Page 70 of Another Girl Lost

Margo shook her head. “Wonder what’s in the walls of Tanner’s other former customers’ homes?”

“One case at a time,” Dawson said. “Dr. Malone, how did she die?”

Dr. Malone placed gloved hands on the skull and gently turned it. Blackened blood stained the strands of straw-like blond hair. “She was struck in the back of the head. X-rays reveal spiral fractures across the occipital bone. This was a brutal strike. It would’ve caused extensive hemorrhaging. She might not have died right away, but without surgery, she’d have bled out in a few hours, maybe days.”

“Could she have been alive when Tanner wrapped her in plastic?” Margo asked.

“No way of knowing,” Dr. Malone said.

“Can you confirm this is Sandra Taylor?” Dawson asked.

“She meets the description on Taylor’s driver’s license. She was five foot four, small boned, blond, and Caucasian. That suggests this is Ms. Taylor; however, I pulled DNA from her back molars and sent it to the lab. DNA will work if I can find a family member to compare to. Social services are trying to track down her two siblings. I’ve also reached out to the foster care system for dental records, but no results yet.”

When kids like Sandra Taylor fell into a black hole, it was hard to pull them out. “Okay.”

“I will say this victim’s teeth were riddled with cavities, suggesting malnutrition.”

“I looked up Taylor’s file,” Margo said. “If this is Sandra Taylor, her parents died of overdoses when she was young, and she was placed in six different foster care homes.”

Too many kids who fit that profile. Each added more weight to Dawson’s shoulders. “What else can you tell me about the body?”

“Not much to say until I get my test results back,” Dr. Malone said.

“Ball’s now in our court,” Dawson said.

Outside, Margo kept pace with him, matching him stride for stride. “What are the chances that that’s not Sandra Taylor?”

“Anything’s possible.”

“But.”

“If I had to bet the mortgage, I’d say it’s her. But important not to jump to conclusions.”

“No one in the neighborhood remembers a girl fitting the victim’s description,” Margo said. “I also spoke to the high school, and no one really remembers her.”

He glanced at her. “You’ve been busy.”

“You have a problem with me being proactive?” she asked.

“No.”

“Then what’s eating you?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know how to take this. Us.”

“Us?” She laughed. “Take it as it comes, my good man. We’re cops, professionals, and what happens off-hours is no one’s damn business.”

“Tell that to HR.”

Her keys jangled in her hand. “I won’t if you won’t.”

Red Hot Chili Peppers’ “Under the Bridge” played in the bar as Dawson settled on the stool. Retro, but appropriate. He was in a foul mood. He’d not expected to see Margo Larsen today or that she’d be assignedto the Jane Doe case. Shit. He’d been playing with fire and now was feeling the heat.

He wasn’t surprised she was sharp. Not many officers would have taken a sledgehammer to a wall on the rumor there was a body behind it. She asked good questions. Took the bull by the horns. But shit, what were the chances? “Pretty damn good, you dumb son of a bitch,” he muttered.

He called a cop buddy in Northern Virginia and asked about Margo. There’d been a long pause, and descriptors likeballbuster,steamroller,don’t ever fuck that,like grabbing a tiger by the tailrattled over the line.

Shit.

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