation and choking are often involved in domestic violence cases. The abuser uses it to display their power and control over their mate. It doesn’t always need to be fatal. It’s often in the moment, considered to be a crime of passion. But she was so young…” Amanda let her words taper off, then asked, “Was she raped?”

  Rideout shook his head. “No sign of recent sexual intercourse—consensual or otherwise—which is surprising.” He paused for a second, then added, “But I’ll get to that. There is something else that the X-rays revealed. She suffered numerous breaks and bone fractures throughout her short life. The oldest—a broken ulna in her left arm—probably dates back to when she was nine, given her current age approximation as sixteen. The latest injury shows no signs of healing. It was a hairline fracture to her right wrist.”

  If their Jane Doe was a runaway, maybe it had been because of an abusive home life. She might have figured she’d be safer on the streets. “What could have hurt her wrist?”

  “A struggle with her killer, possibly. He could have gripped her wrist and twisted. But there are no obvious signs that she defended herself. No abraded knuckles, for example. I have, of course, scraped under her nails, and the trace will be sent to the lab for analysis. I’ll also require a full tox workup to see if she was on anything.”

  Amanda glanced down at the young girl, feeling sad for the short and troubled life she’d led. “Is there any sign of drug use?”

  “Not that I see, but I just want to cover all the bases. There are no signs of injection sites, but that doesn’t mean she wasn’t on anything. She could have ingested a drug in liquid or pill form. Either something she took herself or was given to her… possibly in her food or drink.”

  “You think her killer subdued her with something?” Amanda asked.

  “Only one way to know.”

  “The tox run.”

  He nodded. “Now, I must tell you, in addition to the internal injuries, she has some bruising on her body, in various stages of healing. And there’s more…”

  “Still more?” It was hard for Amanda to imagine that was possible. She looked down at Doe’s face again, and her heart pinched. Her lifeless eyes really stamped home the finality of the situation. This young woman would have had dreams and aspirations she’d never get to fulfill.

  Rideout slowly peeled back the sheet, and Amanda watched as he bared Doe’s chest. She gasped as her gaze landed on a black-and-white tattoo just above the girl’s left breast. It was about three inches in diameter. The depiction of a crown entwined in thorny vines with the letters DC scrolled over them.

  “She was a…” She gripped her throat, where the rest of her sentence had become lodged.

  The images were hurtling back with fierce tenacity. Fifteen young girls in four cells. All barely dressed and living in filth and violation. Their young, angelic faces, their tearstained cheeks, their wide eyes, their terrified expressions—and most of them with this marking.

  “Amanda?”

  She heard her name as if it were being said from across the room at a whisper. Then she felt a hand on her shoulder. She shrugged it off and stepped back.

  Trent was watching her with wide eyes. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have…”

  Her heart was hammering, and her palms were clammy. She put her attention back on the girl and stiffened her posture, trying to find the strength inside to face the undeniable truth. “She was a victim of sex trafficking before she was a murder victim.”

  Twelve

  “They brand them like cattle,” Amanda said through clenched teeth, as she loaded into the department car with Trent. Her new friend, Patty Glover, from Sex Crimes had told her that. But it was only part of what had her popping antiacids for weeks after rescuing those girls. She couldn’t get their flesh-and-blood faces out of her head, or the illicit images she’d seen of young victims in a database created by the sex-trafficking ring that she’d uncovered. Though it was more catalog than database. The girls were inventoried like merchandise. There was also a spreadsheet of buyers and payment confirmations, which Amanda knew Patty was still working through. Patty had explained that sex trafficking could take various forms. Some girls were sold directly to an end user, and others were pimped out as prostitutes.

  “Do you think one of the people in the ring killed her?” Trent asked as he started the car.

  “I don’t know.” She felt numb, an old, familiar feeling. The way she’d mostly gone through life since the loss of her family. “Maybe she ran away, and they caught up with her… But why strangulation? Why not a gunshot? And why the fire?”

  “The fire could have been to hide evidence and destroy the body.”

  She looked over at him, not really wanting to verbalize what she was thinking. If they found the girl, they’d just recapture her and force her compliance. All the bone breaks and fractures, the bruising, testified to the fact they took no issue with physical coercion. And to kill her on such a stage risked drawing attention to the ring.

  It was more likely that Jane Doe had been sold to some psychopath who liked to strangle young girls and set their bodies on fire. She pulled out her phone and called Patty Glover on speaker.

  She picked up before the second ring finished. “Detective Glover.”

  “Patty? It’s Amanda.” There was no need for formality.

  “Oh, hi there. How are you?”

  “Not good. I’m here with my partner, Trent.”

  “Hi, Trent.”

  “Hi.”

  Pleasantries out of the way, Amanda said, “There was a house fire in Dumfries, a young woman inside…” She was trying to build herself up to handle this conversation.

  “I read about it online.”

  “She was branded, Patty. With the tattoo we saw a few months ago. The crown and the letters DC.”

  Patty’s end of the line fell silent.

  “Tell me we’ve gotten somewhere with tracking more people in this organization.”

  “I wish that I could…” Patty sighed loudly. “Unfortunately, we’re still working on running down bank transfers.”

  “Do you think it’s possible that those people—the ones in charge—
had her killed?”

  “There’s no way to know without you following the evidence, but I don’t see it as something they’d do unless they had no other recourse. They’d probably just have hauled her back and put her to work.”

  Amanda glanced over at Trent. “I had a bad feeling you’d say that.” Her stomach lurched. “She was only about sixteen, Patty.”

  “It never gets easier. Was there any evidence of rape?”

  “No. Not even consensual sex.” Which on saying out loud, Amanda found surprising.

  “Then I’d definitely say you’re looking at another motive here. I must say, though, when these people find out one of their girls was taken and killed, they’re not going to be too happy, and they might seek revenge.”

  “Scary thought.” But she didn’t find the concept hard to imagine. “Okay, keep me updated if anything comes to light.”

  “I will.” There was a brief pause, then, “Find who did this to her.”

  “You can bet on it.” She ended the call and faced Trent. “We need to start by tracking Jane Doe’s movements. Find out who she was.” What Amanda really wanted to do was knock down some doors—but so far, they didn’t have any to barge through. The clock on the dash told her it was ten thirty. They could work a little more before calling it a day. “Let’s go back to the station and give Missing Persons a try.”

  “You got it.” He put the car into gear and took them in the direction of Central.

  “We could also read interviews from the canvassing officers. All I know is her loved ones deserve some closure.” But did Doe’s parents? They could well have been the reason she took to the streets. A couple of things ratcheted Amanda’s red-headed temper: drunk driving and those who abused women, children, or animals.

  About thirty minutes later, Trent pulled into the station lot and parked. They went inside—her to her desk, Trent to the break room for a coffee. The fact their victim had been caught up in sex trafficking was enough to jolt her wide awake.