It was a terrible part of the job. While there was the satisfaction of getting justice for innocents who could not get it themselves, there was also the horrible duty of informing those closest to them what had happened.
He finally found the notes he was looking for. Jane Doe Number Seven. It was a horrible way to honor the dead, he thought. And deep down he hoped this young girl was the one that this woman spoke of, only so he could cross out the title on the top of the page. He dug in the pocket of the coat over the back of his chair and fished out his handkerchief. He passed it over to the young woman.
"Young female victim," he read. "Around sixteen years of age. Brown hair, brown eyes," he glanced up to see if he should continue. "A scar across her stomach, roughly five inches in length."