Page 9 of 1st Shock
She waves me off with a strained smile. "I'm not usually this pushy, please understand, but if you can't help me in the next few days, I need to know so I can find someone who can."
Something has changed with her prognosis. I can see it in her eyes, hear it in her voice. How long does she have? A few weeks? Days?
What am I supposed to say–you've caught me at a bad time?When could be worse than knowing you're standing at death's door? "Have you taken a DNA test?"
"Yes, with Family Ties, the local outfit in D.C.. I sent one in several weeks ago after I found my birth mother and she claimed my father isn't black. I thought it’d give me a starting point, to prove at least where mine originates from, but the results aren't in yet."
Picking up my phone, I dial my friend at FT. "I may be able to expedite it, hang on."
Within minutes, I have confirmation from Jeri that Juanita's test results will be in her inbox by the next morning. If there are any matches in their database, she'll get notification of those too. My hope is that a distant cousin on her father's side will show up and we'll have a strong starting point to track down the man who shares his genes with Juanita. If I can get a name, I can check public records—birth certificates, marriage licenses, obituaries. I take down her mother's name and number and promise to speak with her as I show Juanita out.
Hours later, I'm still thinking about how to pose my questions to the birth mom when my mind circles back to Mickey Wilson, dead girls, and what Meg said right before she left my office this morning.A pattern.
I love patterns almost as much as I do squares. Sitting at my computer, I start cross-matching local UIP cases that match the late teens/early twenties profile with possible strangulation and no signs of rape.
Dinner time whizzes by as I delve into result after result. Eventually, I jump from my chair and head to Meg’s studio, ready to bear hug my sister at her brilliance.
5
Meg
It's late.
Actually, not that late, but I've been going since six this morning and my fuzzy brain is letting me know just how lax I've been in taking care of myself today.
Five years ago, I had my first panic attack. It came on suddenly and I swore I was in cardiac arrest. After being diagnosed with anxiety, I knew I didn't want to live in fear of these debilitating attacks and through meditation and various other relaxation techniques have kept them at bay. It's been fourteen months since my last episode, and I refuse to give in now.
Along with my drawing pad, I set my pencil on my lap, trapping it under my hand while I close my eyes. I've pushed myself too far, allowed my emotions to drain my energy reserves. It happens spending time with dead women. Usually, I can push through but the synapses in my brain aren't firing.
I can't let it stop me though. Five minutes. That's all I need for a quiet, meditative state that’ll recharge me. As tired as I am, as much as I should call it a day and go home to bed, something nags at me, urging me to begin my sketch of Avery.
Every case starts with a composite image of the victim. As humans our heads are anatomically similar. Generally speaking, we all have the same bones and muscles. Our differences come in the sizes and forms of them.
And that's where my sketches come in. Some forensic artists specialize in composite imagery, others age progression or reconstruction. Me? I have a twofer. Mine are composite imageryandreconstruction.
The former gives me a blueprint before I sculpt. The process allows extra time to dig deep, to focus and form a connection with the victim, something I need if I'm going to help the authorities find the predators.
"Meg!"
So much for quiet. Meditative state officially shattered, I pop my eyes open, stare straight ahead at Avery's skull mounted on the stand in front of me. I’ll be lucky if I don’t get a headache in the next ten minutes.
I turn and find my sister charging into my office/studio. She spots me sitting with the pad and pencil in my lap and slams to a halt, which is something to behold considering the ridiculous high heels she's wearing. We could feed a family of four for a month on what Charlie spends on a pair of shoes.
But, she works hard and donates more—way more—than her money when it comes to the pursuit of justice. Personally, I think the shoes and clothes are my sister's coping mechanism. When surrounded by violent death, we all need something.
And she won't allow herself to have JJ, so fancy shoes it is.
"Sorry," she says.
Clearly she's aware she's interrupted my meditation, but something has her wired and I firmly believe she's not sorry at all.
She lifts the red folder in her hand. "I think I've got something."
This perks me up. "What?"
"Patterns. You mentioned them this morning, and I kept thinking about an old case, when I was still with the Bureau, so I ran a cross-check using the same markers as Avery. I entered her age, hair color, cause of death, no sexual assault, and a two-year time frame into the system."
My sister's rushed tone prods my weary brain to fire. I stand, setting my pad and pencil on my work table so I can peek at Charlie's notes. I inhale the faded, sweet-yet-spicy scent of her saffron and myrrh based lotion and realize she's had just as long of a day. Together, we'll work through this.
