Jackson nodded. “Who reported the body?”
“A woman who lives over there,” Chang said, pointing to the lights on the hill across the road. “She saw the car here this morning, then again when she got home from work. It made her suspicious, so she called it in.”
“I was the first one on the scene,” Whitstone reported.
“Did either of you talk to the woman who called it in?”
They both looked sheepish. “We thought it best to stay with the body,” Whitstone offered.
The door on the white forensics van swung open and Jasmine Parker glided out. Jackson was relieved. Tall, thin, ageless, and mostly expressionless, Parker was the best tech in the department. She had an uncanny knack for zeroing in on the little details and objects that turned out to be important. She also never lost anything. None of the other techs could make that claim.
Jackson lifted his hand to acknowledge Parker, then strode toward the Volvo. The witness on the hill could wait. He quickly zipped his jacket. Why were his crime scenes always dark and wet? Sergeant Lammers never assigned him the bodies in the dry apartment buildings with the roommate standing by with a bloody baseball bat.
As Jackson pulled on gloves, floodlights illuminated the area. Parker was already making his job easier. “Thanks,” he called over his shoulder. A small dent near the front of the car on the driver’s side caught his attention. It looked recent, and close examination with a flashlight revealed tiny flecks of orange paint. “Bag and tag this dent,” he called to Parker. He would look over every inch of the car tomorrow in the evidence bay, but right now, the body called to him.
Jackson stood and moved to the driver’s side door. A dark blood smear at the top of the car made him rethink his assessment that this was not the primary crime scene. Had she been killed right here? Right where he stood? He pointed to the smear. “Tag this blood for DNA analysis.”
The victim was in the back, on the floor. The green plaid blanket covering her body had been pulled back to reveal her face. In the glare of the floodlights, her skin seemed luminescent white. Jackson tried to see past the dead, slack flesh and lifeless eyes to what the girl had looked like on a good day. She had been pretty in a pixie-like way. Dark curly hair, upturned nose, cupid lips. Then he saw the scar, a long pink ridge that paralleled her hairline on the left of her face. It was old news for this young woman, but he was curious nonetheless. He jotted down a note to ask her family about the scar.
Jackson pressed a gloved finger to her throat out of habit. The gruesome bloody dent in the side of her head screamed corpse, but he had to check anyway. In police lore, there were stories about corpses that suddenly started chatting with the medical examiner on the way to the morgue. The chill in her skin seeped through his glove. This girl had been gone for a while. A quick look at her hands told him she had not had a chance to defend herself. There was an old burn scar in the web of her thumb, but no recent scratches or bruises.
Who was she? Jackson needed to know right now. This young woman had a name; she was not just another dead body. He leaned farther into the car and lifted the blanket to see if she had a wallet in her pants pocket. She wore no pants. Or panties. Only a dark smear of dried blood on the inside of both legs. A hot rage filled his stomach. Jackson forced himself to breathe slowly, to focus on the facts. There was something odd about the blood. It seemed to have rolled across the top of her legs instead of down her thighs. She had not stood up again after she was assaulted.
Jackson looked away from her wounds and searched for a purse or wallet. He found a brightly printed fabric bag stuffed between the front seats. It looked like something she might have bought at Saturday Market from a local artist with dreadlocks. The print was mostly green, as was her turtleneck, the blanket, and the car. He made a note that the victim liked green, then snapped a picture of the purse in its location.
A small black wallet held her driver’s license. He used his penlight to read the name: Raina Hughes. Her birthday put her at age twenty. Damn. She wasn’t even old enough to buy alcohol, and she had never had a chance to vote. An image of her parents standing in the doorway of their home as he tried to tell them what had happened to their daughter played in his mind. He could see the anguish on their faces as they realized their world had crumpled. For a moment, the body under the blanket was Katie, and Jackson was paralyzed with his own anguish. Oh, he dreaded telling her parents.
“Hey Jackson, want to step back and let me do my job?” Only Rich Gunderson, the medical examiner, talked to him like that. Purse and wallet clutched tightly in gloved hand, Jackson backed out of the car.
“Might as well, since you finally got here.” He gave Gunderson a grim smile. The man was dressed in his usual black-on-black Johnny Cash look. Cash would not have approved of Gunderson’s gray ponytail though.
“What did you mess with this time?”
“Peeled the blanket back. Touched her neck and hands.”
Gunderson grunted, then stuck his head into the Volvo. Jackson started for his cruiser, as a place to sit and look through the purse, but Parker called him over. “This dent is new, and this orange paint is an aftermarket color. I’ll call all the body shops tomorrow and try to track it down.”
“Thanks. Anything else notable on the exterior of the car?”
“The front left tire is a spare and doesn’t match the others.”
“Time to look in the trunk.”
The original tire had been tossed carelessly on top of an assorted collection of blankets, jackets, sweaters, and other warm clothing. None of the items looked new nor as if they belonged to the same person; it was more like a collection on its way to a charity organization. Jackson stared at the strange configuration of stuff. Then he pressed hard against the tire, which gave way under his thumb. Of course, it was flat, that’s why it was in the trunk. He took pictures, then made notes. Blankets, jackets for charity? Homeless shelter? Why the tire on top? When did it go flat? It seemed odd that someone who was thoughtful enough to collect blankets for needy people would also mindlessly throw a dirty flat tire on the pile. Who was this young woman? Jackson took her purse to his car, climbed in, and turned on the engine for heat.
Raina Hughes carried little besides a wallet. A hairbrush, lip balm, a packet of tissues, and a small notepad with a short list of things to do: schedule haircut, study for psych exam, drop off/Shelter Care. Jackson looked for names and phone numbers but didn’t see any. Where was her cell phone? Where were her pants?
A rap on the window startled him, and he looked out to see Detective Lara Evans. On most occasions she was an attractive woman, but tonight was not one of them. She was scowling, had no makeup on, and her short, light-brown hair was tucked under a wool cap. Jackson joined her in the cold parking lot. “Thanks for coming out, Evans. You okay?”
“I’m fine, but I think I’m catching a virus. What have we got?”
“Twenty-year-old female with a major head injury and possible sexual assault. She’s on the floor in the back seat, covered in a blanket, but naked from the waist down.” Jackson tucked Raina’s purse into a brown paper evidence bag. Where was Schak? And the assistant DA who usually came out on homicides? Had they turned off their phones because it was Valentine’s Day?
“Let’s go see if Gunderson has anything to tell us.”
The medical examiner was laying a tarp on the asphalt beside the Volvo. Parker had climbed into the backseat and positioned herself for the lift. There was no easy way to do it. Her end of the body transfer would be challenging.
“Can I assist?” Jackson asked, hurrying over.
Gunderson grunted. “Maybe support the middle as she comes out.” He handed Parker a large flat brown bag. “Fold it gently, please.”