Free Thread of Fear by Laura Griffin Page A

from her bag and un-screwed the lid. After dabbing some Vicks under her nose,she sat down and felt the cold, hard chair through her jeans. She shivered briefly, and was grateful to Jack once again for the loan of his flannel shirt.
    She snapped on a pair of light blue surgical gloves. Then she pulled the cloth back from the face and tucked it in around the girl’s shoulders, all the while going through the mental routine she used to ease herself into the task. Hispanic female. Estimated age, sixteen or seventeen. Height, five-foot-two. Weight, one hundred and six pounds. Name, unknown. These details and others had been provided in the preliminary autopsy report, which the medical examiner had shared with her. The report also had been accompanied by several well-intentioned but practically useless Polaroids.
    Many autopsy photos were taken with the victim lying down, giving little thought to scale, lighting, or the effects of gravity. To get a useful picture, the photographer would have to wait for rigor mortis to pass, then prop the body up, letting the tissues hang naturally, and strategically place a ruler or some other object to show scale. But many morgues didn’t go through all that, meaning Fiona was usually better off drawing directly from the body itself if it was available rather than a photograph.
    Fiona spent a quiet moment now simply looking at the girl.
    She’d been pretty, Fiona saw right off. The brown, slightly shriveled appearance of her lips and eyelids didn’t mask her attractiveness to someone accustomed to seeing death. Her right temple and upper lip showed several moderate lacerations, and a series of dark, oblong contusions encircled her neck, evidence of the manual strangulation detailed in theME’s report. Another telltale sign—the tiny red dots visible at the corners of her eyes. The bruising around her cheeks and jaw told Fiona that her last hours had been painful. If Lucy’s experience was any guide, they’d been horrific.
    For the first time in weeks, Fiona felt glad for the cold. Homicide investigators liked cold weather, particularly in Texas, where they more frequently dealt with heat, humidity, and abundant insects. In this case, the recent frigid temperatures, combined with the body’s quick discovery, had cooperated to minimize decomposition. The ME estimated she’d been found between eight and twelve hours after death. He’d also noted that the finger marks encircling her neck were consistent with an attacker who had large hands.
    Fiona squinted at the girl’s face, trying to see beyond all the signs of violence and visualize the way she’d been in life. The critical identifier would be the arrangement and proportion of her features—not necessarily the details of the features themselves. Correct proportion was more important than a perfectly reproduced nose or eye. This was the reason some criminals could be apprehended on the basis of a blurry surveillance tape. It was the overall impression of the face that mattered most when it came to recognition.
    Once a tentative ID was made, police could use more conclusive means to get a definite match. Fiona was the middleman here, and her drawing would be the bridge that linked this lonely corpse to a living, breathing family somewhere. At least she hoped so.
    She spent a few moments selecting her drawing materials and then stood up to begin the sketch. She rested her board on her hip so she could peer around it at the girl.She started by lightly sketching the heart-shaped face, then blocking out the features. Working from top to bottom, she sketched in the brow line, the eyes, and then the delicate nose. Gradually she built up more and more detail until the picture started to resemble the subject. When the eyes and nose were refined sufficiently, she moved on to the mouth.
    With a latex-covered finger, Fiona peeled back the girl’s lips and examined the teeth. Her upper lateral incisor was missing, but the ME had concluded this