Free Skeleton in a Dead Space (A Kelly O'Connell Mystery) by Judy Alter

things. “Oh, Mom,” she said, “it’s beautiful.”
    Never wanting to be left behind, Em echoed, “It’s beautiful.”
    “I like it too,” I told them. “I think it brightens the house.” Impulsively I asked, “Girls, what would you think if we moved to a new house.” Even as I said the words, something in the back of my mind told me this was a mistake.
    “I like our house,” Maggie said. “Why would we move?”
    “We could live in a smaller house. And I found one that was lovely. You’ve heard me say that a house reaches out and touches you.”
    Maggie nodded grudgingly.
    “This one touched me.”
    “Is it the house we found, Mommy?” Em asked, clapping her hands in delight.
    “Yes, Em, it is.”
    “Em’s seen it and I haven’t?” Maggie’s jealousy was almost tangible.
    I bent to Maggie and hugged her. “The day Em came home from school because of Sarah and their fight, she and I drove by. She hasn’t been inside, but I’ll take you both inside… maybe tomorrow.”
    After supper, I got the girls bathed—Em still needed help—and in their PJs. I didn’t mention their father’s anticipated arrival, though not doing so made me feel like a coward. The doorbell rang a little before eight, and I realized a disadvantage of the wonderful front door. If Jack the Ripper came calling, I had no place to hide. This time, it was Mike Shandy.
    “Kelly, I’ve got news. Mind if I come in?”
    “Actually, Mike, I’m glad to see you. Want coffee, a beer?”
    “I’m on duty,” he said, “so coffee. Thanks.”
    While the single cup was brewing I came back into the living room. Mike stood by the fireplace, hands clasped behind his back. “We heard from the coroner today. Your skeleton—“
    My skeleton?
    “—was a female, between twenty and thirty, about five foot six, probably not overweight.” He paused. “Here’s the surprise: she was about six months pregnant. And, she was shot in the head, almost execution style.”
    I sank down on the couch. Pregnant. Someone killed a baby as well as the mother. “Why would anyone kill a pregnant woman?” Then I remembered a line from a mystery I’d read—love, hate, and greed. Those were the reasons for killing someone. And which was it here? “DNA won’t be much help will it? I mean you could get DNA from the fetal skeleton, couldn’t you?” I hated those words even as I said them.
    “Not really. DNA won’t show us much, though we’ll run it. The victim’s DNA might help us identify her, but DNA wasn’t much used in the early ’60s, so it’s unlikely hers would be on file. What we need is a lucky break to identify her and then match the DNA to something she wore or used or touch. As for the guy who did this, there isn’t anything left to take DNA samples from that might indicate identity—you can shoot a person from a distance, and that wouldn’t leave DNA. And suppose there was something—semen, or whatever—if the killer had a DNA sample on file, which is unlikely, the DNA was run years after this event, so we’d have to identify the person first. Long story short, it isn’t going to help us.” Almost as an afterthought, he added, “She didn’t have a wedding ring on. We’d have found that.”
“So you think the father of the baby killed her?”
    “It’s a place to start. But we haven’t any idea who he was.”
    “How do we find out?” I asked.
    “ We don’t.” His tone was firm, and so was the look on his face. “Homicide does. I’m just a patrol cop, and you’re a civilian. We’re both out of the loop from now on. And I want you to remember that. You’ve already been threatened, Kelly, by someone who’s not afraid.”
    “They’re not afraid of what? I think they’re afraid of what we might find out, and that’s making them desperate. It makes me all the more anxious to find out what’s going on so this will be over. I want that skeleton identified and given a proper burial…and I want to finish that house