Page 43 of Fire and Bones

Eventually, inevitably, the conversation shifted to the Foggy Bottom fire.

When Doyle asked about the subcellar vic, I laid out the basics, essentially the same spiel I’d given Burgos.

“Impressive that you managed to lift prints.”

“I only got two partials. And that took some doing.”

“Thacker will have them run through IAFIS?”

Doyle used the acronym for the FBI’s Integrated Automated Fingerprint Identification System, a massive database used for the storage and analysis of fingerprint records. A latent print examiner once told me that the IAFIS software was so sophisticated it could search more than a billion prints in a single second.

“She will,” I said.

“Do you really think she could get a hit?”

“If the lady’s in the system.”

“What might get her in there?”

I shrugged. “Criminal record. Job application. Military service.” The last seemed unlikely, given the woman’s diminutive size.

“How early are the oldest records in the database?”

“I’m not sure. But cops started using prints back in the 1800s.”

Doyle thought about that, then asked,

“COD?” Cause of death?

“Undetermined.”

“Suspicious?”

“I doubt the woman stuffed herself into that sack.”

Cringe face. Then,

“PMI?” Doyle was certainly up on her forensic lingo. This one was an acronym for postmortem interval. I assumed her familiarity was due to her frequent coverage of crime stories.

“Hard to be exact. But given the state of the woman’s body and clothing, and the conditions in the subcellar, I’d say a minimum of five years.”

“Could it be much longer than that?”

“Absolutely. Why do you ask?”

Doyle waited a beat too long before answering. A revealing tell. Though willing to take, the reporter in her was hesitant to give.

“No reason.” Doyle flashed me the smile that melted the hearts of millions.

No reason, my ass.

“I found more info on the building.” Doyle shifted gears. “Want to hear it?”

“Sure.”

Doyle rose and crossed to the Louis Vuitton purse she’d dropped onto the sideboard. I’d had a knockoff once, purchased from a street vendor in New York. The strap broke within a year. Hers was the real deal. As was the notebook she withdrew, pen clipped to its blue leather cover. Small white symbols identified both as Montblanc.

Lan reappeared as Doyle was returning to the table.