Shattered Image. J.F. Margos

how she died.”

      Why had she been reburied so long after her death? It was a new one on me, and I couldn’t imagine what was going on, but I knew that my work would be critical to finding the answers. Identification of the victim is the most important stage in a murder like this.

      I began to mix the materials I needed to make a mold of the skull. I had my own technique for this process. I used a plastic material similar to the one a dentist uses for making impressions of teeth. The skull is impressed into the material, and then the material hardens to a certain point, at which time I remove the skull. I then take the mold back to my studio and cast it in plaster. Once the plaster is dry, I begin sculpting the clay face back to life on the plaster skull.

      When I had this skull in the casting phase, Chris showed me the rest of the bones that had been recovered from Red Bud Isle.

      “We found all of them, so wherever she was buried before, she was undisturbed, and the killer moved her entire skeleton.”

      I nodded and looked at all the bones neatly arranged in their proper anatomical order—a now-headless skeleton laid out on a cold autopsy table.

      “Were there any personal effects found?”

      “Yes.”

      I looked at her quizzically.

      “Just this.” She pointed to one corner of the table.

      It was a tattered piece of what appeared to be flowered cloth.

      “Clothing?”

      Chris nodded. “Probably part of a dress or blouse.”

      “So, assuming she was originally buried with clothes, the clothes either decomposed completely, except for this scrap, or the killer discarded those and retrieved only the bones but missed this scrap.”

      “That would be about the size of it. There were no other personal effects, so I’d say the killer ditched them all.”

      “There’s another happy thought. How long before the Aggies have results on the soil samples?” I asked.

      “They didn’t give me a time frame, but they have to analyze the samples for mineral content and all the little microbes they find there, so I imagine it’ll take a little bit anyway. Between your reconstruction of her face, and their location of the burial soil, we might actually get lucky enough to figure this out.”

      “I hope you’re right.”

      After I left the morgue, I tried Leo at her office, but the woman who answered the phone said that Lieutenant Driskill was in the field. So, I called her on her cell phone. When she picked up, I could tell she was in transit.

      “So, you’re out in the field following up on hot leads?”

      “That’s a glamorous way of putting it. I just got through interviewing a rent-a-cop that I think might be suffering from a little firebug.”

      “Seriously?”

      “Unfortunately so. He has all the signs and he fits the behavior pattern. I got him to write out the facts of a fire he ‘reported.’ I’m taking the written description to a psychologist for analysis right now.”

      “Wow. Well, I’m calling you because Chris and I would like to talk to you about the bones from Red Bud Isle.”

      “Okay. Something there for me to work with?”

      “It’s not the original burial place and there was a large bullet hole in the skull.”

      “Interesting. When I get done with my forensic psychologist, I’ll go by the morgue and get the details from Chris. I’ll let you know if I come up with anything brilliant.”

      “So, what’s up with this rent-a-cop case?”

      “Warehouse fire. Fire was definitely started by human hands and not an accident. Three security guards, one killed.”

      “Oh no, that’s terrible! Did he burn to death?”

      “No. Smoke inhalation, or more exactly, toxic-fume inhalation, combined with soot and searing heat. It’s actually what kills most people in a fire.”

      “Who’s the homicide detective on it?”

      “Tommy and your son. They suspect the other guard. I know he’s innocent. The guard I’m working on is the guy who did it. I’m going to make sure an innocent man doesn’t go down. Tommy hates it when I do this, but that’s tough. I’m going to do my job in spite of any personal relationships I have with the homicide team. I’ll tell you more when I come by with an assessment of your Red Bud case.”

      “Good. I’d like to hear more.”

      Inside my studio, I mixed plaster and poured it into the mold I had made of the skull when I was down at Chris’s office. The process was familiar, but never tedious or routine. I always approached my work with the reverence it was due. I was making a cast of someone’s skull—the skull of a person who had been deprived of her life in a cruel and untimely way. My subjects were always real people who had real families and friends. They were flesh and bone, and spirit in my beliefs—and while temporarily separated, they were all parts of a whole and real person. I never forgot that in my work.

      When the plaster dried, I would open the synthetic mold and begin restoring her face. As I let the plaster set, I began my preparation. I lit a candle and I began to pray. Her soul would be at peace soon—I wanted it to be at peace with a name attached to it. I prayed, as I always did, for the guidance to do this right.

      Chapter Three

      The skull looked as if it was covered with pencil erasers. They were tissue-depth indicators, actually, and had been cut precisely to a depth for each portion of the face, based on statistics from a forensic anthropology chart. I had taken the basic information of race, gender and approximate age to decide which part of the chart to use. Now it looked as though her skeleton had some strange version of the measles. My next step would be to fill in between the indicators with clay, the top of each indicator showing me where to stop and smooth it off. It was like connect the dots for sculpture, although I would have to use my sculpting skills to make the raw, three-dimensional “data” look like a real human being. I was intently focused on my work, when the phone rang. I was so startled, I nearly fell off my stool.

      I picked up the cordless handset that I had carried into the studio and was surprised to hear Irini Nikolaides on the other end of the line, distress in her voice. We exchanged the normal greetings of good friends before she broke the news.

      “Toni, they may have found my Teddy’s bones in that horrible jungle.”

      Stunned, I sat unable to form a thought, much less a word. Theodore Nikolaides had been a good friend to my husband and me in the Vietnam War. In fact, it was Ted, my compadre in faith, who had introduced me to Jack. “He’s a nice guy for you, Toni,” Ted had said—the matchmaker concerned that this woman serving in a battle zone should find a proper husband. I was a nurse then, helping put young boys back together hoping to send them home alive. Jack had been an MP there.

      Teddy had talked to Jack about faith because of me. Jack hadn’t attended church in years and didn’t have any particular religious preference at the time. Ted thought he’d be a good match for me, but only if we could share faith with each other. Ted could talk to him about it—share his own experiences with Jack man-to-man. When Jack and I actually met, Jack’s conversations with Ted about faith were already taking hold. He had embraced his faith with his whole heart again and he and I had made a beautiful journey together in our lives.

      Unfortunately, our matchmaker had not made the journey with us. As a pilot, Teddy flew reconnaissance missions close over the jungle treetops. One terrible day he flew out on what should have been his last mission before heading home. His hitch was up and he couldn’t wait to get back stateside with his wife and two kids. He was so excited. I could still remember that magnetic smile as he boarded his plane.

      Then