Missy Hooper. Dental records would confirm what the girl’s distraught parents already had. She’d been reported missing on July 4, close to a month ago, having last been seen by a friend, who’d dropped her at a local amusement park in Paragon, Indiana. From there, she’d placed a cell phone call to Glenna Posner, her best friend, a waitress who was supposed to meet her at the park but who’d canceled at the last minute. Posner’s feelings of guilt were so profound she had little to offer except one important piece of information: there was no boyfriend in Missy’s life, nor anyone Missy’d had a crush on, even from a distance. Whoever she’d left with, therefore, was most likely someone she’d just met. Interviews of park employees by Indiana state police officers had turned up nothing out of the ordinary. The Hooper family had recently moved from Weaversville, a city one hundred miles farther south, to Paragon, one town over from Blackie, where Mr. Hooper worked as a coal separator in a strip mine.
During the postmortem exam, Prusik had had to endure the plaintive wails of a distraught child in the doctor’s outer office. Between swatting flies and having to listen to the sobbing girl, whose mother kept calling her a crybaby for not cooperating, Prusik had nearly dropped the forceps more than once to rush out, dressed in mask and stained gown, and demand that the mother leave the office. But each time she had bitten her lip as she delicately lifted the dead girl’s fingers, carefully scraping and bagging the grit from under each grimy nail before taking a miserably gooey set of fingerprint impressions.
A sweltering heat wave had accelerated decomposition and jellified the flesh. Prusik had confirmed the estimated time of death: approximately twenty-four days ago. Larva hatchlings collected from the corpse were definitely second generation, meaning the body had been decomposing in humid heat since shortly after Missy Hooper’s visit to the amusement park. It disturbedPrusik to see so many larvae squirming beneath the tissue, giving a weird life to the face.
What disturbed her more, though, was the startling discovery she’d made near the end of the exam. Her mind had started reeling with the bizarre connections the discovery forced her to make and then just as quickly discard. She had recovered her composure enough to complete the exam, but it had cost her. One Xanax, to be precise.
As Prusik had finished her job, the drama in the outer office had continued unabated. A nurse, now the mother’s coconspirator, kept repeating that the booster shot wouldn’t hurt a bit, promising the girl a cherry sucker when it was all over. Prusik shook her head in disgust. She hated it when people lied, and she especially hated it when they lied to children.
Too much had gone wrong before she got to Blackie. Police had crudely raked aside all the leaves at the crime scene, looking for a weapon, when it was perfectly obvious the girl’s neck had been broken. She wondered how long the site had remained unprotected and not taped off. How many onlookers had wandered down to see where it had happened? Prusik didn’t believe the local police’s assurances that no one had. How many unauthorized pictures had been snapped of the slain girl and sold already to the highest-bidding tabloid? The snafus were driving her crazy.
From her limited perusal of the crime scene, she doubted Howard’s field unit would have much success documenting which way the victim had fled through the woods, which might have led to the location of vital evidence. Howard had done the best job possible with a contaminated site, she had no doubt about that; he was nothing if not thorough. The business with the feather bothered her—why had he doled the information out so stingily when it was such a significant finding?—but she realized that she had to stop feeling threatened by him. Howard had his own fears and insecurities, no doubt. Alienating him
During the postmortem exam, Prusik had had to endure the plaintive wails of a distraught child in the doctor’s outer office. Between swatting flies and having to listen to the sobbing girl, whose mother kept calling her a crybaby for not cooperating, Prusik had nearly dropped the forceps more than once to rush out, dressed in mask and stained gown, and demand that the mother leave the office. But each time she had bitten her lip as she delicately lifted the dead girl’s fingers, carefully scraping and bagging the grit from under each grimy nail before taking a miserably gooey set of fingerprint impressions.
A sweltering heat wave had accelerated decomposition and jellified the flesh. Prusik had confirmed the estimated time of death: approximately twenty-four days ago. Larva hatchlings collected from the corpse were definitely second generation, meaning the body had been decomposing in humid heat since shortly after Missy Hooper’s visit to the amusement park. It disturbedPrusik to see so many larvae squirming beneath the tissue, giving a weird life to the face.
What disturbed her more, though, was the startling discovery she’d made near the end of the exam. Her mind had started reeling with the bizarre connections the discovery forced her to make and then just as quickly discard. She had recovered her composure enough to complete the exam, but it had cost her. One Xanax, to be precise.
As Prusik had finished her job, the drama in the outer office had continued unabated. A nurse, now the mother’s coconspirator, kept repeating that the booster shot wouldn’t hurt a bit, promising the girl a cherry sucker when it was all over. Prusik shook her head in disgust. She hated it when people lied, and she especially hated it when they lied to children.
Too much had gone wrong before she got to Blackie. Police had crudely raked aside all the leaves at the crime scene, looking for a weapon, when it was perfectly obvious the girl’s neck had been broken. She wondered how long the site had remained unprotected and not taped off. How many onlookers had wandered down to see where it had happened? Prusik didn’t believe the local police’s assurances that no one had. How many unauthorized pictures had been snapped of the slain girl and sold already to the highest-bidding tabloid? The snafus were driving her crazy.
From her limited perusal of the crime scene, she doubted Howard’s field unit would have much success documenting which way the victim had fled through the woods, which might have led to the location of vital evidence. Howard had done the best job possible with a contaminated site, she had no doubt about that; he was nothing if not thorough. The business with the feather bothered her—why had he doled the information out so stingily when it was such a significant finding?—but she realized that she had to stop feeling threatened by him. Howard had his own fears and insecurities, no doubt. Alienating him
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