Erica Spindler: Last Known Victim

“No joke.”

While Tony drove, Spencer took in the surroundings. City Park had been decimated by Hurricane Katrina. The day after the storm, ninety percent of the park had been under anywhere from one to ten feet of water. Adding insult to injury, the water had been from the Gulf of Mexico, and its salt content had killed all the grass in the park, as well as a tremendous number of delicate plant species.

And like the city itself, in the two years since Katrina, the park had hobbled back to life-though to nowhere near its pre-Katrina glory.

They reached the site. With crime-scene tape, Mikey and his partner had created a wide swathe around the first tee. Tony parked the cart just beyond the tape; they climbed out and crossed to the officer. Spencer didn’t recognize him and decided he must be a post-Katrina hire.

That’s the way everything was in the Big Easy these days: pre-or post-Katrina. It served as New Orleanians’ frame of reference to mark time and personal history.

It certainly served as Spencer’s.

Before “The Thing,” as local columnist Chris Rose had nicknamed it, Spencer had been confident he had finally conquered his demons. He’d felt secure in his own skin, his place in the universe, tiny as it was.

Sammy’s murder, Katrina and the chaos that ensued had eroded that confidence, his feeling of security. Now he doubted. And second-guessed. Life, he’d learned, was fragile. The moment fleeting.

He thought about it a lot. One day life was as it should be; the next, turned upside down. A cop always lived with uncertainty, but this was different. Katrina had made it feel…global.

He and Tony signed the scene log, ducked under the tape and crossed to the group clustered around the grave.

Located six feet behind the tee box, under a large shade tree, Spencer saw that the crime-scene guys had gotten their shots and begun the excavation process. Elizabeth Walker crouched beside, watching intently.

The skeleton was, indeed, almost fully intact, positioned faceup. Bits of what appeared to have been clothing clung to the mottled-looking bones.

“Hey, Terry,” Spencer greeted the DIU detective, “how’s it going?”

“Can’t complain, though I mostly do, anyway.” He smiled and shook his hand, then Tony’s. “How about you?”

“Ditto, man. I’ll tell Quentin I saw you.”

“Hell no, you won’t. Tell that no-good welcher he owes me a beer.”

Spencer laughed. Quentin and Terry Landry had been partners before Quentin decided to quit the PD and go to law school. Now he was an assistant D. A. Truth was, you couldn’t swing a dead cat in this town without hitting someone who had worked-or partied-with one of the Malone siblings.

Elizabeth Walker looked over her shoulder at him. An African-American who’d been a child in preintegrated New Orleans, she had a sharp eye for detail, a dry sense of humor and the no-nonsense air of a woman who had clawed her way up and out. “A Malone, God help us.”

“Good to see you, too.” He squatted beside her. “What do you think?”

“Definitely a woman.” She indicated the pelvic bone. “See how short it is? How wide the pelvic bowl?”

“Age?”

“Young, not twenty-five. Her bones hadn’t finished growing. I’ll know more after I X-ray her back at the lab.” She paused, then went on. “Judging by her color, she’s been out here awhile. A couple years, I’d think.”

“By out here, you mean exposed to the elements.”

“Exactly.” She pointed. “See how the bone is dry-looking, without the smooth ivory finish. And sort of a mottled gray and white. Bone is porous. If she’d been in the earth, she’d have taken on its color.”

“Was she ever in the ground?”

“My best guess is yes, but in a shallow grave. The wind and rain have eroded the layer of soil and debris used to cover her. Maybe even Katrina’s floodwater.”

Spencer studied the victim. “She could have been here that long?”

“Absolutely.”

Spencer looked up at Tony. “Shallow grave. Our guy could have been rushed.”

Tony nodded. “Or not cared if she was found.”

Spencer slipped on latex gloves and carefully brushed away some leaves and other debris. Scraps of fabric clung to her pelvic area. Panties, he guessed. Had she been wearing anything else?

The forensic anthropologist seemed to read his thoughts. “A synthetic,” she said. “Nylon, probably. The elements do a quick number on natural fabrics like cotton and silk, but the synthetics can last years. She was dressed. Look here.”

A zipper. Peeking out from leaves and pine straw. The garment it had fastened long gone.

“Can you tell me anything else?”

“She had breast implants. Unlike the real thing, they don’t decompose.”

“A forever upgrade,” Tony murmured dryly. “What a selling point.”

Elizabeth laughed. “Tell me about it.”

“Is that it?” Spencer asked.

“Before I get her to the lab? Pretty much. Except for the missing right hand, there’s no obvious traumas to the bones. And certainly nothing that could be the cause of death.”

Missing hand? For a moment Spencer thought he had misheard her. His gaze went to her right arm, then down to where her hand should have been.

Should have been. But wasn’t.

The serial killer dubbed the “Handyman” had never been found. Between lack of evidence and post-Katrina chaos, the investigation had gone nowhere and been closed.

Could this be one of his victims?

Excited, he looked up at Tony and saw by his expression that he was thinking the same thing.

“Scavenger could have taken off with it,” Tony offered.

Elizabeth shook her head. “No way. Look at the bones, Detective. This was a clean cut. Like an amputation.”

The three exchanged glances. “Damn interesting, to have a victim surface now. If these remains turn out to belong to one of the Handyman’s victims.”

“You think they won’t?”

The forensic anthropologist followed them to their feet. “I suppose your top priority is determining whether one of those hands belonged to this woman?”

“How long?”

“Not very. We’ll get her bagged and back to the lab. Bones are as unique as an individual. And they don’t lie. If one of those hands belongs to her, we’ll know.”

“IDing her would be a home run. Having a known victim would open up a lot of investigative doors.”

“I’ll look for any kind of identifying bone trauma. That’ll help. So will her dental work.”

“With what’s left, how close can you come to establishing when she died?”

“Not closer than I already have. Sorry. I’ll make this a priority and call you when I know more.”

Spencer thanked her and he and Tony started toward the golf cart. “If she was killed post-Katrina, the Handyman is here. And he’s active.”

“Detectives!” Elizabeth Walker called. “We found something.”

They turned back, crossed to the tech holding the item in his gloved hands. He held it out.

An NOPD badge. Number 364.

Spencer stared at the badge, his heart thundering. He made a sound and was aware of the others looking his way. Of the seconds ticking past.

He knew that badge number. Knew it well.

“Slick? What is it?”

Spencer shifted his gaze to Tony. “We have one of our answers. She was killed before Katrina. Right before.”

At his colleagues’ blank looks, he added, “That badge belonged to Captain Sammy O’Shay.”

The information hit with the force of a small bomb. For a moment, no one spoke.

Tony broke the silence first. “You’re sure, absolutely sur-”

“Hell yes!”

Elizabeth cleared her throat. “How do you want to proceed, Detective?”