Touch of Red

by Laura Griffin

  “You guys know Brooke Porter with Delphi,” Sean said as she took a seat. “She’s got some updates on the lab work for us.”

  Everyone knew Brooke, at least by name. His teammates nodded greetings as Sean grabbed the seat beside her.

  “Let’s start with the autopsy first.” Reynolds looked at Ric. “You were there?”

  “Sean and I drove up at six,” Ric said.

  Travis County Medical Examiner’s Office in Austin handled most of the autopsies in their county, which created logistical headaches, especially since the pathologist liked to start cutting people open at the crack of dawn.

  “The formal report should be ready tomorrow,” Ric said, “but we have the basics. First off, he confirmed her identity. Samantha Bonner, twenty-three.”

  Reynolds jotted some notes on a legal pad. “And what do we know about her?”

  “She’s single, no kids. Works as a shift manager at a coffee shop here in town,” Ric said. “And we stopped over there on our way back in. Her boss tells us she was also taking classes at the university.”

  Reynolds shook his head. “Just what we need. A dead college student. The media’s going to be all over this.”

  Sean felt Brooke tense beside him.

  “As for cause of death,” Ric continued, flipping open his notebook, “sharp-force injury to the neck. Specifically, transection of the left and right carotid arteries, and incision of the left and right jugular veins.”

  “So, he slit her throat,” Reynolds said.

  Ric nodded, although that description seemed mild to Sean. Brooke’s was closer to the truth. He’d damn near cut her head off.

  “From the angle of the wound,” Sean said, “the ME thinks he grabbed her from behind and tipped her head back.”

  Brooke shuddered.

  “Murder weapon is a large knife with a serrated blade,” Ric added. “Probably a hunting knife.”

  Across the table, Callie grimaced. She’d been on the scene last night, but the body had already been removed, so she hadn’t seen the full extent of the carnage. You could tell a lot from the amount of blood everywhere, though.

  Reynolds looked around the table. “What else? We have the murder weapon?”

  “No,” Sean said.

  “We canvassed the area,” Jasper put in. “We didn’t find it, so it looks like he took it with him, although we didn’t find any blood trails leading away from the body. But that may be because of the rain.”

  Ric flipped another page in his notebook. “No defensive wounds on her hands or arms. No sexual assault.”

  “The pathologist thinks the whole attack lasted a few seconds,” Sean said. “He thinks it was an ambush.”

  Reynolds blew out a breath. “What about witnesses?”

  “We interviewed the neighbors,” Callie said. “Nobody saw anything until the woman next door let her dog out and spotted the body there on the back porch. There’s a chain-link fence between the two houses.”

  “Well, shit.” Reynolds looked around the table. “You’re basically saying that this girl was murdered on her doorstep and nobody saw a damn thing. What about the lab work?” His gaze homed in on Brooke.

  She folded her hands on top of her file, and Sean admired her calm in the face of the lieutenant’s bluster. “The ME sent us her fingerprint card this morning. We lifted prints from the doorknobs, both interior and exterior, and all those come back to the victim. Also, we found no blood trails or bloody shoe prints inside that would indicate the perpetrator entered the house after the attack.”

  “Why would he?” Reynolds looked at Sean. “You said it was an ambush.”

  Sean cleared his throat. “Well, the back door was open, so it looked like someone might have been inside.”

  “Open as in unlocked, or open open?”

  “Standing open,” Sean told the lieutenant. “Right, Brooke? You made the scene before I did.”

  She nodded. “The crime-scene photos confirm that. The door was open with the victim’s body a few inches away. Our CSIs collected other fingerprints, too. On her car door, for instance. Those belonged to her, as well.”

  “What about the baggie from the car?” Ric asked.

  “I haven’t seen the results of the drug test, but I printed the plastic bag this morning. I got one good print and it belongs to the victim.”

  The lieutenant’s bushy eyebrows popped up. “Wait, drugs?”

  “A little over two grams of cocaine,” Ric said. “It was in the glove box.”

  “So, what’s your case theory, then?” Reynolds looked around the table. “Are you thinking it’s a drug thing?”

  “We don’t have a case theory yet,” Sean said. “And I don’t think it’s a drug thing.”

  “Why not?”

  Sean hesitated a beat. “That’s not the impression I get based on the evidence so far.”

  Reynolds blew out a sigh. “So, we’ve got no murder weapon. No witnesses. No blood trails, no bloody shoe prints, no fingerprints except the victim’s. We’ve got no case theory, except maybe drugs, but you’re not convinced.” Reynolds tossed down his pencil and crossed his arms. “Sounds to me like we got a whole lot of nothing.”

  “Actually, that’s not accurate.”

  Everyone turned to Brooke.

  “I think you have a witness.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Five pairs of eyes bored into her.

  “I believe the witness is a child.”

  “A child?” The lieutenant turned to Ric. “You said she lived alone.”

  “No husband, no kids,” Ric said.

  Brooke looked at Sean, whose attention was fixed on her. She could tell he understood the gravity of what she was saying. “Why do you think it’s a child?” he asked.

  She glanced around the room at all the gazes. Interested, definitely. But skeptical, too. Cops were skeptical by nature. Brooke didn’t mind, but it meant she had to make a strong case.

  “When I first entered the home, I noticed a key on the counter.”

  “You guys collected it for evidence before we could test it out,” Sean said.

  “I tested it,” Brooke told him. “It fits the back door. When I entered the house, I also noticed the pantry door was open and there were some crumbs on the floor.”

  “Wait,” Sean said. “You’re saying—”

  “I think the child was standing in the pantry, hiding there behind the door while the murder took place a few feet away.”

  Silence fell over the room.

  “Why do you think it’s a kid?” Ric asked. “If someone was there, it could have been an adult.”

  “It wasn’t.”

  More skeptical looks.

  “The prints on the pantry door were low, about twenty-eight inches off the ground. So, that’s either a child or a short adult. As I was dusting the door, I noticed cookie crumbs on the floor—frosted animal cookies—and I immediately thought about a kid standing there. So on a hunch I took the door, the cookie package, and the spare key back to the lab and confirmed it: nine good prints, all belonging to a child. Two on both the key and the cookie package and five prints on the door.”

  “Wait a minute.” The lieutenant held up his hand. “Even if you’ve got some kid’s prints in the kitchen, what makes you assume the kid’s a witness?”

  “I don’t assume. I know.”

  “How can you be sure this child was there last night?” Ric asked. “Maybe it’s the victim’s niece or nephew, or some kid she babysits, and the prints were left a week ago.”

  “They weren’t,” Brooke said firmly.

  Sean darted a look at Ric, and Brooke felt a surge of frustration.

  “Just . . . listen.” She scooted forward in her chair. “Do you all understand how fingerprints work?” She glanced around the table, but no one would admit to not knowing. Of course not. “Fingerprints are basically ridges on the skin. Latent prints, the ones invisible to the naked eye, are made up of oil and sweat and other substances that we deposit
on a surface when we touch something. Children’s prints—like the ones at that murder scene—are different from adults’ prints. The fatty acids are more volatile and break down faster. So kids’ prints are much more fragile than adults’ are, which is why in kidnapping cases you can fingerprint a suspect’s vehicle days or even hours after a child was in it and not get anything. It depends on time elapsed, heat, humidity—a lot of things—but the prints can just vanish.”

  Brooke paused to let all that sink in.

  “That explains the rush.”

  She turned to Sean. “What?”

  “You left the crime scene before everyone else.”

  She nodded. “I had to get back to the lab quickly to run everything using a different method. We’re talking about very delicate evidence. Powders and brushes can be destructive. So I used a technique called infrared microspectroscopy. You visualize the print by using beams of infrared light to detect substances, such as salts, fatty acids, and proteins.” She pulled a photograph from her file. The bright-colored image was of a thumbprint from the pantry door. “See the ridge detail? The red and orange indicate oil from the skin.”

  She slid the photo to the lieutenant, who passed it to Ric.

  “My tests confirmed that we are, in fact, dealing with the prints of a prepubescent child. I performed the procedure again this morning, and the red and orange have already faded significantly as the biological material breaks down, making the minutiae of the print much harder to discern.” She passed them another photo. “See? If those fingerprints had been left weeks or even days ago, they’d be long gone.”

  Sean watched her, but his expression was guarded.

  “Walk me through it,” Callie said. “Let’s say it’s a boy. You think he let himself in with a spare key and then . . . what?”

  “The spare key would be my guess, yes. He lets himself in the back door, which has a glass window. Then let’s say he goes to the fridge and grabs a root beer. And then he goes to the pantry and reaches for some cookies. He’s in there munching on one when Samantha Bonner pulls into the driveway. Moments later, she’s attacked on her doorstep, and the kid is cowering behind the pantry door, watching or at least hearing the whole thing. After the killer flees, the kid steps outside—explaining the open back door—and finds Samantha dead.”

  No one said anything. Brooke wondered if they were thinking about what had had her tossing and turning most of the night. The child would have been utterly terrified.

  “A potential eyewitness is big,” Ric said. “We need to interview the victim’s friends and family and find out what kid could have been at her house last night. And maybe the kid was there with a parent.”

  “It would have to be a parent there on foot,” Callie said. “I mean, if the killer sees some car parked in front of her house, he’s not going to carry out the attack, right?”

  Brooke let out a breath. Buy-in. Finally. They were at least pretending to accept her findings.

  She glanced at her watch and pushed her chair back.

  Sean gave her a sharp look. “Where are you going?”

  “I need to get back to the lab.”

  “You mind if we hang on to these pictures?” Ric asked.

  “Sure, I’ve got them on my computer. Those are for you.” Brooke looked around the room. “Good luck with the investigation. And locating this witness.”

  She slipped out and felt an immediate wave of relief not to be holed up in the little conference room. Talking to a table full of detectives was nerve-racking.

  “Brooke, wait.”

  She turned around, and Sean caught up to her near the break room. He rested his hands on his hips and stared down at her.

  “That was a bombshell.” There was something in his voice. Was it respect? Or doubt? “Why didn’t you tell me last night?”

  “It wasn’t confirmed last night. Now it is.”

  He gazed down at her as the office buzzed around them. His silence stretched out, and her stomach started to flutter.

  “I should go. I have a meeting at one.”

  He nodded. “Thanks. You’ve been a big help.” He held out his hand.

  She smiled, amused by his formality. Then they shook hands, and her amusement was replaced by a warm tingle. His hand enveloped hers, and she felt a rush of sexual awareness.

  “Sure.” She stepped back. “Anytime.”

  • • •

  Sean watched her cross the bull pen. She didn’t look back as she pushed through the door.

  An eyewitness.

  A child eyewitness.

  If she was right, then her findings were certainly useful. But then Sean had a problem. A potentially explosive one.

  “Detective?”

  He turned to see the receptionist hurrying toward him. “Hi, Marjorie. What’s up?” It wasn’t good, whatever it was, he could tell by the look on her face.

  “There’s a woman out front. She wants to talk to a detective on the Samantha Bonner case.”

  “Who is she?”

  “She wouldn’t say.” Marjorie looked annoyed as she adjusted her glasses. She wore them on a chain around her neck, which always reminded Sean of his grandmother. “But she’s very distraught.”

  Sean started toward the lobby. “Did she say why?”

  “She seems to think she was on the phone with the victim at the time she was murdered.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Distraught was right. And she looked overwhelmed, too.

  The woman was young, maybe midtwenties, with brown hair pulled back in a messy ponytail. She was juggling a kid on her hip, a diaper bag over her shoulder, and a handful of wadded tissues that she was using to mop up the tears on her cheeks. She sniffled and nodded her way through the introductions.

  Sean led her into an interview room.

  “Is it true? They didn’t give a name on the news, but it’s Sam, isn’t it?”

  Sean looked at the kid. Aiden, she’d said. Sean was no expert on kids, but this one had droopy eyes and a runny nose. “Is Aiden okay?” He pulled a chair out for the mother.

  “He’s got an ear infection. We were just at the clinic, and he’s all out of sorts.”

  “Go home, Mommy. I wanna watch PAW Patrol.”

  Sean stuck his head out the door. The only people not on the phone were Jasper and Callie. So . . . six-foot-three uniform or petite, plainclothes detective?

  “Callie.” Sean motioned her over. She had a wary look on her face as she neared the door.

  “I’ve got to interview a witness,” he said in a low voice. “Can you entertain her kid for a couple minutes?”

  “Do I look like a nanny?”

  In truth, she looked like a powder puff. Five-two, blond hair, blue eyes. No one would guess she was a ballbuster and a black belt in tae kwon do.

  “I just need ten minutes. Fifteen, max. It’s the Bonner case.”

  “Is this the kid?”

  “Nah, too young.”

  She peered around Sean into the interview room. “Aw . . .” She made a little clucking noise. “He’s just a toddler.”

  She glanced at Sean, and he knew he had her. It was the tongue cluck. But all maternal softness disappeared as she pointed a finger at his chest. “You owe me, Byrne. Big-time.”

  “Whatever you want. His name’s Aiden, by the way.”

  Sean opened the door wider, and Callie walked over to the boy, who was running a red race car along the table.

  “Hi, Aiden. I’m Miss Callie.” She looked at the mom. “Think he’d like to see our kitchen? We’ve got some apple juice.”

  Amy whispered something to her son. After a moment of hesitation, he took Callie’s hand and let her lead him from the room.

  As soon as the door whisked shut, the tears started flowing again. Amy’s brown eyes were puffy and bloodshot.

  Sean took the chair across from her. He hated this part of his job, hated the look people always gave him when they wanted him to tell them they were wrong about something they al
ready knew.

  “The victim has been identified as Samantha Bonner.”

  She squeezed her eyes shut and nodded. She was silent for a few seconds and then blew her nose. “God, this can’t be happening. It can’t. I just talked to her last night.”

  “When?”

  “About eight forty-five.” She shook her head. “She was supposed to come over.”

  “I need you to check the time on that.”

  She dragged the diaper bag into her lap and pulled out a black cell phone. “Eight forty-two. The call was four minutes.”

  Sean opened his notebook and jotted down the time. They hadn’t recovered Samantha’s phone, which made Sean wonder if the killer had been in communication with her and stolen the phone to cover his tracks.

  “Take me through that conversation. Did she call you?”

  Amy took a deep breath. She flipped her phone over and seemed to collect herself as she clutched the tissue that was already disintegrating.

  “I called Sam. She was on her way home from work. I asked her to come over for coffee.” Amy closed her eyes again. “I needed to talk to her.”

  “And where was she when you called?”

  “In her car. She told me she’d just closed up. The place she works, it closes at eight, but she has to clean everything, refill the condiments and napkin dispensers, all that side work. It takes about forty minutes.”

  “And did she say she would come over or . . . ?”

  “Yes. I mean, that was the impression I got. I don’t remember exactly, but the call got cut off and she never came.”

  “Cut off?”

  “It dropped. At least, that’s what I thought.” A pained look came over Amy’s face. “You think maybe . . . someone else hung up on me?”

  “I don’t know.” Sean watched her eyes. “What do you think?”

  “I . . . I’m not sure. Sam has a cheap phone. It’s always cutting out and dropping calls.” Amy shook her head. “I texted her after, and that’s when Aiden started crying—he woke up with another earache, and I got sidetracked. He gets them all the time. The doctor said he should have tubes put in, but we haven’t done that.”