Where the Lost Girls Go

by R. J. Noonan

  “With Kent Jameson’s fame, this is going to draw a lot of media attention to Sunrise Lake. Cribben wants to bring in someone more experienced, and the Jamesons are used to dealing with Brown and Garcia, but those two aren’t quite right for the case, and frankly, I don’t understand why they were handpicked to serve the people in the Stafford Woods community.”

  I had always wondered why the two laziest cops in the department were rewarded with a plum detail. But when I’d asked Cranston about them, he’d told me it was all about the chief keeping the Jamesons happy.

  “Maybe Zion Frazier would be a good fit.” Frazier was a thirtyish cop, African American, talkative, and brash. He had fallen out of favor with the big brass before I was hired, and the chief had removed him from patrol and put him into a bogus position as school safety officer. Rumor had it that Frazier had filed a discrimination complaint against the department, ruffling everyone’s feathers. Everyone but the imminently fair Omak. “Frazier has a few years on you.”

  “He does. But that’s beside the point.” I kept my voice low and steady, my eyes on the road. I wanted this case. I wanted to show what I was made of. “You don’t need an experienced cop to conduct an unexplained death investigation. I can handle this.”

  “That’s what I told Chief Cribben. I convinced him to give you a shot for now.”

  “Thanks, Lou.” I bit back a smile, pleased at the lieutenant’s show of confidence in my work.

  “Don’t thank me. Just get it done right. You’re the lead investigator, Mori. Don’t screw it up.”

  I nodded. “When you were alone with Jameson, how did he seem?”

  “Distraught but hopeful. He’s got this mercurial temperament that’s hard to pin down.”

  “Did you gain any insight into his relationship with Lucy?”

  “He was genuinely worried about her, but he could suck it up long enough to show me the cars.”

  “Creative genius?”

  “Probably more genius than nutjob. We’ll need to interview both Jamesons in depth tomorrow.”

  * * *

  As the police vehicle rolled out of the ranch, its lights flickered through the trees, nipping at the observer who stood watching from the forest. Enough of a flash of light to get the heart racing. This was no time to be caught spying, but the woods provided excellent cover for many forms of evil. Here in the underbrush, innocence was lost, promises were broken, and dead things rotted and festered underfoot. A scream could fall away in the forest without making a sound. A violent blow was easily muffled by carpets of moss, the wandering vegetation, the canopy of leaves, and bristly needles.

  And so many places to hide. Darkness, underbrush, fat trunks of granddaddy fir trees reaching into the sky, as if trying to escape the dank underworld. Cool, musky pockets of evil at every twist and turn. The police would not find them back here. The cops couldn’t hear the cries and whimpers. They could not replay the past or retrace fatal steps. Terrible things had trembled through this forest, but those secrets were buried now.

  As the priests said on Ash Wednesday, “Remember, man, that you were dust, and unto dust you shall return.”

  The earth was made of human dust and dirt, living remains and brittle hair. Every day people stepped on skin flakes and old bones. A person might forget that when walking down an asphalt street or crossing a grassy lawn. But here, with a soft carpet of humus underfoot, the smell and feel of decay never receded.

  The woods were full of dead things, but the cops wouldn’t see that. Just as they hadn’t noticed anything in the glimmer of their headlights tonight.

  Funny how people could stare into the darkness and see only what they wanted to see.

  4

  As we headed back toward town, the lieutenant and I talked through the next steps in the investigation. In a municipality the size of Sunrise Lake, the police department is one of many small-town law enforcement agencies that pool resources. The Oregon State Police process our serious highway accidents. We share some county resources like the morgue and forensics lab. Overnight lodging of offenders—mostly DUIs—takes place at the Clackamas County Sheriff’s Office. Police departments across the state of Oregon send their recruits to the Oregon Police Academy outside Salem—a state requirement. And, of course, when you have a federal crime like bank robbery, kidnapping, or serial homicide, the Federal Bureau of Investigation sends a team to work the investigation. I like to think of it as a big family whose members work together and share their diverse skills, though, I admit, that’s a bit optimistic.

  “We’ll go straight to the lab,” Omak advised. “I’ll wait while you deliver the samples to forensics and check on the autopsy.”

  I suspected he’d continue fielding calls during the wait. Already he’d been on the phone twice with the police chief and once with the mayor. Sunrise Lake’s leaders were worried about their famous resident.

  The building that housed the lab and morgue was a one-story rectangle with small slits for windows. Omak was on a new call when I carried the box inside to drop off the samples. This was easier said than done. Unlike forensic units I’d seen on TV, where you could peer into a laboratory with microscopes and spinners and high-tech gizmos, our lab was a room beyond a concrete wall and a steel door, which was currently locked. Were they closed? It was 23:12. Maybe they were only open during day shifts. I was about to turn back to the front of the building where a sleepy cop sat at the security desk, manning the log, when the steel door opened from inside.

  “Oh, you’re there. I thought you might be closed. The door was locked.”

  “Did you knock?” asked the young man with a carved section of blond hair on the front of his head. That hair sculpture looked very stiff, as if it crackled at night when he pressed into his pillow. The bright hair contrasted with his mocha skin, and he wore a necktie that he’d tucked into his shirt under the second button. “You didn’t knock. People never do. It’s like they’re raised in a barn.”

  “So you’re open?”

  “We are tonight. Got a special case coming in. Somebody crashed Kent Jameson’s car.” He squinted. “Wait. Izzat your case?”

  “It is. I’m Laura Mori, the lead investigator.” Dang, it felt good to say that. I didn’t think any kind of case would land in my lap until I had a few months on patrol, but Cranston had timed his vacation perfectly.

  The lab tech, Rex Burns, helped me log in data on Lucy Jameson as well as the possible DNA samples like the hairbrush, toothbrush, and nail collection. Each sample was stickered with a bar code that was easily scanned into the computer for tracking. I explained that we were looking for a match to the corpse being autopsied next door.

  “Car crash Jane Doe,” he said as he typed. “Amazing how many Janes come through here.” His flip demeanor was welcome considering the late hour and my dread of the morgue no more than a few feet from where I stood. “There’s no incident report on file yet. You’re going to need to input the data on the possible match, this Lucy Jameson. Here. Use this terminal.” He set me up and I entered the information. Later on, back at the precinct, I would have to add my incident report of the crash to this case file.

  Rex thanked me for giving him overtime, a sarcastic thank-you, then directed me to the morgue.

  “I know where the morgue is,” I said.

  “Then why are you still here? Oh, you remember the smell. Or the sound of the saw. Greeee!”

  “Really?” I cocked my head to one side and gave him a weary look. “Dude, is this your rap?”

  “Ha ha! All day, every day.” Rex waved at the air. “I’m just funning with you. Breaking the ice. No one can stomach that place.”

  “Funny. But thanks for your help.” I pulled the heavy door open and gave it a knock. “Steel door. Good thinking. Zombies can’t break through steel.”

  “Touché, girl,” he called as I headed out.

  The door to the medical examiner’s office was open, and I stepped into the cold laced with an antiseptic smell. My stom
ach curled in a mixture of dread and nausea as the memory of my training visit here was suddenly replayed in my mind. The glass wall on my left revealed an office with cubicles and desks. On the right was the refrigerated room where a corpse-sized mound lay covered by a blue sheet on one of the exam tables. I stared. Was that Jane Doe?

  “Can I help you?” A short Filipino woman in a scrub suit and rubber apron emerged from the office. Dr. Blanca Viloria was casually braiding her long dark hair behind her. I recognized her from my orientation.

  “Dr. Viloria, I’m Laura Mori, investigating the car crash on Stafford Road.”

  “Okay. I was just getting a look at your corpse. The face is badly burned. The dermal layer is split, so I’m glad you didn’t bring family in to try to ID her. That would have been traumatic.”

  “I dropped some of her personal items off at the lab next door. Our first priority is to identify her, and, as I guess you’ve heard, there’s sort of a rush on it.”

  “Sort of a rush?” Her brows drew close in harsh lines. “Not sounding too decisive, Officer.”

  “Definitely a rush,” I corrected.

  “Better. That’s why I’m here.” She finished braiding her hair and tied on a surgical hat. “I don’t remember the last time I was called in at night for an autopsy. When I worked in LA, yeah, but never here. We’re just about to get started. Anything special you’re looking for?”

  “ID and cause of death. Single car crash. You’ll need to check for alcohol and drugs in the system.”

  Dr. Viloria was nodding. “We always do.”

  “And when will we have results?” I asked, knowing the usual postmortem report took weeks.

  “My initial exam will take at least four hours, depending on whether we find disease or complications. It takes only a few hours to run her prints, but she may not have fingerprints on file. After that, we look at tissue slides and send out samples for additional tests. Since a corpse can’t blow, we’ll need to do a blood analysis for alcohol, so we’re looking at three days for that.”

  “Do you think we could have something on her identity by tomorrow?” I asked politely.

  “Well, that’s why I’m here working a late shift. We’ll do our best. Did you input data on the suspected ID of the victim?”

  “Yes. Lucy Jameson, seventeen years old.”

  “The author’s daughter? That’s tragic. I’ve always liked his books. He gets the forensic details right. Have you ever read him?”

  I told her I hadn’t, then thanked her as she turned away.

  In the name of manners, I had to restrain myself from running down the hall to escape. The smell in a morgue tells you that death is not a pleasant thing for a human body.

  It was well after midnight when I pulled the supervisor’s Jeep into the parking lot of the precinct, and I wasn’t done yet. I had to get my incident report in before I left, and I was eager to sift through some of the notes and journal entries collected from Lucy Jameson’s room. I handed the lieutenant the keys, but he waved me off. “Just put them on the key board behind the desk and sign the vehicle in.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Omak nodded. “Nice work, Mori.”

  “Thanks.” Although I had procedure down pat—I had been at the top of my class at the academy—it had been helpful to have him there, talking me through the process. Lt. Omak’s mentoring skills put Cranston to shame. Charlie Omak was a hero. A graduate of West Point, he’d served in Afghanistan as an Army Ranger. After that, he’d served as a cop for eight years with the Tacoma police. He knew police work a thousand times better than Cranston, and he wasn’t a dick. That was saying a lot. After working with him tonight, I wasn’t so intimidated by him anymore. He might be stiff and brusque, but he was a fair man.

  “I’ll be in my office,” the lieutenant said. “Let me know when you have the incident report.”

  It dawned on me that he couldn’t go anywhere until he signed off on the report. For any other case, the sergeant on duty could okay it, but Omak had to give this one his attention. It was all on me right now. No pressure.

  In the evidence room, the moon-faced property clerk, an older man with a box of Hostess CupCakes on his desk, perked up at the mention of the Stafford Road Jane Doe.

  “I heard about the crash,” Officer Wilkins said. “That’s the homicide with the mystery writer’s car, right?”

  “Right now we’re treating it as a possible homicide. It’s an unexplained death.” Even cops spread rumors. It had only been a few hours and already the narrative of a simple car crash had been embellished and pumped up like the SpongeBob balloon in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade.

  I sat down at the computer, accessed our report database, and pulled up the report that Cranston had started. Aside from the time, date, and name of the fire squads on the scene, it was basically garbage. I would have to start from scratch. Plus, I needed to transcribe the witness statements that I had recorded at the crash site. It was overwhelming.

  One of my father’s pearls of wisdom came to mind. How do you dig yourself out? One shovelful a time.

  * * *

  Charlie Omak scrolled through Mori’s incident report on the Stafford Road crash, half-grinning at the simple, linear narrative, the thorough details, the flawless spelling and grammar. The witnesses’ statements were clear and concise. Vehicle information was in order. She’d listed all the departments that were following up with reports, including Highway, Forensics, Medical Examiner. She’d included an inventory of vouchered evidence. Her timeline started with the initial call about the crash at 19:45 and ended with delivery of samples to the lab at 23:12. She’d contacted the impound lot and asked for a mechanic to examine the wreck and determine factors contributing to the cause of the crash ASAP.

  This was one beautiful report.

  Mori had the makings of a fine cop. That rookie eagerness, that sincerity, those were the qualities at the heart of this job. With some experience, she’d gain confidence and solid footing. The moral center was already there. It was a kick in the gut when he thought of some of the good cops that had been hung out to dry by the dirtbags masquerading as cops in this department.

  His phone buzzed. A call from the chief of police, Buzz Cribben. Again. Behind closed doors, most cops called him Chief Crappin’. The chief had earned the nickname for two reasons: One, he spent most days reading magazines while sitting on the bowl in the executive office’s en suite bathroom. Two, when faced with a crisis, Cribben crapped out, literally and figuratively. The pudgy, pale Irishman could have you in stitches when he was on, but most of the time he was a bundle of nerves, worried more about covering his ass than protecting the men and women on the force.

  “Yes, Chief?”

  “Yeah, so I was just talking to the mayor, and he’s sending flowers over.”

  “To the Jamesons?”

  “No, the Fockers. Of course the Jamesons.”

  “But, Chief, we don’t have a positive ID on the victim yet. It may not be their daughter.”

  “You know it is. I’m thinking I should send flowers, too.”

  The level of ass kissing for the Jamesons was about to reach new heights.

  “Chief . . . Buzz, no. Please, not yet. Too soon.”

  “And I’ll be the one looking like a dick when the Jamesons get sympathy flowers from everyone but me. You don’t understand the political ramifications, Lieutenant.”

  “Politics elude me, Chief.” Omak had no taste for the game. “But I think you want to give the Jamesons some space right now. At least until we know what we’re dealing with. Wait a day or two and then send your flowers.” Fucking flowers.

  Omak checked his watch, wondering if Gina was still up waiting for him with a book in hand and Colbert on the TV. The kids would be asleep, but that was how his nightly inventory went on this shift. Kisses for the girls, curled up under their matching blue princess comforters. And then a quick check on the baby, a furtive rub of his fuzzy dark hair, moving stealthily because Gi
na would be pissed if he woke their son. Hell, with these four-to-twelves, night stalking was the only way he could be sure of seeing his kids at all during the school week. And now he would be working overtime until this case with the Jamesons’ car was resolved.

  He wrote his endorsement of Mori’s incident report and forwarded it to the chief, then sent a copy to the mayor. Done and done.

  Phone to his ear, he rose from his desk and paced the office, walked the hallway, circled the squad room to the water cooler. He was not going to turn into a fat-assed desk cop tucking away donuts. At last he convinced Buzz Cribben to forgo the flowers for now, and they ended the call. Thank God.

  He found Mori at her desk, reading over a notebook filled with handwritten scribbles and doodled stars.

  “Is that the diary from Lucy’s room?” he asked.

  “Yes, and there may be something here. She seems to have had a crush on someone. An older man. If the relationship ended badly, suicide could be a possibility.”

  “Could be. I signed off on your report. Nice work.” He would save the report-writing praise for some other time when they were rested and fed. “Time to call it a day.”

  She smoothed down the page of the notebook. “Good reading. It will be hard to tear myself away.”

  “It’ll be here in the morning, so come in early. You’re authorized for overtime to work on this case.”

  “Okay, then.” She closed the book. “Good night, Lou.”

  “Safe home.” Remorse squeezed at his conscience as he turned away. He probably shouldn’t have said that. He would never have said it to a male cop, and thus it was a discriminatory workplace remark. He believed Laura Mori could handle herself, but at the same time, there was a vulnerability there that needed protection. A vulnerability that reminded him of his kid sister.