Shoot from the Lip (14 page)

“Or she had a friend who was a prostitute?” I said.

“Or she was waiting for a bus. Or she was hanging around and looked the part, got caught in the net. The report is sketchy. Us cops are experts at sketchy. She made a deal for jail time served—a couple days—and that was it.”

“You don’t know who she was with when she was picked up?” I said.

“That would take some serious cross-checking of old records, use lots of my time for a questionable lead,” he said.

I couldn’t hide my disappointment. “Gosh, where do I go from here?”

DeShay reached into his jacket pocket and took out one of his business cards. “All is not lost, Abby girl. I did get two case numbers. Unidentified female homicide victims from 1997 who fit Christine O’Meara’s description.”

He held up the card and I snatched it, though I really wanted to throw my remaining pie in his face. “You always have to play around, don’t you?” Along with the case numbers, I read the name he’d written on the back of the card—Julie Rappaport. There were some numbers, too.

“I love to see you when you don’t get what you want,” DeShay said. “Great expression. You could do movies.”

“I will never so much as
visit
Hollywood,” I said. “Not after meeting some of the players. What do I do with these case numbers?”

“Julie works at the ME’s office, and you can talk to her about the unidentified corpses. But here’s the deal. White wants whatever you get as soon as you get it. I think he was secretly grateful you’d be going there instead of him. I’ve heard he and Benson switch off on morgue visits and it was Don’s turn. He hates that place.”

“I don’t blame him,” I said.

“Added to that, they landed a fresh case right when I was leaving Travis. They’ll be plenty busy today.”

“Julie Rappaport, huh? You’re sure she’ll talk to me, even though I’m not a cop?”

He nodded. “Yup. She’s waiting for your call. Nice little lady. Smart as hell.”

“You could go with me,” I said sweetly.

“I have a witness interview in about twenty minutes,” he said.

“I have to go back to that place alone?” I said.

“I got one word for you. Vicks.”

“What?”

He rubbed under his nose. “Right here. Vicks. Before you go in the building.”

“Ah. Gotcha,” I said.

 

I called Julie Rappaport right after I left DeShay and she told me to come to the ME’s office straightaway. Turned out Julie was a skeletal remains and cold-case expert, the HCME investigator who’d worked on Emma’s property when the bones were found. Not only was she the person who could help me learn whether Christine O’Meara was one of the unidentified corpses from 1997; she was working the baby case as well.

The receptionist behind the glass at the front desk remembered me from when I’d signed in earlier. Rappaport must have let her know I was coming, because she picked up the phone and made a call.

Julie came out and got me. Can’t say I recognized her from the other day, maybe because she wasn’t wearing fatigues. She was small—looked like a kid—and wore a black baseball cap with FORENSICS in white letters on the front and a denim jacket that had seen better days. Her dark hair was pulled back in a ponytail and brought out through the back of the cap. She smelled like bleach. I’d bet bleach was the chemical of choice in this place.

Once we were seated in her cubicle, I said, “I can’t thank you enough for agreeing to talk to me on such short notice.” I hadn’t had time to pick up Vicks, so I’d slathered Burt’s Bees raspberry lip balm under my nose. It wasn’t working. Even though this part of the building was shut off from the morgue, the smell of death hung in the air.

“No need to thank me,” she said. “I got excited when you called. Any chance I can put a cold case to rest is a great day for me. We get PIs in here on occasion, but none so highly recommended. DeShay thinks a lot of you.”

“That goes both ways. What have you got for me?”

“I pulled the tracking sheets on the two unidentifieds DeShay mentioned,” she said.

“What are tracking sheets?”

“They tell us what’s been done so far on a cold case to identify the remains, what avenues we’ve pursued, any subsequent evidence that was unearthed. In addition, since DNA from all unidentified bodies is entered into CODIS, we document when the DNA profile was done and submitted. What’s great is that today your client, Ms. Lopez, gave us DNA for the infant bones. But we can also match her DNA against these two cold cases, see if she’s related to either woman.”

I nodded. “You mentioned CODIS. That’s a police database, right?”

“Yes. Used all over the country. The Combined DNA Index System.”

“How long will it take to see if there’s a match to Emma in either case?”

“If this were a TV show, five minutes. In reality, cold cases aren’t a priority when you’ve got fresh homicides piling up.”

“Even the infant bones won’t be a priority?”

“Oh, yes. We’re already feeling the publicity heat on that one. The police need a positive ID to pursue leads, so we’ll run a mitochondrial DNA comparison against Emma Lopez pretty quickly. Fortunately, our facility is one of very few in the U.S. that does mitochondrial. I extracted the DNA from the baby’s femur myself, and we should have the results tomorrow.”

“I take it that’s a super-special DNA process?”

“That’s right. It works only through maternal lineage.”

“If the baby is Emma’s sister, would that hurry up the testing on the unidentified corpses?”

“Maybe, if there was enough pressure on us and on the police, but not necessarily. Every detective, constable, Texas Ranger or DEA agent wants their DNA case to be high priority. We can’t always do that. But wait.” She fingered the silver wolf pendant she wore. “We would have done facial reconstructions on both of the unidentifieds.” She looked down, scanned her tracking sheets. “Yes, we did. I don’t know how old Emma was when her mother disappeared. Does she remember her?”

“Oh, she remembers.”

“Good. Then she could look at the photos we took of those two reconstructed skulls. You have no idea how much I love a well-preserved skull. A good reconstructionist can work miracles—bring the dead to life. I see on the tracking sheet that one of the victims was murdered, shot in the back of the head, but we still had a decent specimen.”

I opened my bag and took out my photo of Christine O’Meara. “Can we compare the reconstruction to this photo of Emma’s mother?”

She smiled as wide as the skulls she loved so much and accepted the photo as if it were a holy artifact. “This is great. But I’ll have to dig around and find the original files—and that won’t happen until the end of the day, if I’m lucky.”

I glanced at the wall of filing cabinets across the aisle from Julie’s cubicle. “Looks like you have a slew of records.”

“We keep everything on the cold cases and save all unidentified remains. Most people are unaware that HPD has no cold-case squad. Those men and women on the force are amazing and do what they can to solve every case, but this is a huge city with a lot of homicides. Sometimes they have to let PIs like you help. I really thank you for coming.”

I hadn’t expected a thank-you. In fact, I was used to resistance during my investigations, especially from government or police people. But Julie wasn’t territorial or controlling or withholding. She seemed to want answers for those left behind as badly as I did.

She went on, saying, “Heck, I just thought of something, Abby.”

“What?”

“Photos of the reconstructions went to the newspaper. The police send them to the press and to other local police agencies. If you go to the downtown library annex, you could research the 1997
Houston Chronicles.
You know the regular library is closed for remodeling?”

“Right. Can you help me narrow my search with the dates of those deaths?”

“Sure. The tracking sheets indicate that one of these women was found in May, the other in September. Apparently the location of the head wound on that one woman was never released to the press. Check the Crime Stopper columns for exactly what was printed. Searching the newspapers yourself will really speed things up.”

I stood. “I’m on my way.”

“If you think your picture matches one of the reconstructions, call me right away and I’ll send this back to HPD as a new lead in a cold case after I take a look myself. With the TV show in town, identifying one of these women as Emma Lopez’s mother could move the case up on that priority list.”

Geeky little Julie Rappaport was a gem. No wonder DeShay sent me here. I wondered if folks had a clue what forensic investigators were
really
like. She wasn’t showing off maximum cleavage like they do on TV, and her battered ID hung around her neck rather than her having a shiny badge clipped to low-riding jeans. But her heart was where it should be. At least they got something right on CSI. Yeah. I liked Julie. A lot.

I left and drove straight to the library, parked and went to the research area, my jeans pocket packed with quarters for the copier. Though the
Houston Chronicle
is archived and easily accessible online, any accompanying photos are available only here. I felt my heart skip a beat when I finally found what I came looking for.

The photo I held next to the newspaper picture left little room for doubt. There she was—Christine O’Meara—the woman who’d been shot in the head in September of 1997. I was amazed at what the artist had done. I didn’t know whether to feel happy or sad for Emma—happy because she would know where her mother was or sad because on top of everything else, Emma might have to arrange a burial or cremation now. I swear, if that girl started selling lightbulbs, the sun would stop setting.

I sent the Crime Stopper article to the printer, still shaking my head at all this bad luck. Several minutes later, as I headed to the library parking lot, several copies of the Crime Stopper article in hand, I called Julie Rappaport.

The receptionist put me through, and I said, “Julie, it’s Abby. One unidentified corpse has a name. The gunshot victim who died in September.”

“That’s great. Now we’ll need a CODIS comparison to Emma Lopez for a positive ID—which I’m certain the police will want right away. I’ll call Sergeant White, since he’s the lead investigtor,” she said. “Thanks so much, Abby. I would have done this myself but—”

“Don’t apologize. You people have to be swamped in a county this heavily populated.” After I disconnected, I decided to drop by Kate’s office and once again recruit her to help me break this news to Emma, Shannon and Luke. How much more could those kids take?

The drive to the medical center took about twice as long as it should have, thanks to early rush hour. But when I found a parking spot in the lot next to Kate’s building I forgave all the buses, the broken-down cars and the jerks who had to be from somewhere other than Texas because they loved to lay on their horns.

Minutes later, I walked into Kate’s comfy waiting area and found Clinton Roark chatting up Kate’s receptionist.

What the heck was going on? I never thought I’d weigh in on Aunt Caroline’s side, but Kate needed time to get over Terry, and a new man in her life didn’t seem like the best way to do that.

“Hi, Abby,” Kate’s receptionist said. She’d been here only a couple weeks. What was her name? April or May or June?

Roark turned and smiled at me. “We meet again. Good to see you.”

I pointed at him. “Back at ya.” Then I addressed springtime girl. “Is Kate still in a session?”

“She’ll be out in five minutes,” she answered.

I took a seat on the mauve sofa—Kate’s latest icky color choice. She tells me pastels are soothing for her clients, but I could only think of Easter eggs when I walked in here, and I’m not a fan of the hard-boiled egg unless it’s deviled with plenty of mayo.

I was tempted to pick up a magazine and pretend Roark wasn’t there, but of course that wouldn’t work, so I said, “Does Kate know you’re here?”

He walked over and sat on a chair adjacent to the couch. “No. Thought I’d surprise her. I heard about this vegetarian Chinese restaurant on Westheimer and was hoping we could try it out. She’s helping me convert.” He patted his chest. “Heart disease runs in the family.”

“She’s helping you with your diet? Last I heard Kate was a shrink, not a dietician.”

He laughed. “True, but I came in here yesterday by mistake—I was supposed to deliver pill samples to a doctor named Ruston. But on the board in the lobby, I saw the name Rose first, and my brain decided that’s who I was supposed to see.”

“Kate doesn’t prescribe drugs. She’s a clinical psychologist.”

“I learned my mistake soon enough. Kate was out here with April and we got to talking. When I heard April was heading to some vegan place to pick up their lunch, I told Kate how interested I was in getting healthier. She offered to help me.”

I nodded. “Ah, so my sister’s a regular Pied Piper when it comes to luring wannabe vegetarians over to the dark side. Learn something every day.” But I wasn’t exactly sure who the Pied Piper was in all this—Kate or Clinton Roark.

He said, “She told me you’d be skeptical about us making this connection right after her breakup with Terry. But we’re just friends, Abby.”

Yeah. Friends. That was why Kate wouldn’t even face me this morning. “Hey, you don’t have to explain anything to me.” This conversation was making me uncomfortable. I walked over to April, who was busy behind the glassed-in counter. “Tell Kate I’ll talk to her later.”

I started for the door, but Roark blocked my path. “Are you leaving because of me? Please don’t. I can catch up with Kate another day.”

“Thanks, but I have something important to do, and she seems to be running over with her client.” I maneuvered around him, the scent of his cologne still with me as went to the elevator and punched the down button.