Body of Evidence
Faced with a mountain of paperwork, Starnes decided to roll up her figurative sleeves and slog through it. As much as filing reports was the least interesting part of her job, she wanted the crap off of her desk. So she poured herself a mug of bad coffee and swiped the last of the semi-stale doughnuts from the breakroom and ensconced herself in her cramped office to set to work.
The Blanchard case was at a standstill. There was no further indication of where the former detective might have gone after her escape, and while there were vague matches to her physical description connecting her to several gruesome murders, the victims left alive were far too traumatized to connect her solidly to the killings. Just a lot of cold trails. Starnes found herself hoping that the other woman had left the state. It would at least pull this mess out of her life.
The matter of two sisters who had disappeared from a dormitory at UNLV had also ground to a halt. Foul play had been suggested, but if the girls were dead their bodies were nowhere to be found. The last official word was that the case was still under investigation, but anything even resembling a lead seemed to have dried up. The detective couldn't imagine how the parents must feel, especially since nothing seemed to be getting accomplished. Frustration abounded, clearly.
Other than that, it was just a lot of the usual. Drug-related homicides, domestic disturbances that turned ugly, accidental shootings. If Starnes had been inclined to drink, the endless litany of human-created misery would have been enough to have her spiking her coffee with something a lot stronger. As it was, it did give her the threat of a headache to go through the papers on her desk and sign off on them. At least once she was done with them, the files would be out of her sight.
It was just past noon when she started, and the ringing of the phone on her desk pulled her away from it after almost forty-five minutes. "Starnes," the cop said, tucking the reciever between her chin and shoulder as she put one final signature on a report before closing the manila envelope. "Detective?" The voice on the other end of the line was unfamiliar, and her rejoinder was a little impatient when she spoke. "Yeah, this is Detective Starnes. Who is this, please?"
"Ah, this is Warren Gilmore, from the Clark County sherrif's department." The voice was still not recognizable, but the name rang a very quiet bell. "All right," Starnes said, pushing the closed file aside to pick up her coffee cup. "What can I do for you, Mr. Gilmore?" "Its Deputy Gilmore, actually, I just signed on out here. And it might be what I can do for you."
Paper rustled in the background, and the cop brushed doughnut crumbs into the wastebasket while she waited. "I understand you ran a check on a Caucasian female, a subject by the name of Laura Anderson, looking for DUIs or any other infractions. Is that correct, Ma'am?" Yes, I did," Starnes replied, nonplussed enough that she didn't correct the man about using her professional title. It was often difficult to remember that law enforcement was a microcosm all its own, and that as such it could serve as a hive of gossip, both work-related and otherwise. She must have mentioned it to a couple of uniforms in the precinct, and they'd talked about her inquiries elsewhere. "Is there a problem? Is she causing trouble over it?"
"Oh, no Ma'am. Detective." Gilmore sounded kind of grimly amused, and Starnes started on the last of her coffee. "She's not making any problems at all. She's dead."
Sputter. "Dead?" It was hard to talk in the middle of a coughing fit, and she had to put the phone down while she worked to get the coffee out of her windpipe. Jesus. "Yep." Gilmore's tone was tolerant, and the other cop coughed a little more as she got her breath back. "Late last year, actually, in September. I pulled the coroner's report after I heard you'd been checking up on her, wanted to make sure we hadn't mis-identified the corpse. According to our files, Laura Anderson is very much among the deceased." Pause. "You didn't know?"
"No idea." An understatement. It hadn't been that long ago when she'd spoken to the woman at her kids' school, and for a second it had occurred to her that another parent might have gotten suspicious and decided to take things into their own hands. But as far back as September? It made no sense. She pushed her fingers through her hair. "Homicide?"
"Yes'm. Whoever did her, they were really thorough about the chances for identification." There was the sound of liquid passing through a straw and ice cubes rattling together, then; "The medical examiner's report was inconclusive. She'd been dead for a few days when the body was finally discovered. Ambulance guys labeled her as a Jane Doe because she had no wallet or other ID on her. We had to run DNA tests to get a positive identification. We still don't know what killed her, though. Its one big question mark. What was your inquiry related to, Detective?"
Starnes had fallen into a silence as the deputy spoke, and her gaze fell on the picture of her family again. She'd been keeping a closer eye on Ryan lately, as much as she was able, and he seemed okay, or at least not likely to lapse back into using. Then again, what did she know? She couldn't even tell when she was being lied to and strung along. If the woman she had spoken to was not Laura Anderson, then who was she? Why had she chosen a high school to hide out in if she was someone else? Who was she?
"Detective Starnes?" Gilmore sounded befuddled now, and clearly he'd said her name more than once. "I'm here, I was just...making some notes. I had been checking on some stolen credit cards with Anderson's name on them, cards with several thousand dollars worth of charges made on them, was hoping something hinky wasn't going on." Ah, the power of being able to come up with a good lie herself when she needed one. At least she had what felt like a legitimate reason.
"Listen." The cop looked at the clock. Almost one in the afternoon. "Could you fax me a copy of the autposy report? I'd like to get this matter up here squared away. If I could see the paperwork you have, it'd be a help."
"Oh, sure thing." More paper shuffled. "Anything to help the city cops. I figured if you were interested enough to be checking up on her, you'd want to know she was no longer among the living. If I could just get your number there, I'll send it as soon as I finish lunch."
"Yeah, that'd be fine." Starnes' voice was muted, and she actually did make some notes on lined paper before giving the deputy the fax number for the machine in her office. "Thank you, Deputy Gilmore, you've been...you've been a lot of help."
How would police work ever get done without inter-office cooperation?