“Signs of abuse?”
“The wrist, and this hairline again on the right elbow. From a fall, landing on the right. Certainly possible she was pushed. There’s considerable wear in the hips, the knees, for a person her age, indicating she did considerable walking, repetitive motion. And see the toes, how they overlap.”
“Wearing shoes too small, like Shelby Stubacker.”
“Yes.”
“Street kid, and not a new one. She lived on the street for years.”
“I tend to agree.”
“How’s the facial reconstruction going on her? She’s the last of them.”
“We can check. She couldn’t have run on that ankle.”
“No, but she probably didn’t have the chance to try anyway.”
“I got your e-mail,” DeWinter began as she removed the goggles. “While we’ve kept the media feed thin, with this last ID, I believe it’s time to open it up.”
“I believe it’s not.”
“Lieutenant, cooperation with the media can be very useful. Not only does it keep the public informed, as is their right, but the exposure of relevant data can and does generate interest, and interest can and does lead to information that can and does provide new leads.”
Eve let her wind down so she could wind her back up. “First, I don’t care about keeping the public informed because right now, this is my business, not theirs. Second, I have a key interview yet to complete, and I don’t want information leaked that could bump up against that. When we have all identifications,” she continued, rolling right over DeWinter’s next pitch, “and if there’s any notification to be given to next of kin on the last vic, we can release their names.”
She’d just make sure Nadine got the final names first.
“You can do the release, make a statement, but”—Eve paused to drive the point home—“no information on my investigation is to be released. No components of the investigation, no discussion of potential suspects, motives, no release of COD.”
“I’ve done this sort of thing before,” DeWinter said dryly.
“Then it shouldn’t be a problem.” Eve glanced at the bones again. “But she comes first.”
“Lieutenant.” Insult, with a thin coating of frustration, shimmered into her voice. “They matter to me, too. I hold their bones in my hands, I scrape at them, test them, incise them. To do that I have to keep . . .” DeWinter drew the flat of her hand down in front of her. “A certain separation. I have to focus on the science. But it doesn’t mean they don’t matter to me.
“I can tell you about her.” She gestured. “How she walked and walked the streets in ill-fitting shoes, eating what she could find when she could find it. The pain her mouth gave her, those bad teeth aching and aching. The last week or so she lived, limping, her ankle swollen, bruised, miserable. I think she had a very, very hard life. Her death, the method of it, was almost kinder. Wrong and immoral and unfair, but almost kinder than the life she lived.”
“Maybe it was. I can’t disagree with you, but her death, the method of it, the mind and hands behind it, have to stay on top for me. The public’s right to know doesn’t even come close.”
“You have a suspect,” DeWinter realized. “You have someone in your sights.”
“I need her face, her name. I need to complete an interview. With those, it’s possible this will break. Until then, I have lots of suspects.”
“I’d like to know who—”
“Why did you steal the dog?” Eve interrupted.
“What?”
“The dog. You were charged a few years back for dognapping.”
“I didn’t steal the dog. I released it from its neglectful owner who kept it chained outside, summer and winter, with no shelter, who often forgot to feed it or give it fresh water. And”—oh, she was wound up now—“who told me when I spoke to him about it to mind my own fucking business, using that word in front of my little girl.”
“Nice,” Eve commented.
“One day instead of taking food and water over to the dog when the abusive, ignorant, disgusting excuse for a human who owned it was out—probably getting drunk, again—I took over bolt cutters. Then I took the dog to the vet.”
“You got charged.”