Free Thread of Fear by Laura Griffin Page B

injury occurred around the time of death. It wasn’t a physical characteristic that could be used to help identify her, so Fiona ignored it. She spent a few moments repositioning the chin, trying to correct for the slack-jaw effect that could make a dead body appear quite different from a living person. Once she had an idea of what she wanted, she sketched in what she hoped was a naturalistic mouth and then leaned back to study her work.
    Not bad.
    Finally, she added the most challenging feature of all—the ears. The vast majority of her suspect sketches were men, so drawing ears realistically was a skill she’d been forced to learn early in her career. In this case, the ears might be important because the victim had two piercings in each lobe, which could be helpful for identification.
    Fiona’s legs felt stiff, so she sat down and did some shading. For a few minutes she added highlights and shadows with an array of umber-toned pencils.
    “Cold enough for ya?”
    Fiona glanced up into the kindly brown eyes of the Grainger County ME. Dr. Russell Jamison was white-haired and grandfatherly and had a big, bulbous nose. Fionahad met him when she’d arrived, but he’d seemed to be on his way out, and she hadn’t expected to see him again.
    “I’m okay.” She suppressed a shudder. “Nice and quiet today, huh?”
    He glanced around his empty work room. “So far, so good.” He winked. “I’m not making any plans, though. Something tells me we’re in for a big night out on the roads. What do you want to bet we get a tree hugger by nine o’clock?”
    Fiona raised her eyebrows but didn’t comment. In her experience, medical examiners had a strange sense of humor. To some, it might seem like Jamison was looking forward to a break from the boredom, but Fiona gave him the benefit of the doubt. Jack had described him as “highly dedicated,” and Fiona took the doctor’s meticulous autopsy notes as corroborating evidence.
    “So,” she said. “You didn’t find any tattoos?” Fiona always made separate drawings for nonfacial tattoos, then left it to investigators to decide whether to share those details.
    “Not a one,” the doctor said, shoving his hands into the pockets of his khaki pants. In a padded green windbreaker and CCA cap, he looked ready for a fishing trip.
    “And her hairstyle? I couldn’t tell much from the picture.”
    Unfortunately for many victims, especially women, the process of washing the body during autopsy eliminated the possibility of re-creating a hairstyle. Again, the Polaroids had provided no help here, but Fiona didn’t want to criticize.
    Jamison frowned. “It was a mess. Blood, debris, tangles. I’d go with straight, parted down the middle.”
    Fiona mumbled something noncommittal. She’d been paying attention all day, and the current trend for area teenagers seemed to be a side part, so without better information, she decided to go with that.
    Jamison stepped closer to her chair, and Fiona’s neck tensed. She disliked people looking over her shoulder as she worked. But she didn’t want to complain.
    “Sure is a pity, someone so young,” Jamison muttered behind her. “And the animal activity…Don’t think she’d been out there long, but something sure got to her. I’d say a stray dog or a coyote.”
    Fiona let her gaze slide to the jagged tear at the girl’s clavicle, just above the Y-incision. In the report it was described as a postmortem animal artifact, and Fiona had been trying to erase it mentally for the sake of the drawing.
    Suddenly her eyes burned, and she had to blink rapidly.
    “It really is a pity,” the doctor repeated. “I got a granddaughter about her age.”
    Fiona didn’t say anything, sensing he wanted to talk.
    “I know this may sound strange…” he continued.
    She cleared her throat. “What’s that?”
    “I wanted to ask you if you could, you know, in your drawing there, you think you could make her smile?”
    Jamison was clearly uneasy with