Chapter Twelve
Daphne Haggard had grown up in New England. Then she’d moved to Chicago and Wisconsin. She should have been used to the cold, but she hated it. If the temperature had been in the eighties while she was standing in this land of majestic trees with its coat of sparkling white snow, she would have appreciated the forest’s serene beauty. But each time she tried to lose herself in the picture-postcard landscape, a gust of wind would whip through the trees and lacerate her cheeks. If she had half a brain, she told herself, she’d be living in San Diego or Miami.
What was she doing out here supervising the search for more body parts? How likely was it that the search teams would find anything? Daphne hunched her shoulders, pulled her navy blue watch cap more firmly over her ears, and took a long sip of steaming hot coffee from the thermos she clutched in her gloved hands. She should be home in front of a fire instead of freezing her butt off on a fool’s errand. Still, this might be their only chance. The storm that had prevented a search when the thigh had been discovered had lasted several days, but the weather had warmed and a lot of the snow had melted. It was getting cold again, but no more snow was predicted until the weekend, which meant they had a narrow window to blanket the area and pray for a miracle. Once the bad weather came in earnest, the search would have to be suspended for months. Of course, by the time they could resume, a match with a missing person would probably have been made from the DNA taken from the tissue sample that had been forwarded to NamUs and all of this suffering in the cold would have been for nothing.
Daphne was working herself into a deep depression when two Explorer Scouts crashed through the trees.
“We found a leg!” one of the boys shouted.
“It’s on the other side of the stream,” the second boy chimed in.
“Show me,” Daphne said.
The two scouts raced to a place where the stream narrowed, and Daphne hurried to keep up. The water was high because of the runoff from the snow and moving fast. Daphne almost unbalanced on the slick stones that covered the streambed, but she caught herself before she fell into the freezing water. The bank on the other side was a gentle incline, and she made it to the top in time to see the scouts disappear into a copse of birch trees. The limbs were bare, and she kept her eye on the red ski parka one of the scouts was wearing. By the time Daphne entered the forest, the two boys had stopped.
“You’re going to love this,” said Patty Bradford, the county medical examiner, a tall, heavyset woman with dirty blonde hair and lively blue eyes, who was always upbeat despite the gruesome nature of her work. She and Daphne were standing over a stainless steel table on which lay a section of a decomposed leg.
“See this scar?” Bradford asked as she pointed to a strip of scar tissue that started beneath the kneecap and stopped about an inch above the stump. “Someone operated on this person. We X-rayed the leg as soon as we saw the scar, and this is what we found.”
Bradford held up an X-ray for Daphne. She stared hard and noticed a straight dark line.
“That is an orthopedic appliance,” Bradford said. “This person broke his or her leg, and this stainless steel rod was used to stabilize the fracture. When I take it out, we should find a maker’s mark and a serial number. If we’re lucky, the manufacturer will be able to tell you where this rod was shipped, and if we’re luckier, the hospital that received it will be able to identify the patient.”
“How long should the whole thing take?” Daphne asked, excited by the breakthrough but anxious about the speed with which the discovery of the victim’s identity would occur.
“That I can’t tell you. It will depend on how long ago the operation was performed and if all the records exist, but the rod will definitely give you something to work with.”
Chapter Thirteen
Justice Moss was working on an opinion in a securities-fraud case in which Brad was not involved. Arnie Copeland, the clerk who had researched the case, had been in and out of the judge’s chambers all day. Brad had finished a memo in a labor-law dispute out of the Deep South a little after five, and the judge had told him she wanted to see it as soon as he was done, but Brad knew better than to interrupt her. Justice Moss had tunnel vision when she was working and didn’t appreciate distractions.
Harriet went for a run at six, leaving Brad alone. He kept watching the door to the judge’s chambers, hoping to catch her before she left. At six thirty, Brad went to the restroom. When he came back to his office, he noticed the door to Moss’s chambers was open. He peeked in and saw that she was gone.
“Where’s Justice Moss?” Brad asked Carrie Harris, who was shutting down her computer.
“She just left.”
“For home?”
Harris nodded. “If you hurry, you can catch her. She’s headed for the garage.”
Justice Moss had told Brad that she wanted the memo the minute he was finished, and he hated to disappoint her. He grabbed it and raced down the corridor to the elevator that went to the underground garage where the justices parked, his footsteps echoing off the walls of the nearly deserted building.
The elevator doors opened, and Brad found himself at the bottom of the ramp that led down to the garage from the street. A policeman sat in a booth at the top of the ramp to make sure that only authorized personnel got into the Court. Barriers blocked the entrance to the ramp until the policeman pressed a button and they retracted into the concrete to clear the way.
To Brad’s right was another guard shack manned by another policeman. In front of him was the top of the ramp leading down to the first parking area. Justice Moss was limping down the ramp to her car. Brad was about to call out to her when a figure in black appeared from behind the concrete pillar at the bottom of the ramp. The intruder was wearing a ski mask and gloves and holding a gun with a silencer. Fear coursed through Brad as he flashed back to the only other time he’d encountered a man with a gun. His brain told him to flee but his legs moved on their own and he found himself racing down the ramp.
“He’s got a gun!” Brad screamed.
The assassin turned toward Brad. Justice Moss didn’t hesitate. She braced herself on the car beside her and whipped her cane across the killer’s wrist. The gun clattered to the concrete and skidded across it toward Moss. Brad launched himself and the assailant sidestepped gracefully before delivering a crushing blow to Brad’s ribs. Brad crashed to the concrete floor chin first. He was dazed but he rolled onto his side so he could keep the assassin and Justice Moss in sight.
Moss was bent over, reaching for the gun. The killer started for her. Brad buried his pain and grabbed an ankle. The killer stumbled and Moss grabbed the gun. Brad struggled to his feet and the assassin ducked behind him, encircling his neck with a forearm.
Moss was unsteady on her feet without her cane. She grasped the gun with two hands and tried to aim. The killer dragged Brad up the ramp, using him as a shield, and the judge fired into the air to attract the attention of the policeman in the guard shack.
“Help!” Brad screamed as he clawed at the arm that encircled his throat. The stranglehold tightened, cutting off Brad’s air. The policeman stepped out of his booth. The assassin dropped Brad and rushed at him. The policeman reached for his gun but a crushing kick buckled his leg. A knife strike to his throat, delivered with the killer’s rigid fingers, dropped the officer to the concrete. Moss fired. The shot was wild and ricocheted off the guard shack. Brad covered his head and ducked. Moss fired again, just as the killer disappeared into the building. This shot hit the wall and was nowhere near its target.