The dead woman was then placed on an autopsy table.
Amy kept her book out; with gloved hands, Carver and Hunter went over the body, slowly, meticulously.
“Doc?” Hunter said.
“What? Where?”
Hunter pointed to an area on the woman’s inner thigh.
“There’s a piece of flesh ripped away there, but...a scar. Yes, Hunter, that could have been caused by a burn!”
Only half of it was there.
Hunter went dead still, staring at it.
Yes, flesh was gone, as if had been sheared off by the rough wood of the cross. But something remained. A line...and near it and above it, the curve of a backward C.
He saw Amy was sketching it, even as Carver asked his assistant to take photographs.
When they were done, Jane Doe number one was returned to her drawer.
Jane Doe number two was brought out.
They didn’t have to search as hard this time; Hunter knew where to look. And while the insects had dined on so much of the young woman’s flesh, the brand on her was more recent.
A part of the backward C could be seen, along with a faint line that seemed to be underneath it this time.
When they were done, Hunter thanked Carver.
“Damned right you’d better thank me—I don’t come in at this time of night for everyone,” Carver told him. He spoke lightly, but then added, “Any time, Hunter, Amy. This is what I do. I look after the dead, and I try to speak for them. You come any time you think I might be able to make them say more. I want you to stop this.”
“I have one more question for you,” Hunter told him.
“Shoot.”
“So far, we think it’s young women. In their early twenties. Anything on their ethnicity?”
“Both are Caucasian,” Carver said. “I’ve seen nothing that indicates where they might have been born. I am checking on something with one of our dental experts regarding X-rays on Jane Doe number one’s teeth.”
“Could they have come from Central or South America?” Hunter asked.
Carver grinned. “You know, we—North Americans—have a tendency to forget that most of the islands and Central and South America are immigrant places, as well. I know dark-skinned South Americans—and little blue-eyed blondes who speak Spanish or Portuguese as their first language. There were native tribes everywhere, but there has also been a lot of European immigration. Our first Jane Doe was light—light hair, light eyes. I believe this girl was a brunette. I don’t know about her eye color—it doesn’t exist anymore. Maybe tomorrow I’ll be able to answer you. My dental expert is going to compare her fillings with those I have seen in some of my deceased patients from South American countries.”
Hunter nodded. “Thank you.”
“Are you heading back out to the motel in the boondocks?” Carver asked.
“We are,” Amy told him.
“I’m going home—ten minutes away. And I’m going to start on Jane Doe number two first thing. I swear, I’ll call you the minute I have anything.” Carver looked at Hunter and managed a smile. “Please, go. Get some sleep. It’s been one hell of a long day.”
“It has. Amy?”
“I’m ready,” she assured him.
They left the morgue. He was accustomed to driving, but he paused, looking at Amy. “Sorry, I don’t mean to be taking over. Did you want to drive?”
“No, something is bugging me. I want to review my drawings while we head back.”
“There’s a plan,” he said.
They rode in silence as he started out west. She had a penlight, and kept it close to her notebook as she went over her drawing, perplexed.
Hunter must have noticed her expression. “What is it?”
“I’m just trying to figure out what I see. I think I almost have it.” She glanced up for a minute, grimacing. “Like something on the tip of your tongue, you know?”
“I do know. I was looking at it and I felt that I should know...that I do know. But it’s in the back of my mind somewhere.”
“Maybe initials, or a symbol that is initials...”
Her phone started buzzing and she winced and looked at him. “Sorry,” she murmured. “It’s my brother.”
“How many siblings?” he asked her.
“One,” she told him, covering the phone. Then she spoke into it. “Linc! Hey, how are you?”
Hunter smiled. Amy made a face.
“Good, good. I’m just checking up on you!” her brother said.
“Lincoln, I’m fine.”
“And you’re working that bizarre case?”
“Yes, I’m working the case.”
They worried about each other. It was natural that he had called.
“And John?” Lincoln had met her partner—and liked him.
“Believe it or not, he’s been a good patient. John is doing great. His family is with him.”
“But you’re working without a partner.”
“Don’t worry. A case like this—you know that I’m not working it alone. Half the officers of every department in the state are working on it.” She smiled, glancing at Hunter and shaking her head. “I’m not working alone at any time, Lincoln. I’ve been paired with an FBI agent.”
That, apparently, mollified her brother.
The call ended and she glanced at him apologetically.
“Older brother.”
“What does he think of you being an investigator?”
“He’s with the police in Richmond, Virginia,” she told him. “He moved north for love—my sister-in-law is great. Our father was a Miami-Dade detective.”
“Ah, a law enforcement family.”
“Yep. What about you?”
He shook his head. “My dad is a writer. My mother is an artist, and teaches art.”
“Cool. What does Dad write, and what does Mom draw?”
“Together, they do children’s books.”
“That’s—that’s great.” She frowned. “What do they do separately?”
He laughed. “Oh, he writes all kinds of stuff. And she draws what she sees that she likes. They live in a little town in Maine.”
“Nice.”