Page 7 of Identity Unknown

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Page 7 of Identity Unknown

“God only knows who all he’s got in his back pocket.” Fruge unwraps a Whopper, and what I wouldn’t give for one, my mouth watering. “The Brileys are a blight on society, and I swear to God I’m going to make sure they get what they deserve.”

Fruge’s not much better than Fabian when it comes to overheating and seeking vengeance. She didn’t disguise her feelings while interviewing the Brileys in a great room that reminded me of a ski lodge. They sat on a cowhide-upholstered sofa surrounded by hunting trophies. A gazelle. An elk. A bobcat. An African buffalo. A wildebeest.

Exotic birds were mounted on plaques. An elephant’s foot had been turned into a wastepaper basket. The floor was arranged with rugs made from the skins of bears, zebras, giraffes, and I found myself stepping around them whenever I walked past.

“Did you find anything that makes you think Luna did this to herself or even could have?” Fruge asks as I spray distilled water on my orchids and other potted plants. “What? She unlocked the pistol herself. She chambered a round?”

“I don’t believe that’s what happened.” I return the spray bottle to a bookcase crammed with medical and legal tomes, many of them old editions filled with my notes.

“As tiny and frail as she was?” Fruge continues talking and eating as we FaceTime. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think she was three years old. Not seven.”

“She was small for her age, thirty-one pounds and barely three feet tall,” I reply as my outrage quietly churns inside. “I’m guessing from chronic malnourishment, her body a road map of abuse.”

“And here they are parading as saints. Giving money to this cause and the next, having photo ops with kids at every opportunity,” Fruge says. “Total fucking hypocrites.”

“The oldest story. Especially in cases of domestic abuse,” I reply.

“They have to pay.”

“If proven guilty, I expect they will.”

“What else can you tell me?” Fruge slurps on her drink.

“X-rays show multiple healed fractures of her extremities, including a spiral fracture of the shaft of her left humerus consistent with her left arm being violently twisted.”

“Jesus. I’m so going to nail them.” She takes another bite of her burger.

“Scars on her buttocks, back and arms look like cigarette burns,” I continue. “She also has obvious bruises on her headthat are days old. And possibly ones from around the time of death, the vague marks on her neck and shoulders that I pointed out to you at the scene. I’ll know more later.”

“People like that make me want to believe in hell.” Fruge’s face twitches with fury.

“Well, I certainly believe in it, and that it’s here on earth.” I walk back and forth in front of the window with the open shade, keeping tabs on the white Escalade without being obvious.

“Question is how to build an airtight case.” She dips a French fry in ketchup as I try not to think about how hungry I am. “Now that you’ve done the autopsy, what can you tell about the shooting itself? Can we prove Luna couldn’t have done it?”

I reply that the gunshot wound to the upper left forehead is atypical for self-inflicted. The .22 caliber hollow-point bullet ripped a wide wound channel through the brain’s frontal and temporal lobes, lodging in the cerebellum at the back of the skull.

“The trajectory was angled downward, and we’ll see what else the labs can tell us,” I add.

“Consistent with the father shooting her while she was in bed watching TV, which is what I think the asshole did,” Fruge says.

“Possibly.” I envision the bedroom decorated with a Barbie doll theme, pinkly perfect and for show like everything else.

I didn’t notice a single stuffed animal or family photograph, no books or crayons, nothing that might make you think the parents gave a damn. It crossed my mind that Luna was no different from the antique dolls imprisoned in glass display boxes on high shelves inside her bedroom. Their unblinking eyes seemed to follow me as I moved about examining the body.

“It sounds like they were abusing the hell out her forever and nobody knew,” Fruge says in a stone-cold tone, squeezing more ketchup out of a packet. “They’re important and rich with a special-needs child whosupposedlywas afraid to leave the house. Shesupposedlygot severely agitated around other people. That’s how the parents described her to anyone who would listen.”

As we continue FaceTiming, I’m watching the white Escalade speed away, the Brileys gone, but for how long? I don’t need them casing my building or having someone else do it. The security here is far better than it was when I took this job four years ago. But that’s not saying a whole lot under the best of circumstances.

My officers can’t carry firearms or make arrests. I can’t afford more than one on duty per shift, and have to depend on my police friends in times like this.

“I would appreciate a few units patrolling my headquarters until this blows over if you can manage it,” I’m saying to Fruge. “I’ve got more than one reason to worry about Ryder Briley.”

“Something else going on with him I don’t know about?”

“One of his properties is involved in a case I’m about to respond to near the West Virginia border,” I reply. “That’s as much as I can say right now.”

“And you’re thinking the cases might be related?” She rewraps what’s left of her Whopper.




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