She pushes through heavy double doors into a larger, colder space. In the corner, I spy the entrance to what appears to be a small office. Dr. Jackson’s name is next to the door, but she doesn’t head for it. Instead, she cuts a straight line past several large stainless-steel tables—for bodies, for bones? On our right are rows of metal bookshelves filled with what appear to be extra-long shoe boxes. Every box is the exact same color—cream. All are labeled with scrawled black numbers.
Case numbers. For the bones inside. Dozens and dozens of sets of remains.
Again, the three of us proceed in silence, the only sound the clack of D.D.’s heeled boots against the floor. On the far wall is a span of pale wooden cabinets with a solid surface countertop. More workspace, I realize, as the full array of tools, papers, and clutter becomes clear. Then, sitting in a small pool of cleared space: Lilah Abenito.
Her reconstructed face stares at us like a chiseled bust. Dark sightless eyes bore into me. Long brown hair, heavy brows, graceful jawline. As one, we slow.
She is young, I think. Beautiful. Innocent.
She is everything Jacob loved to destroy.
* * *
—
DR. JACKSON EXPLAINS THE FACIAL reconstruction methodology to us: “We are fortunate to have a local artist, Deenah, whom I consider one of the best around. She’s a sculptor in real life, and while I love science as much as the next expert, I believe her when she says all skulls want to reclaim their skin.”
She glances at us, and I realize she’s serious. It makes me finger my own cheeks. Does my skull love my skin? Beside me, I realize Keith is doing the same. We both shudder simultaneously.
“The first step,” Dr. Jackson continues, “is to place markers along the skull to establish tissue depths for the forehead, cheeks, jawline, etc. Once the markers have been placed—which takes weeks of careful measurement—Deenah fills in around each marker with clay.”
Dr. Jackson regards us matter-of-factly. “We always use earth-colored clay and brown eyes. In theory, bones don’t tell us coloring, so brown is considered neutral. In the case of Lilah, however, given her Hispanic heritage, the coloring probably is accurate.
“The last step is photographing the results. Deenah takes the final photos herself. Proper lighting is important, and the skull must be shot from several angles. The photos are always taken in black and white—because, again, we can’t be sure of coloring. The images are then loaded into the nationwide database of missing persons. In this case, we had a hit within a matter of days. Lilah Abenito.” Dr. Jackson’s voice softens as she says the name and I realize this process is personal for her. She and this artist have worked together to bring this skull back to life. And in doing so, hopefully grant this girl some justice and her family some closure.
“Once we had a name, I requested Lilah’s full case file, including medical records. I found a notation regarding a fractured left humerus, which I was able to match with a healed fracture in the same place on the remains.”
“In other words, you’re certain this is her,” D.D. states.
“As certain as it gets in this kind of work.”
“But you don’t have a cause of death?”
“The remains were discovered fully skeletonized. Unfortunately, there are many CODs that bear no impact on bones. Asphyxiation. Drug overdose. Poisoning. Even exsanguination. As long as the blade didn’t hit bone upon entry, there would be no indicator of the initial wound, or the act of violence that led to death.”
“Can you tell if she was . . . tortured?” I’m not sure how to ask the question. “Signs of cutting, knife work. Maybe not major damage, but something more subtle?”
“Assuming the blade struck bone,” Dr. Jackson says, “yes, we would find evidence. And assuming we had the bone in question. Unfortunately, we’re still missing significant pieces of this skeleton. For example, most of the rib bones are still unaccounted for. At this time, there are more things I don’t know about these remains than I do.”
“Signs of sexual assault?” D.D. again.
“I would need soft tissue to make that determination.”
“But it’s possible she was kidnapped and raped?”
“Physical restraints can leave markings on a skeleton, especially if utilized long-term.” Dr. Jackson flickers a glance in my direction and I realize she knows exactly who I am. Of course she does. I rub my right hand self-consciously. I still have pale scars around both my wrists. There were times, especially in the beginning, when I struggled so hard it certainly felt as if my shackles cut to the bone.
It’s an unsettling thought. I’ve always known that Jacob lives in my head. But to think he’s still in my bones, that even if I live another fifty years, when I die and my flesh falls away, I will still be a girl who was kidnapped for four hundred and seventy-two days . . .
Keith’s fingertips whisper across my elbow. As usual, he has followed my line of thinking.
“What about fingertips?” I hear myself ask. “Any evidence of trauma?” Say, endless months clawing against the locked lid of a coffin-sized box?
“I have no phalanges for analysis. Small bones are the first to be snatched by predators. Some might be tucked away in nearby animal dens.”
“That’ll be a fun search effort,” D.D. mutters.
Dr. Jackson shrugs. “You want more information, bring me more bones. As it is, I was able to run tests on lipid degradation in the right tibia’s bone marrow to estimate a postmortem interval of fifteen years.”
“She died fifteen years ago?” I ask uncertainly.
Keith chimes in, “Lipid degradation?”
“It’s a fairly new analysis for establishing time of death in fully skeletonized remains. We know lipids remain in bone marrow for decades. So after taking a biopsy of the marrow—a bone plug removed from the tibia—I analyze it using a high-resolution mass spectrometer to determine the amount of lipid breakdown. The result: I can say with some degree of certainty this girl died fifteen years ago. Can I state she was buried then, as well? No. But given the condition of the bones, that’s a fairly safe assumption.”
I nod slowly, then return to studying Lilah Abenito’s reconstructed face.
If what Dr. Jackson is saying is true, then Lilah Abenito was dead before I ever headed off to college, danced naively on a Florida beach, and woke up screaming in a pine box. But I feel a connection to her. Whether we have all the answers or not, I already imagine she gazed into Jacob’s leering face, flinched at the feel of his greasy fingers, recoiled at the stench of his body.
The room is closing in on me. I curl my fingers into fists, force myself to focus. They’re looking at me. Dr. Jackson, D.D., Keith. Waiting for me to cry, to break down, to scream wildly—something.