Fatal Exposure. Gail BarrettЧитать онлайн книгу.
the evidence taken from the scene.
“Who did the autopsy?” Brynn asked.
“The State Medical Examiner in Baltimore. That’s standard procedure in a case like this.”
“I didn’t see anything about sexual activity.”
“She was twelve.”
“And she’d spent time on the streets.”
True enough. And runaways rarely stayed innocent for long. He flipped back to the internal exam, then checked the diagnosis again. “Here it is. She had scarring consistent with sexual activity. But there was nothing to suggest it was recent—no semen present, no abrasions or inflammation that would indicate a rape.”
He spread his hands. “The cause seems obvious. She was a drug user with meth in her system, and she either jumped or fell from that tower.”
But Brynn didn’t look convinced. “You mind if I look at the file again?”
“Go ahead.” He slid the folder her way. “But there’s no evidence to suggest foul play—no bruising on her neck, no signs of any force. No other footprints around the tower. The surveillance camera was down that night, but even so, the case looks cut-and-dried.”
“She swore she was getting off drugs.”
“So she had a relapse. It wouldn’t be the first time an addict did that.”
“I know. But I still have a feeling...” Pulling the folder closer, she began leafing through the pages again, her delicate brows drawn down.
He understood her reluctance to accept the truth. It was always easier to blame someone else than live with relentless guilt. But unless she had evidence she wasn’t revealing, her suspicions had no basis in actual fact.
Suddenly, she sat upright. He snapped his gaze to hers. “What is it?”
It took her a moment to answer. She thumbed back through the photos again, nibbling her bottom lip. Then she slid a photo toward him. “Did you see this?”
Parker focused on the dead girl’s face. Around her neck she wore a necklace, a silver disk on a matching chain. On it was a design—hearts within a heart. “What about it?”
“It’s not in all the photos for one thing.” She flipped back through several shots. Sure enough, in every other photo, her neck was bare—a detail he couldn’t believe he’d missed.
“Maybe it fell off when they moved her.”
“It isn’t mentioned in the report. It isn’t listed with her personal effects.”
He frowned at that. “You think someone stole it?”
“I don’t know. Why would they? It doesn’t look valuable enough.”
True. It looked like costume jewelry, something a young girl would wear. “Maybe one of her friends kept it as a memento.”
“What friends? She didn’t have any, according to those reports. And that design.” She went back to the necklace again. “See how irregular it is? The lines aren’t even straight. It looks as if she engraved it herself.”
“Maybe she did. Maybe she made it at the camp.”
“Maybe.” Heavy doubt laced her voice. “But I’ve seen something like it before....”
She pulled her laptop from her backpack, placed it on the table and turned it on. Then she opened a folder in her portfolio and started browsing through various shots.
Parker returned to the Walker girl’s file and carefully reread the reports, but Brynn was right. There was no mention of the missing necklace. So where had it gone—and why?
Still not sure it mattered, he switched his attention to Brynn’s computer as she searched her files. Faces paraded past, hundreds of poignant faces of emaciated, runaway kids. Everyone looked tormented. Everyone looked lost. Everyone had that unnerving cynicism in his waiflike eyes.
And once again, Brynn’s amazing talent leaped from the screen, the juxtaposition of innocence and despair wrenching the viewer like a primal scream.
No, it was more than talent, he decided. She had the rare ability to erase the distance between the subject and herself. She knew these kids. She was these kids. Their lives had been her own.
Which revealed more about her than she probably knew.
Brynn paused. “Here. Take a look at this.”
Leaning even closer, he studied the photograph she’d brought up. It showed a young girl standing in a row house doorway, her tight top and skimpy shorts emphasizing the stark angles of her sticklike frame. Heavy black makeup rimmed her drugged-out eyes, giving the impression of a child playing dress-up in her mother’s clothes.
But this wasn’t a game. This girl lived a hellish existence, enduring unspeakable acts of depravity to survive.
And she wore the same type of silver necklace with that same multiple-heart design.
“Her name’s Jamie,” Brynn said, enlarging the shot. “I met her a couple of months ago near Ridgewood Avenue.”
Parker scrutinized the necklace. The engraving on this one looked as amateurish as the first. “What do you think it means?”
“Maybe nothing,” she admitted. “It just strikes me as odd that two runaway girls, both drug addicts, are wearing the same hand-engraved necklace. Now one of them is dead—and her necklace has disappeared.”
“You think they both went to that camp?”
“Maybe.” But her skeptical tone belied her words.
“You think someone killed Erin Walker there?”
“I don’t know.”
But she suspected foul play. At the C.I.D. chief’s camp. An allegation that could create a firestorm and torpedo the Colonel’s career.
Not to mention his.
And unless he missed his guess, her doubts didn’t only spring from the missing necklace. She had another reason she wanted to pursue this case, something she didn’t want to divulge. But exactly what that could be, he didn’t know.
“I just want to find out for sure,” she added.
“How?”
“Ask this girl, Jamie, where she got her necklace to start with.”
Parker sat back and rubbed his jaw, mulling over what to do. He didn’t have to help her. He’d fulfilled his part of the bargain and shown her the Walker girl’s file. There was no reason to drag this out, no reason for him to stay involved.
Except that necklace had disappeared. That kid had died at his boss’s camp. And she had meth in her system, despite having sworn off drugs. None of which proved any wrongdoing. None of which was necessarily suspicious or pointed to any crime.
But Brynn was right. Something about this case felt off. His instincts were clamoring hard. And it was his duty to investigate a murder—even if it cost him his job.
“All right. I’ll go with you,” he decided, hoping he wouldn’t regret it. Brynn was dragging him into this case deeper, leading him down a path he might lament.
But he couldn’t back out yet.
* * *
A short time later, they parked in the alley behind a flophouse near the intersection of Ridgewood Avenue and Garrison Boulevard where the young prostitute plied her trade. His weapon drawn, Parker took the lead through the basement entrance, picking his way over tarps and sheets of plywood to the stairs.
“Police!” he shouted, heading up the musty, unlit staircase to the lower floor. No answer. His heart thudding hard, he called out again. “Police! I’m coming through the door!”