“Were they?”
Now he grinned as he opened the tubes, handed her one. “For someone who dresses so well, you have a sketchy knowledge of fashion and its history.”
“Roarke’s always putting stuff in my closet. How dated?”
“Turn of the century, I’d guess, or the first few years of it. But it shouldn’t be difficult to get a solid time frame.”
“Where’d he get them? Did he have them already, and she fit the build, the size?” Frowning, Eve circled the body. “Maybe. Mostly fit, because the shoes were too small.”
“Correct there. She’d have been closer to a size eight than the seven and a half of the shoes he put on her.”
“Tougher to gauge a shoe size than clothes, I’d think. Jeans were a little tight. You can see where they dug in.”
“Again slightly off her size.”
“So he already had them, or just needed her to be the size he wanted.”
“Possibly. I can tell you that other than being dead, she was healthy. No sign of illegals abuse, alcohol abuse. Her last meal, consumed about five hours before TOD, consisted of a few ounces of grilled chicken, some brown rice and peas.”
“So he kept her fed.”
“And hydrated. She drank tea.”
“No signs of torture.”
“None, but I’ve sent the contents to the lab, and we’ll have a tox report shortly, I hope. The tat, the belly piercings, the third ear and the ear cartilage piercings were done within the last seventy-two hours. She was alive for those. But her nails? This is a fresh mani-pedi. These nails were recently shaped. Postmortem.”
Maybe somebody who worked on the dead in funeral and memorial venues. Somebody who fixed them up like they were just sleeping for the mourners.
Maybe.
“Bad Mommy—that’s what he wrote, left on her.”
“Yes, I saw the recording.”
“She doesn’t look like the standard image of Mommy, right?”
“They come in all shapes and sizes.”
Eve drank absently, gave a flickering thought to her own. Far from standard. “I guess so. If the victim was a surrogate, we’d be looking for someone about this build, likely this coloring, with the tat, the piercings, who was in this general age range—or looked like it—around the turn of the century.”
She circled the other way.
“Or he just wanted to play with a doll, and has an old-fashioned sense of style.”
She stopped. “The neck wound and repair.”
“No hesitation marks. One quick stroke. Smooth, sharp blade. About four inches long. I’d look for a folding knife. A good, sharp pocketknife.”
Now her eyes narrowed. “A pocketknife.”
“Smooth, short, straight blade. No jags, no angles. He faced her to kill her. A left to right slice, so right-handed.”
Nodding, she ran it through her head. “Makes sense. Why would he have a knife—a sharp—sitting around anywhere near a woman he’s holding against her will? Pocketknife.”
She pulled her own out of her pocket, hit the button to flip out the blade. “But you’re carrying it, you’re done with her, just take it out. It’s more of the moment. She does or says something, hasn’t done or said something. He’s pissed, and swipe. Done.”
“A single slice, no hesitation marks, so yes, it could be in the moment. The stitching, now, is precise, like the rest of his work. Careful and meticulous. I sent the thread to the lab. It may be upholstery thread—stronger and thicker than what you’d use to sew on a button, for instance. And the needle would be the same, thicker, likely longer than a standard sewing needle. More like what I’ll use to close this Y-cut.”
“Not medical-grade thread, but maybe some medical skills?”
“Or sewing skills. Or—sorry for the ors,” he said with a smile. “Someone taking their time.”
“Yeah, or that or that. Or he’s just obsessively precise. No sex, no violence, no torture. What did he want from her? What did he want with her? Maybe the obvious. A mommy.”
Morris laid a hand on the victim’s shoulder. “Now she’ll never get the chance to decide if she wants to be one.”
“No, she won’t. She has family, and a cohab. They’ll want to see her.”
“I’ll contact them when she’s ready.”
“Okay. Thanks for the tube.”
“Anytime. Dallas? She was left at the playground near the house—the house our friends will live in.”