“No reason to wait.” I tell her it’s fine to leave, and to drive carefully in the wind and rain, as I ignore how offensive she can be. “I’ll see what’s going on with August Ryan.”
Hopefully, he has something helpful about the murdered woman in my cooler. One doesn’t need to be a forensic pathologist to determine that she died of exsanguination after her carotid arteries were transected by a sharp blade. I don’t know how old she is, possibly in her late twenties or early thirties when someone fractured her skull from behind, cutting her throat down to the spine.
Last Friday night was stormy as I worked the scene in a remote wooded area of Daingerfield Island. I can almost smell the creosote-treated wood, raindrops smacking on railroad ties as I went over every inch of the body with a hand magnifier. The beams of tactical flashlights slashed through the blackness like a laser show as cops searched the area.
Nothing turned up except a flattened penny, possibly run over by the seven P.M. commuter train as the engineer spotted what he thought was a naked mannequin sprawled by the rails.
“I hate to screw up your evening,” August Ryan drawls right off when I answer my phone. “Because I’m pretty sure I’m about to, and I can tell you already that it’s not pleasant driving out here. But as I explained to Maggie a little while ago, I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.”
“What can I do for you?” I write down the time and date in a pocket-size Moleskine notebook.
“We’ve got a missing person, and it’s not looking good.” The park police investigator wastes no time getting to the point.
“I’m sorry, is this about Friday night’s case?” I puzzle. “Are you thinking this missing person might be the murdered woman in my cooler?”
“It’s sounding like it could be. Alexandria P.D. called me after one of their officers did a wellness check on someone who’s vanished. I’m on my way to your neck of the woods, Colonial Landing on the waterfront,” he startles me by adding.
I know the new residential development all too well. Pete Marino and my sister Dorothy have a place there, the luxury townhomes an easy walk from the historic district where Benton and I bought an old estate that needs some fixing up. Lucy lives with us in the guesthouse, everybody safely close by for once. Or so I thought, not that any location is immune from violence.
But it’s rare in Old Town. Homicide is an anomaly, on average one a year, typically a robbery, a domestic fight that takes a fatal turn, based on the statistics I’ve studied. Rapes and assaults are uncommon, and mostly what the locals worry about is burglary and car break-ins.
“Gwen Hainey.” August tells me the name of the missing woman. “A thirty-three-year-old biomedical engineer at Thor Laboratories. About twenty miles from you in Vienna, one of those big tech companies off I-95.”
“I’m familiar with Thor, at least by reputation. What exactly does she do there?” I’m writing down the details.
“The person I talked to is the lab director, and he wouldn’t say. Only that she’s a scientist working on special projects, and as you may or may not know, a lot of what goes on is classified stuff for the government.”
“Among other things they’re pioneers in 3-D printing human skin, organs, blood vessels, and other body parts including ears.” I give him the upshot.
“For real?”
“As science fiction as it might sound, it’s already happening.”
“Just one more thing to make life more confusing and our jobs harder” is what he has to say about it, and I don’t know him well.
Friday night was the only time I’ve been around him so far, and he’s what I’d call a cool customer, a smooth operator. Understated. Hard to read. Recently divorced, he has no kids, and I get the impression he’s too busy for much of a social life.
“How do you get a DNA profile from artificial skin? What about fingerprints?” August’s voice over speakerphone.
“We’ll worry about that another day,” I reply. “When’s the last time anybody at Thor had contact with Gwen?”
“Apparently, not since Thanksgiving. She wasn’t at work today, wasn’t answering her phone, which hasn’t turned up so far.”
He goes on to explain that her lab director was concerned enough to call 911. The uniformed officer making the wellness check found Gwen’s front door locked, no sign of anyone.
“Officer Fruge.” August wonders if I might know her.