AUGUST 1972
The morgue attendant hit the buzzer that unlocked the interior door before Jack reached the glassed-off reception desk. Jack gave him a wave, but the kid was already facedown in what looked like a hefty medical book.
Behind the windowless door, the temperature dropped ten degrees. The reception room was prettied up in an attempt to make visitors comfortable—fuzzy upholstered chairs and paintings of sunsets and flowers on the paneled walls. Back here, there was no pretense, just easy-to-mop linoleum floors and industrial green paint beneath fluorescent lights. He passed the medical examiner’s office and the records room and shouldered through the swinging double doors that opened to the meat locker, as the refrigerated body storage unit was unofficially named. Probably been called that back when the corpses had been kept on literal blocks of ice.
“Chief Liddle. Good timing.” Dr. Roberts gestured toward the autopsy area while snapping on her gloves. “I’ve got her on the slab and ready to go.” The county’s lady medical examiner was such a novelty, the Glens Falls Post-Star had done a story on her when she’d arrived last year. Jack had waffled back and forth on what to bring her when he made his first courtesy call, finally settling on the traditional gift from police chief to ME: a bottle of Scotch. Fortunately, Suzanne Roberts drank like a man. She had confided in him once—after they’d shared a few glasses—that she had wanted to be a surgeon. “Which meant I got shunted into pathology. You know why? Because dead patients can’t complain about having a woman doctor.”
Truth to tell, Jack thought she did a better job than the last guy, who would check his watch ostentatiously while testifying in court and who pitched a hissy fit every single time Jack wanted to sit in on an autopsy. Like now.
“There were some hairs on her dress,” Dr. Roberts said as she folded down the cloth covering the body. “I’m pretty sure they’re hers, but I’ve saved them all in an evidence bag.”
“Thanks.” Jack took a moment to look at the nameless girl’s face. The last thing we can give to the dead is justice. I hope we find it for you. “Do you have an idea of her age?”
“Between twenty and twenty-two. Her wisdom teeth are partially erupted, so that gives us a pretty narrow time frame.”
So young. So heartbreakingly young. Of course, the other one had been about the same age. But back when he was twenty-four, he hadn’t seen the tragedy of it. Jack stifled a sigh and took her arm, turning it to see the inside of her elbow.
“No needle tracks,” Dr. Roberts said. “I checked. Nothing between her toes, either.”
“She’s awfully thin, though.”
“Could be on a diet. The Twiggy look is still going strong.”
“Speaking of strong.” Jack bent the girl’s arm. “Look at those muscles.” He felt her bicep and shoulder, solid and well-shaped even in death, then shifted to her hand. There were hard calluses ringing her palm and fingerpads.
Roberts bent over the girl’s other hand. “Huh. You don’t get these being a hooker.”
“My hands looked the same when I worked on my dad’s farm. Same tan, too.” He traced the line along her shoulder where her skin changed color from golden brown to white. He flipped the cloth up, uncovering her legs to the upper thigh. “See there? She was doing outdoor work in a sleeveless T-shirt and shorts.”
“If she’s a local farm girl, how come there’s no missing persons report out on her?”
“That’s the question, isn’t it?” Jack gripped the girl’s heel to squeeze the muscles in her calf and was struck by the texture of the skin in his hand. It felt like he was holding a baseball glove. “Come take a look at her feet, will you?”
Dr. Roberts gently bent the girl’s knee, pausing to tug the cloth into place to preserve her modesty. She examined the bottom of the girl’s foot, running a gloved finger down and pinching the sole between her fingers. “I’d say she must have spent a great deal of time barefoot to build up calluses like this. Look.” She pointed to grimy patches on the ball and heel. “That’s dirt so ground-in it didn’t come out in the shower.”
“How do you know she showered?”
Roberts lowered the girl’s leg and pointed to her shin. “No hair. On her legs nor armpits. No stubble to speak of, which means she shaved within twelve hours or less of the time of death.”
“Barefoot. Huh.” He shot a look at the doctor. “Barefoot and pregnant?”
The doctor’s voice was dry. “The two states don’t necessarily correspond, in my experience. Let me take a quick look at her cervix.” She reached for a speculum and Jack turned away. “No bruises or signs of roughness on her inner thighs,” Roberts said. He heard the rattle of paper tearing off something and then the faint clunk of glass set on the instrument table. “It doesn’t look like she was assaulted.”
“Any semen?”
“Maybe. I’m taking an internal swab. I’ll have to look at it under the microscope to let you know for sure.” There was another clunk and the sound of a lid snapping in place. “No change of color or enlargement of the cervix. I’ll see when I do the internal, but my opinion at this point is that she wasn’t pregnant.”
Young. Working outdoors. Barefoot. Not local.
Jack blinked. “I have an idea where she might have come from.”
“You can turn around if you like.” Dr. Roberts didn’t hide the amusement in her voice. “Where?”
He shook his head. “I don’t want to influence your thinking. I’ll let you know after you do the autopsy.”
“You’re not staying?”
“I want to move on this possibility now. Any chance to ID her…” He had told the doctor before about the Golden Hours, that investigative rule of thumb that said most homicides were broken, if they could be cracked at all, within the first day or two. They were already past the initial twenty-four hours, and the sun was sweeping relentlessly through the sky, an unstoppable watch hand.
“Understood.” The doctor waved him on. “I’ll let your office know when I have the results.”