Touch of Red

by Laura Griffin

  Sean opened the door for her. “Sorry. Been preoccupied. So, is it our murder weapon?”

  “It is.”

  He approached the reception desk and showed his ID. “We’re here to see Kelsey Quinn.”

  The receptionist smiled. “I’m afraid Dr. Quinn is out this afternoon.”

  “All afternoon?”

  “That’s correct. She’s at a training seminar.”

  This wasn’t good news. Sean knew Kelsey, and he’d been counting on that connection to help speed things along. “Who’s handling Kelsey’s autopsies?”

  “That would be her new assistant, Sara Lockhart.”

  “I’d like to see her, then.”

  “And do you have an appointment?”

  Sean just looked at the receptionist.

  “Sorry.” She blushed. “Let me make a call and see . . .”

  As she jumped on the phone, Sean turned to talk to Callie, who was grinning at him.

  “What?”

  “You flustered her,” she whispered.

  Sean sighed. “So, you were saying? About the murder weapon?”

  “They lifted traces of the victim’s blood and another profile, presumably the killer.”

  “How can we know that?”

  “Because—get this—the second DNA profile on that knife matches the DNA found under the victim’s fingernails.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.” Callie beamed at him.

  “Damn, that’s big.”

  “I know.”

  “Now we need to match that profile with a suspect.”

  “Easier said than done. Did you talk to Ric?”

  Sean frowned. “No. What?”

  “He just called me. The water bottle we submitted isn’t a match with the DNA from the victim’s nail clippings.”

  “Shit.”

  “I know. So, we can cross off Bradley Mahoney, which means we have to go hit our list again. And we aren’t even sure which of these guys are actually blood relatives, and which of them just share a name. We’ve got some legwork to do.”

  “Jasper’s working on it.”

  “Excuse me, Detective?” He turned around, and the receptionist was gazing up at him. “Dr. Lockhart is booked solid this afternoon. Would you like to leave a message for her?”

  “No. I need to see her.”

  “But—”

  “Tell her I only need ten minutes.”

  The receptionist bit her lip and picked up the phone.

  Sean turned around, and Callie was grinning again. “Pushy, pushy.”

  “I don’t have time to wait around all week for a bunch of official reports. We need this now.”

  “Yeah, but you’re going to piss off Kelsey’s new assistant. Not good strategy. You’re going to be working with her.”

  “I’ll take my chances.”

  “Excuse me, Detective? Dr. Lockhart will see you now.” The receptionist smiled and placed a pair of visitor’s badges on the counter. “You can go on back.”

  “Thank you.”

  They clipped on the badges and headed down a long sloping hallway. He opened the door to the forensic anthropology wing and was hit by a blast of cold air.

  “You seem edgy today.”

  He looked at Callie, but didn’t answer. Not that it was a question, really.

  “Something up with Brooke?”

  He glared at her.

  “I’ll take that as a yes.”

  They turned the corner and spotted a woman in a white lab coat striding down the hallway.

  “You must be the detectives.” She stopped in front of them and folded her arms over her chest. As opposed to Kelsey, who was a tall redhead, this woman was short and blond. She was no less intimidating, though, as she looked him over.

  “Sean Byrne.” He extended a hand, but she ignored it. “And this is Detective Callie McLean.”

  “Delighted to meet you,” Dr. Lockhart said, clearly not delighted at all.

  She opened the door to her right and led them into Kelsey’s office. At least, Sean had always thought of it as Kelsey’s. Several desks shared the space, and Dr. Lockhart sank into a chair behind the nearest one, which was blanketed in paperwork.

  “Have a seat,” she ordered.

  They did, and Callie shot Sean a look of annoyance. She’d been right, and now both of them had gotten off on the wrong foot with this contact.

  “Sorry for the interruption. I’ll try to make this quick.” He smiled, but the doctor looked unmoved. “We’re here about the autopsy from Lake Wiley.”

  “The one I completed five minutes ago. I haven’t finished my report yet.”

  “I understand. We just need your preliminary findings.”

  “I haven’t finished my preliminary report yet. I was literally washing my hands when you showed up here without an appointment.”

  Sean gave her what he hoped was a charming smile. “Yeah, we don’t usually do that. We’ve got a situation today.”

  She lifted an eyebrow.

  “We’ve got two death investigations going right now, and I believe they’re connected.”

  “How can you possibly know that? This victim hasn’t even been ID’d yet.”

  “Victim?” Callie leaned closer. “So, it’s definitely a homicide?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact, it is.”

  “What about cause of death?” Sean asked. “I saw her at the scene, but it was hard to tell what happened. The body was in rough shape.”

  “As are most of our cases. Forensic anthropologists don’t typically get involved unless the remains are in poor condition. Which leads me to the question—again—how can you know who she is when we don’t have a formal ID yet?”

  “Jasmine Jones.”

  Callie glanced at Sean. Even she looked surprised that he’d tossed out a name.

  “I saw her Saturday morning at the other victim’s funeral.”

  “How do you know it was her? This woman was badly beaten and she’d spent at least a day underwater.”

  “Her jewelry. She had silver rings on both hands. Lots of them. They were distinctive.”

  “Listen, Detective—”

  “It’s Sean.”

  “Sean.” Dr. Lockhart leaned her elbows on the desk. “Jewelry can hardly be considered conclusive for identification purposes. We have to run her fingerprints. We submitted them, but they may not even be in the system.”

  “They are. Jasmine Jones has been arrested on possession charges, as well as prostitution. I know who she is. Now, could you please tell me what happened to her?”

  Sean waited, watching her, but Dr. Lockhart still didn’t seem inclined to open up. This was his pet peeve about scientists. They had to be 100 percent proof-positive certain before they’d go ahead with anything.

  Except for Brooke. She went with her gut, same as Sean did—one of the many reasons he’d always liked working with her.

  “So. Cause of death,” he said, trying to dig up some patience. “Was she drowned? Strangled? Stabbed?”

  “Manual strangulation.”

  Sean sat back in his chair, relieved to have an answer at least.

  “There’s evidence of bruising in the tissue around her neck, and she was not breathing when she went into that water.” The doctor looked at Callie, then back to Sean again. “There’s also evidence she struggled with her attacker. Hence, the facial injuries. She had multiple contusions, and her right zygomatic bone was fractured.”

  “Her cheekbone?” Sean asked.

  “That’s correct.”

  “Time of death?”

  “Hard to say. At least twenty-four hours in the water. I’d say the death occurred shortly beforehand, within an hour.”

  “Any evidence of a fall?”

  She paused. “Why do you ask?”

  “The dam.”

  Callie looked at him. “You’re thinking he strangled her and dumped her off the dam?”

  “That’s the only upstream bridge. It’s about
fifty feet high, so it seems like the body would show signs of impact.”

  “It would,” the doctor said. “And I can tell you she also suffered several cracked ribs that would be consistent with a drop like that, particularly if the drop occurred postmortem.”

  Sean looked at Callie. “I hate being right about this shit.”

  The doctor gave him a disapproving look as she pulled a phone from the pocket of her lab coat. “The prints are in.” She read a message. “Jasmine Michelle Jones, twenty-two, of San Marcos.” She glanced up. “Right again, Detective.”

  • • •

  Their next stop was the Burr County Administrative Center, which housed an array of offices, including Child Protective Services. Once again, Callie pulled her car into a space beside Sean’s truck, and they trudged across the parking lot together.

  She cast a sideways glance at him. His eyes were bloodshot, he needed a shave, and his shoulders looked tense under his black leather jacket.

  “So, this thing with Brooke,” she said, earning another glare. “I’m guessing it didn’t go well?”

  “No comment.”

  “Well, can I make a comment?”

  “What happens if I say no?”

  She pursed her lips, trying to think of a response that would get her what she wanted, which was information.

  “What the hell, make your comment.”

  “She’s probably gun-shy.”

  He just looked at her.

  “I mean, isn’t she getting out of a long-term thing? And it didn’t end well, obviously, so can you blame her for not wanting to dive right into something new? It probably has nothing to do with you.”

  He made a grunting noise.

  “That’s it? Your response is a grunt?”

  He sent her a cranky look. “My response is that this is an interesting insight coming from you. What happened to ‘ask her out’ and ‘the weekend is young’?”

  “Well, did you?”

  “Yes.”

  “And did it go okay?”

  “She’s dodging me.”

  What did that mean, exactly? Men were so hard to read. Was she dodging his calls? His visits? Or was it more of a conversational dodge, like she didn’t want to define the relationship? Callie wasn’t usually this meddlesome, but she liked Sean and she wanted to help him with his love life, because he was so obviously botching it up.

  “So, what’s your plan now?” she asked as they reached the building.

  “To keep trying.”

  The determination in his voice made her smile. “You really like her, don’t you?”

  He pulled open the door and held it for some people exiting, ignoring Callie’s question and essentially ending the conversation.

  They stepped into the lobby. The place was dated and dingy and smelled like industrial cleaner. Callie looked around for a directory.

  “There she is.” Sean strode ahead. “Farrah,” he called.

  The woman turned around. She was tall and rail thin, with curly blond hair that she wore loose around her shoulders. She looked surprised to see Sean. Then the surprise gave way to impatience as she glanced at her watch.

  “This is Detective Callie McLean,” Sean said to her. “Callie, this is Farrah Saunders.”

  The woman gave Callie a wary look before turning her attention back to Sean. “I’ve been in court all morning. I haven’t had time to go through that file yet.”

  “We’re here about Jasmine Jones,” Sean said.

  “Jasmine Jones.”

  “That’s right. I saw you talking to her at Samantha Bonner’s funeral. You know her?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “In what capacity?”

  Farrah’s brow furrowed with confusion. “I thought you were here about Sam?”

  “And Jasmine,” Sean said. “She was found dead this morning.”

  Farrah blanched. “You mean—”

  “She was murdered. We believe her death might be related to Samantha Bonner’s.”

  The woman’s jaw dropped and for a moment she simply stood there. Then she seemed to get her bearings. She glanced around the lobby. “Come back to my office.”

  Farrah led them through a glass door and then through a corridor lined with gray cubicles. It was midafternoon, and most people were at their desks, either tapping on keyboards or talking on the phone. She stopped at a door and ushered them into a small private office.

  The two guest chairs were stacked with binders and files, but Farrah seemed oblivious as she walked behind her desk and sank into a chair.

  “I don’t know what . . .” She looked at Sean. “Are you sure it’s Jasmine? I just saw her on Saturday.”

  Sean and Callie moved the binders and files to the floor and took seats.

  “I’m sure,” Sean said. “They made a positive ID with fingerprints at autopsy.”

  Farrah blanched again at the word autopsy.

  Callie watched her, picking up everything she could about the reaction. Somehow Farrah Saunders was a link between two young women who had been murdered over the last five days. They weren’t sure what the link was, but Sean intended to lead the questioning, while Callie was here to observe and form impressions.

  First impression? This woman was shocked by the news. Callie had interviewed plenty of witnesses, and Farrah’s reaction seemed genuine.

  “Was Jasmine one of your cases?” Sean asked the social worker.

  She shook her head distractedly. “Clients, not cases. And, yes, she was.”

  “When?”

  “When she was a minor.” Farrah stared off into space. “That would have been . . . three years now?”

  “She was twenty-two.”

  “Four years ago, then.” Tears filled Farrah’s eyes and she looked down at her desk. “Excuse me, I’m just . . .”

  “It’s okay.” Callie gave her a sympathetic look. “Take your time.”

  Farrah plucked a tissue from the box on the file cabinet behind her. She dabbed her eyes and took a deep breath. “Sorry. Go ahead.”

  “When was the last time you saw Jasmine before Samantha’s funeral?” Sean asked.

  “It’s been years. Four, I guess. Around when she turned eighteen.”

  Callie took out a notepad and jotted that down so Sean could focus on the questions.

  “And how did she know Amy Doppler?” he asked.

  “Who?”

  “Amy Doppler. The woman she was sitting next to at the funeral.”

  “I have no idea. I don’t know Amy.”

  “She’s one of Samantha’s AA friends.”

  “Oh. Well, that could explain it. Jasmine had a serious drinking problem.”

  “At seventeen?” Callie asked.

  “At fourteen. It got worse over the years.” Farrah sighed. “That was one reason she bounced around between foster families. She had a lot of issues, and no one could seem to handle her.”

  Callie tried to imagine a fourteen-year-old with a serious drinking problem. She couldn’t. When she’d been fourteen, she’d been an honor student and a starter on the volleyball team.

  “So, did Samantha know Jasmine through AA, too? Or foster care?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Sean paused, and Callie knew he was struggling for patience.

  “Could you think back to her case? Were they ever placed in the same foster home at the same time?”

  “I’d have to check.”

  “Please do that. And the drinking problem she had, what was that a reaction to? Had she been abused, molested, anything like that?”

  Farrah darted a look at Callie’s notepad. “Jasmine suffered sexual abuse when she lived with her biological mom. I suspect there was probably more abuse along the way, although I don’t remember anything documented.”

  “I need a list of those families,” Sean said. “I need everyone in those households, and same for Samantha.”

  Farrah nodded.

  “What other kind of problems did she have? Drugs? Scho
ol?”

  “Well, she was in juvenile detention at least once. I remember that. She assaulted a teacher, and he pressed charges.”

  “He?” Callie looked up from her notepad.

  “A coach, I believe. She broke his nose with a lacrosse stick.”

  “I want his name,” Sean said. “What was the deal with that? Why’d she assault him?”

  “Supposedly, the assault was unprovoked, although I’m not sure I believe that. I always thought maybe he tried something with her, but that’s not what she reported. Anyway, she spent about six months in JD. I’d have to look at her file to be sure. And that was just the start of it. She had other incidents throughout high school.”

  “Such as?”

  Farrah sighed. “Booze in her locker. Vandalism. Shoplifting. I’d have to look up the rest of it, but she was constantly in trouble. Really, it’s a wonder she graduated. She would have spent all four years in juvenile detention, but Judge Mahoney kept giving her second chances.”

  Callie’s gaze jerked up.

  “Who?” Sean asked.

  “Eric Mahoney. The juvenile-court judge. He’s a bleeding heart for troubled kids.”

  Sean stood up.

  “What’s wrong?” Farrah looked startled.

  “We have to get back.” He looked at Callie. “Detective McLean and I have a staff meeting.” He turned to the social worker again. “I’m going to need the names of those foster families, as well as that coach. Can you email that over as soon as possible?”

  “Sure.” Farrah looked flustered. “Whatever I can do.”

  • • •

  The tension was palpable as Brooke stepped into the conference room. She took an empty seat next to Jasper and glanced around the table. She’d expected to see Sean at this meeting, and she told herself she was relieved, not disappointed, that he wasn’t here.

  “That’s not my point,” Ric was saying.

  “I know it’s not,” the district attorney shot back. Rachel was smart and opinionated and a formidable opponent in the courtroom. She’d put Brooke on the witness stand on numerous occasions. “But it’s exactly the point a defense attorney is going to make at trial. I guarantee it.”

  “She’s right,” Lieutenant Reynolds said from his end of the table. “It’ll get tossed.”

  Rachel turned her attention to Brooke. “Thanks for joining us. I’ve got some questions for you about the forensic evidence in the Samantha Bonner case. I understand you processed the prints?”