Leann Sweeney - Shoot from the Lip

I nodded. “You mentioned CODIS. That’s a police database, right?”

“Yes. Used all over the country. The Combined DNA Index System.”

“How long will it take to see if there’s a match to Emma in either case?”

“If this were a TV show, five minutes. In reality, cold cases aren’t a priority when you’ve got fresh homicides piling up.”

“Even the infant bones won’t be a priority?”

“Oh, yes. We’re already feeling the publicity heat on that one. The police need a positive ID to pursue leads, so we’ll run a mitochondrial DNA comparison against Emma Lopez pretty quickly. Fortunately, our facility is one of very few in the U.S. that does mitochondrial. I extracted the DNA from the baby’s femur myself, and we should have the results tomorrow.”

“I take it that’s a super-special DNA process?”

“That’s right. It works only through maternal lineage.”

“If the baby is Emma’s sister, would that hurry up the testing on the unidentified corpses?”

“Maybe, if there was enough pressure on us and on the police, but not necessarily. Every detective, constable, Texas Ranger or DEA agent wants their DNA case to be high priority. We can’t always do that. But wait.” She fingered the silver wolf pendant she wore. “We would have done facial reconstructions on both of the unidentifieds.” She looked down, scanned her tracking sheets. “Yes, we did. I don’t know how old Emma was when her mother disappeared. Does she remember her?”

“Oh, she remembers.”

“Good. Then she could look at the photos we took of those two reconstructed skulls. You have no idea how much I love a well-preserved skull. A good reconstructionist can work miracles-bring the dead to life. I see on the tracking sheet that one of the victims was murdered, shot in the back of the head, but we still had a decent specimen.”

I opened my bag and took out my photo of Christine O’Meara. “Can we compare the reconstruction to this photo of Emma’s mother?”

She smiled as wide as the skulls she loved so much and accepted the photo as if it were a holy artifact. “This is great. But I’ll have to dig around and find the original files-and that won’t happen until the end of the day, if I’m lucky.”

I glanced at the wall of filing cabinets across the aisle from Julie’s cubicle. “Looks like you have a slew of records.”

“We keep everything on the cold cases and save all unidentified remains. Most people are unaware that HPD has no cold-case squad. Those men and women on the force are amazing and do what they can to solve every case, but this is a huge city with a lot of homicides. Sometimes they have to let PIs like you help. I really thank you for coming.”

I hadn’t expected a thank-you. In fact, I was used to resistance during my investigations, especially from government or police people. But Julie wasn’t territorial or controlling or withholding. She seemed to want answers for those left behind as badly as I did.

She went on, saying, “Heck, I just thought of something, Abby.”

“What?”

“Photos of the reconstructions went to the newspaper. The police send them to the press and to other local police agencies. If you go to the downtown library annex, you could research the 1997 Houston Chronicles. You know the regular library is closed for remodeling?”

“Right. Can you help me narrow my search with the dates of those deaths?”

“Sure. The tracking sheets indicate that one of these women was found in May, the other in September. Apparently the location of the head wound on that one woman was never released to the press. Check the Crime Stopper columns for exactly what was printed. Searching the newspapers yourself will really speed things up.”

I stood. “I’m on my way.”

“If you think your picture matches one of the reconstructions, call me right away and I’ll send this back to HPD as a new lead in a cold case after I take a look myself. With the TV show in town, identifying one of these women as Emma Lopez’s mother could move the case up on that priority list.”

Geeky little Julie Rappaport was a gem. No wonder DeShay sent me here. I wondered if folks had a clue what forensic investigators were really like. She wasn’t showing off maximum cleavage like they do on TV, and her battered ID hung around her neck rather than her having a shiny badge clipped to low-riding jeans. But her heart was where it should be. At least they got something right on CSI. Yeah. I liked Julie. A lot.

I left and drove straight to the library, parked and went to the research area, my jeans pocket packed with quarters for the copier. Though the Houston Chronicle is archived and easily accessible online, any accompanying photos are available only here. I felt my heart skip a beat when I finally found what I came looking for.

The photo I held next to the newspaper picture left little room for doubt. There she was-Christine O’Meara-the woman who’d been shot in the head in September of 1997. I was amazed at what the artist had done. I didn’t know whether to feel happy or sad for Emma-happy because she would know where her mother was or sad because on top of everything else, Emma might have to arrange a burial or cremation now. I swear, if that girl started selling lightbulbs, the sun would stop setting.

I sent the Crime Stopper article to the printer, still shaking my head at all this bad luck. Several minutes later, as I headed to the library parking lot, several copies of the Crime Stopper article in hand, I called Julie Rappaport.

The receptionist put me through, and I said, “Julie, it’s Abby. One unidentified corpse has a name. The gunshot victim who died in September.”

“That’s great. Now we’ll need a CODIS comparison to Emma Lopez for a positive ID-which I’m certain the police will want right away. I’ll call Sergeant White, since he’s the lead investigtor,” she said. “Thanks so much, Abby. I would have done this myself but-”

“Don’t apologize. You people have to be swamped in a county this heavily populated.” After I disconnected, I decided to drop by Kate’s office and once again recruit her to help me break this news to Emma, Shannon and Luke. How much more could those kids take?

The drive to the medical center took about twice as long as it should have, thanks to early rush hour. But when I found a parking spot in the lot next to Kate’s building I forgave all the buses, the broken-down cars and the jerks who had to be from somewhere other than Texas because they loved to lay on their horns.

Minutes later, I walked into Kate’s comfy waiting area and found Clinton Roark chatting up Kate’s receptionist.

What the heck was going on? I never thought I’d weigh in on Aunt Caroline’s side, but Kate needed time to get over Terry, and a new man in her life didn’t seem like the best way to do that.

“Hi, Abby,” Kate’s receptionist said. She’d been here only a couple weeks. What was her name? April or May or June?

Roark turned and smiled at me. “We meet again. Good to see you.”

I pointed at him. “Back at ya.” Then I addressed springtime girl. “Is Kate still in a session?”

“She’ll be out in five minutes,” she answered.

I took a seat on the mauve sofa-Kate’s latest icky color choice. She tells me pastels are soothing for her clients, but I could only think of Easter eggs when I walked in here, and I’m not a fan of the hard-boiled egg unless it’s deviled with plenty of mayo.

I was tempted to pick up a magazine and pretend Roark wasn’t there, but of course that wouldn’t work, so I said, “Does Kate know you’re here?”

He walked over and sat on a chair adjacent to the couch. “No. Thought I’d surprise her. I heard about this vegetarian Chinese restaurant on Westheimer and was hoping we could try it out. She’s helping me convert.” He patted his chest. “Heart disease runs in the family.”