Page 5 of Another Girl Lost

Larsen squatted by the body and surveyed the length of it. Her gaze wasn’t rushed, and she didn’t appear repulsed. She was intently curious. “The purse might help.”

A small purse lay on the victim’s chest. Whoever had stowed the body appeared to have cared enough to ensure the victim could be identified in the distant future. Killers, like most people, could have complicated emotions and motivations. Grief for a victim was not uncommon.

“The purse is a pseudo–grave marker,” he said, more to himself. “Julie, can you open the plastic and get the purse out?” he asked.

Julie nodded. “Sure. Bill, be ready with the camera.”

“Will do,” Bill said.

Julie removed a small knife from a tool kit, but she waited until Bill was in position with his camera before she pressed the sharp tip into the brittle plastic. The wrapping cracked and creaked as she dragged the blade in a straight line.

When she had an opening that was about a foot long, she set the knife aside and gently pried open the plastic. Carefully, she removed the small purple purse; unwound the long, thin strap; and laid it on the tarp beside the body.

Dawson stared at the purse with anticipation as Julie opened it and pulled out six items: a silver vinyl wallet, a tube of coral-pink lipstick, a brown hair clip, a hair tie, a ring with three keys, and a silver bracelet.

“Can you check the wallet?” he asked.

As Bill’s camera snapped, Julie pried open the wallet’s synthetic material. Inside were three crumpled one-dollar bills in the side sleeve and a license in the clear slot.

“What is her name?” Dawson asked.

“Sandra Elizabeth Taylor,” Julie said. She dropped the license into a plastic evidence bag and then handed it to him.

Dawson released a breath that had been trapped inside him for a decade. He could never remember his ex-wife’s birthday or their anniversary, but he could recall vivid details of unsolved cases.

“Let me run a check on her,” Larsen said.

“No need,” Dawson said. “I worked her missing persons case in the spring of 2014.”

He didn’t need to see the DMV picture to visualize a young girl with thick blond hair and bright-blue eyes that sparkled with laughter. “Sandra Elizabeth Taylor was born in 1996. She was five foot four, pretty, Caucasian, and required glasses when she drove. She went missing April 1, 2014.”

“That’s some memory,” Larsen said.

“Her foster family didn’t report her missing until early June. After the report was filed, I chased tips for a week, but Sandra’s trail was already cold. Foster care, combined with a history of running away, put her low on the priority list, and my boss pressed me to move to the next case. She was last seen at the Shore Drive McDonald’s close to Cobb’s Marina on a busy Tuesday night, and no one noticed her leave. Her foster mother said Sandra had gone out with several guys, including Tanner Reed.”

“Hard to forget Tanner Reed,” Julie said.

“Help the new girl out,” Larsen said.

Dawson knelt and tried to make out the face obscured by thick plastic. Closed eyes. Tight, drawn features. A mouth pressed shut. “I never proved Tanner Reed was connected to Sandra Taylor.”

“Another girl vanished about that time,” Julie said.

“June 6, 2014. Tanner held and brutalized that girl for eighty-eight days and then used her to lure another woman into his van. But his captive called for help, so Tanner dragged her back into the van and took off. The van crashed. He came out weapon drawn.” And Dawson had shot and killed Tanner before he could fire the first bullet at the growing collection of cop cars.

“Think Tanner killed Sandra Taylor?” Larsen asked.

Dawson sighed. “I wouldn’t bet against it.” Memories edged forward. “Foster mom had refused to let Sandra date Tanner, who was twenty-nine at the time. I stood at a construction site blocks from here when I interviewed him.”

“What happened?” Larsen said.

“Tanner never blinked or appeared the least bit nervous. He had no police record. Said he’d shared a burger with Sandra but had broken any budding relationship off when she told him she was still in high school. The last time I had a conversation with him, he was walking back into the house he was renovating.”

“What was the name of the girl who was rescued?” Julie asked. “It wasn’t an ordinary name. Saffron. Serena. No, Selene.”

“Scarlett Crosby,” he said.

“Wonder if Sandra and Scarlett crossed paths?” Larsen asked.

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