Bones Don't Lie (Morgan Dane Book 3) Page 5

Mia swiped a sleeve under her nose. The cold had turned her nose and cheeks bright pink. “I’m not sad.”

  “That’s good.” Morgan dug a tissue from her tote and handed it to Mia. “Daddy wouldn’t want you to be sad.”

  “Mommy’s not sad all the time like she used to be.” Sophie plucked a blade of grass from the grave and spun it between her fingers.

  “Where are your mittens?” Morgan asked Sophie.

  Her youngest gave her a what mittens? look. “When can we eat the cupcakes?”

  “Right now.” Morgan took the blanket from under her arm, spread it on the grass in front of John’s headstone, and knelt on it. Tears blurred the rows upon rows of plain, pale markers. Sacrifice and heartbreak organized with military precision. It was all too neat, too perfect to represent the turmoil that each and every death had left in its wake. Lives destroyed. Hearts shredded. Worlds upended. She wanted a tornado to sweep them up, to smash and scatter them, to leave these identically shaped markers as broken as all the people left behind.

  A few rows away, an older couple bowed their heads over a grave. A gust of wind whipped dead leaves around their feet. The leaves tumbled across the otherwise perfectly groomed landscape, a reminder that there would always be things that couldn’t be controlled.

  The girls gathered around her. Sophie took the lead singing “Happy Birthday.” Despite her lisp, her voice was surprisingly strong and on key. The older couple turned and watched. The man reached for the woman’s hand. Morgan could tell they were crying, even if she couldn’t see them through her own tears.

  The cold ground seeped through the blanket and the knees of her jeans. The rest of her was numb.

  She took a deep breath and handed out cupcakes but couldn’t eat hers. This had been a mistake. She’d been doing so well for the past two months. But how could she have said no after Ava spotted John’s birthday marked on Morgan’s calendar? Grief swept through her like a fever, reminding her of the dark place where she’d been trapped until just a couple of months ago. She’d almost forgotten how exhausting it had been. It was no wonder she’d done so little for the two years following her husband’s death.

  She forced herself to taste the icing. Sweetness burst on her tongue, bright and intense as the sunlight.

  “Sophie has icing in her hair,” Ava said in a disgusted voice.

  Morgan pulled a box of wet wipes from her tote. She handed them out to Ava and Mia, then turned to her youngest. A gob of blue was stuck in Sophie’s braid. More icing smeared her nose and lips and hands. How had she gotten it on her shoe? Morgan pulled out another wipe and started mopping up icing. In the back of her head, she could hear John’s laughter. Instead of cleaning Sophie up, he would have smashed a cupcake on his own face to make his daughter smile.

  John hadn’t wanted Morgan to be sad either. The letter he’d left her had made that clear.

  “Who’s going to eat Daddy’s cupcake?” Sophie asked.

  “We’ll take it home to Grandpa,” Morgan said. “Is everyone ready?”

  Three little heads nodded.

  “I’m cold.” Ava shuddered.

  “Happy birthday, Daddy,” Mia said. Ava and Sophie echoed their sister.

  Morgan returned the wipe container to her tote and collected their trash. She stood and placed her hand on the top of the grave marker. The stone was cold under her palm.

  Happy birthday, John.

  She lifted her hand, then turned and led her daughters away from the grave.

  Today, she would concentrate on all the things she was grateful for in her life: her children, her family, and her second chance at love.

  She would be happy if it killed her.

  They trooped back to the minivan. Morgan spotted one blue mitten by the front tire. She scanned the parking area and crouched to check under the vehicle for its mate. Instead of a blue mitten, she saw a flat tire.

  The hairs on her neck waved in the wind. She turned in a slow circle but saw no one across the open landscape of the cemetery. Trees surrounded the fields. But still, she felt eyes on her.

  Relax!

  She’d been paranoid since the sheriff had told her Tyler Green had been released. Being out on bail, and with assault charges already pending, Tyler had every motivation to stay far away from her.

  “We have a flat tire, girls. Let’s get you all in the van where it’s warm. Then I’ll deal with the tire.”

  She secured the children in their car seats, set the parking brake, and blocked the wheels. By the time she freed the spare tire from its location and dragged it out from underneath the vehicle, she was sweating, mentally cursing car manufacturers everywhere, and promising to start working out. Loosening the lug nuts proved to be another job requiring muscle she sadly lacked. Once she had the spare in hand and the lug nuts loosened, changing the tire was a dirty job, but no big deal.

  After hefting the flat into the back of the van, she cleaned her hands with baby wipes and climbed into the driver’s seat.

  “I’m hungry,” Sophie said.

  They’d left the house early, and none of the girls had eaten much breakfast. She drove out of the cemetery. “Then let’s find some food.”

  Fifteen minutes later, she found a diner, and the girls fueled up on pancakes. Still unsettled, Morgan stuck with coffee. Ava and Mia cleaned their plates. Even Sophie couldn’t resist syrup-smothered pancakes. With the kids happy and full, Morgan led them back to the van and secured them in their safety seats.

  She climbed into the driver’s seat and shut the door. She inserted the key into the ignition and caught a heavy metallic odor. Cold wetness soaked into her jeans. What the . . . ?

  Morgan put a hand under her butt. It came away covered in dark red.

  Blood?

  Her heart kick-started, and she leaped from the van. The van interior was black, but she could see the stain now that she was looking for it. The entire seat was soaked in it.

  And now, so was Morgan.

  Had she locked the car? She always did, but herding three small kids through a parking lot could make anyone forget.

  “Mommy! What’s wrong?” Ava called from inside the van.

  “More car trouble, honey.” Morgan scanned the parking lot but saw no one. The lot was only a quarter full. The other cars appeared to be empty. “Let’s go back inside and call Mac.”

  Morgan hustled the kids back inside. She whispered an explanation to the waitress, who occupied the girls with crayons and paper while Morgan called the police and Mac.

  “Mac is on his way,” Morgan said to the kids. She kept one eye on the other patrons and another on the parking lot. She saw no sign of Tyler Green.

  “Do you want to go clean up?” the waitress asked.

  She would absolutely love nothing more than to peel her nasty jeans and sweater off and scrub her skin raw, but her own comfort took a back seat to her children’s safety.

  “I’ll wait, thank you.” Morgan wasn’t leaving her girls alone for a second. She hadn’t imagined anything. She should have listened to her instincts. She’d bet that flat tire hadn’t been an accident either. Someone was doing much more than following her.

  She was being stalked.

  Chapter Eight

  Lance parked his Jeep in front of the medical examiner’s office in the county municipal complex.

  He had been to the ME’s suite in his days on the police force, but this time, his role was as a member of the victim’s family. It was a new part for Lance and about as comfortable as a suit made of poison ivy.

  Inside, the smell of burned coffee in the waiting area didn’t help his nausea.

  He gave his name to the receptionist. “Dr. Jenkins left a message on my phone asking me to stop by today.”

  The call had come while Lance had been in the shower.

  Stop by if you can. I have a few questions for you.

  Did that mean Frank needed more information to ID his dad’s remains?

  “Dr. Jenkins is in autopsy suite three,
” she said. “He said you could go on in.”

  Lance swallowed. He’d hoped the ME would be in his office.

  He reminded himself that all he’d see would be bones. There would be no putrid smell. No rotting flesh. No bloated body. It couldn’t be that bad or Frank wouldn’t have invited him in. Right?

  Right?

  But Dr. Frank Jenkins was not known for his interpersonal skills.

  Lance suited up in the antechamber. Gown, booties, gloves. He carried the plastic face shield. Damn things made his face sweat. He wouldn’t put it on until he had to.

  He opened the door and hesitated at the threshold, sweating even without the shield. The other tables were empty. For once, there were no bodies in sight, but the scents of formalin and decomp were permanent fixtures. The smells lay heavy in the air, coating the back of his throat and threatening to gag him.

  “Lance, come on back.” Frank waved him into the room. “I want to show you something.”

  Lance held his breath and waded in.

  Let’s get this done.

  A sheet covered the stainless-steel autopsy table. On it, a skeleton had been loosely assembled.

  Frank circled the table, his attention focused on the remains. “I had my assistant put the skeleton in order. Some of the small bones were missing, but we have a good number. Hopefully, enough to get a positive ID.”

  Hopefully?

  Lance walked closer. “Then you haven’t formally identified my father?”

  “No.” Frank looked up, his face confused. The light glinted off his face shield. “Didn’t Sheriff King call you?”

  “He did not.”

  Frank muttered something that sounded like asshole under his breath. “I’m so sorry, Lance. I should have called you last night after I called Sheriff King. This isn’t your father.”

  Wait. What?

  The blood left Lance’s head, leaving dizziness in its absence. “Excuse me?”

  “It isn’t your father.”

  Lance glanced at the skull. The jaw looked undamaged, most of the teeth present. He breathed through his mouth, but the taste of the autopsy suite only made him feel worse. “You have his dental records?”

  “I don’t need dental records.” Frank gestured to the bones. “The skeleton is female.”

  Shock hit Lance like a cold slap. “Are you sure?”

  Frank arched an annoyed eyebrow. With a sigh of great patience, he motioned to the skeleton and shifted into lecture mode. “Number one, the overall size and thickness of the bones, especially the femur, humerus, and radius, suggest this is a female.” He moved down the table to the center of the skeleton. “Second, the female pelvis is wider than that of a male specimen. Lastly,” he pointed to the skull, “the skull and jawbone of this victim also suggest it is female.”

  Lance stared at the bones, trying to take it all in. “Are you sure all of these bones belong to the same victim?”

  Frank nodded. “We collected about eighty-five percent of the skeleton. Most of the missing ones are small: fingers, toes, vertebrae, etc. The bones are consistent in size, and there are no duplicates that would suggest a second individual was in the trunk of that car.”

  The medical examiner stepped away from the table and lifted his face shield. “Bones don’t lie, Lance. This is not your father.”

  A few seconds ticked by as Lance absorbed Frank’s words.

  Not. My. Father.

  Those were the last words he’d expected to hear from the medical examiner.

  Now what?

  Someone put a woman in the back of his father’s car and sent it into the lake.

  Who? Why?

  Shit.

  Where is my father?

  His visit with Frank was supposed to answer questions, not generate a dozen new ones.

  Pain thumped at Lance’s temples. He’d wanted to visit the ME on an empty stomach.

  Obvious reasons.

  But now his hollow gut churned.

  “You don’t know who she is?” Lance asked. This unidentified woman was now the key to his father’s disappearance.

  “No,” Frank said. “Not yet. We’ll start with any local girls who went missing in 1994 and work from there.”

  Lance’s ears rang. His gaze swept over the skeleton, suddenly seeing its feminine slightness. “Can you tell me anything about her?”

  Frank consulted a clipboard. “Measurement of the femur tells me she was approximately five feet, five inches tall, give or take an inch.”

  “Any idea how old she was?”

  Frank gestured toward a row of X-rays on a lightboard. “Impacted wisdom teeth. She was likely at least eighteen.”

  “The fact that she didn’t have the teeth removed could also mean that she didn’t have access to dental care,” Lance added. “Or she couldn’t afford the procedure.”

  “Right.” Frank waved a hand over the skeleton. “Some, but not all of her growth plates are closed. The clavicle, or collarbone, is the last bone to complete growth. The medial end is not fully fused, so she was under thirty.” Frank picked up a magnifying glass and examined a rib bone. “The ends of the ribs change as people age. Based on the smoothness I see here, I’d estimate that she was in her early twenties.”

  “Any idea how she died?”

  “Yes.” Frank read from his clipboard, then set it down and returned to the table. He pointed to a U-shaped bone below the skull on the sheet. “The hyoid bone is fractured.”

  The hyoid bone was located in the middle of the neck between the chin and the thyroid.

  “She was strangled,” Lance said.

  “Most likely.” Frank nodded. “We’re lucky. That only happens in approximately one-third of strangulation deaths.”

  She wasn’t lucky.

  Lance stared at the tiny, meaningful bone. “So she was dead when she was put in the trunk?”

  “It’s possible to survive a fractured hyoid, but I hope she didn’t.” Frank frowned.

  “Me too.” Lance shuddered. Being strangled would have been bad enough, but he couldn’t imagine the alternative.

  “Do you remember anyone who meets her description in your father’s life? Did your father have any female coworkers or friends that he was close with?” Frank was circling around the topic, but his line of thinking was obvious: infidelity.

  “I don’t know.” Lance did not want to think about his father cheating, but he searched his memories. “No. My parents had some friends, but they were all about the same age as my parents, in their midthirties in 1994.”

  “If you think of anyone this could be”—Frank waved a gloved hand over the skeleton—“please call me.”

  “I will,” Lance said.

  Frank stripped off his gloves. “If she was a local and someone filled out a missing person report, I should be able to identify her. If nothing pans out, I’ll bring in a forensic anthropologist.”

  “Good luck.” Lance left the autopsy suite. He tossed his PPEs in the appropriate bins on the way out. As he walked across the parking lot toward his Jeep, his gut knotted.

  Where was his father?

  Chapter Nine

  The wind whipped at Morgan’s face as she crossed the parking lot from the diner to her minivan, where Mac was leaning into the open door of his SUV.

  “Thanks, Mac.” She rolled the top of the brown bag down. Inside were her blood-soaked, now-crusty jeans. Mac had brought her a clean pair.

  “You’re welcome.” Mac had transferred the girls’ safety seats to his SUV and was securing them in the back seat. “It’s a little tight, but we’ll manage. What are you going to do with the van?”

  “I called a tow truck.” There was no way she was sitting in a pool of blood to drive it to a garage. Besides, she wanted a mechanic to give the van a thorough once-over in case some other damage had been done.

  “Whoever broke into your vehicle damaged the locks.” Mac tugged on a child safety seat.

  Morgan pressed a hand to her forehead. “I didn’t noti
ce when I opened the van.”

  Seemingly satisfied with the car seat’s fit, Mac stepped away from the open SUV door. “That’s because your fob still chirps when you press the button, but the locks don’t work.”

  Sophie tugged on Morgan’s hand. “Can we go soon?”

  Morgan squatted to her level. “Yes. I just need to talk to the deputy for a couple of minutes. Stay right here with Mac.”

  “OK.” Head low, Sophie turned back to Mac’s car. She’d awoken early this morning and would fall asleep as soon as the vehicle was in motion.

  Morgan approached the deputy typing up the incident report in the front seat of his patrol car. He pointed with his pen toward the Rapid Stain Identification Kit sitting on a clipboard in the passenger seat. Only one red line appeared in the test window. “It’s not human blood.”

  “Some sort of animal blood, then.” She glanced back at her van. Animal blood was less disturbing than human blood, but still creepy.

  The deputy got out of the car.

  “Were you able to get the feed from the security cameras?” she asked.

  “No, ma’am.” The deputy pointed toward the camera mounted on a street lamp. “The camera is covered in foam. From the smell of it, I suspect it’s hornet spray.”

  Morgan walked to the pole and squinted up at the camera. She sniffed, catching the whiff of insecticide. “Clever. You can shoot that from twenty feet away.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” the deputy said. “It sticks real well too, so it completely covered the lens. Maybe we’ll get a hit on the fingerprints I took from your van.”

  Morgan expected the prints he’d found to be hers. Anyone smart enough to cover a surveillance camera with hornet foam wouldn’t leave fingerprints.

  “You’ll check on Tyler Green’s whereabouts?” she asked.

  “I spoke to Sheriff King,” the deputy answered. “He said he’ll bring Tyler in for a talk. A copy of the incident report will be available in a few days.” The deputy handed her a business card.

  “Thank you.” Morgan stowed the card in her tote and turned back to her family. The kids were hanging on Mac. Her sister had gotten lucky with him. He was a good man.

  The tow truck pulled into the lot, and she stopped to issue the driver instructions. Then she checked the van for personal belongings before getting into Mac’s SUV.