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She looked away from the grave to where Sergeant Ryland, the CSU leader, was making a plaster cast of the only footprint they’d found in the area. It was a man’s shoe, size eleven.
“You got anything for us, Ryland?” she called.
“I just might.”
She and Baz walked from the grave site to where someone had stepped off the asphalt path, leaving the single footprint in the strip of ground between the path and the field of grass.
Ryland finished pouring the plaster over the footprint, smoothed it out, then set the timer on his phone. “Thirty minutes for the plaster to set. Come see the photos I took of the print while I wait.” He retrieved his camera and beckoned them closer. “There was lettering on the sole of the shoe—likely a brand name. I can’t quite make it out in the photo, but I’m hoping to get detail from the plaster cast.”
“So it’ll be seventy-two hours or so,” Baz said and Ryland nodded.
Kit leaned closer to the screen. “Can you zoom in on it?”
Ryland did, handing the camera to Kit. “I can make out what looks like a Y at the end of the brand name, but—”
“Sperry,” Kit said. “Sorry to interrupt, Sergeant. I recognize the logo. They’re Sperry Top-Siders.” She gave him back his camera. “My sister runs a charter fishing business and sometimes I first mate for her on my days off. A lot of her customers wear them.”
Ryland studied the photo. “You could be right.”
She was, Kit was certain. “Trouble is, that’s a popular shoe. I’ve even got a pair.”
“So do I,” Baz said. “Tracking those will be nearly impossible.”
Kit shrugged. “But when we find the guy who owns these shoes, we can put him at the scene. Any way to get a weight estimate on the wearer?”
Ryland shook his head. “Ground’s too hard. Barely enough sinkage to get the plaster cast. I’ll let you know when I have something definite.”
“Detectives?” one of the techs at the grave called, his tone urgent. “Something over here you need to see.”
“Thank you, Sergeant,” Kit said, then approached the grave alongside Baz, schooling her expression. If it was a child’s grave, she would maintain her professionalism. She’d let herself react later, when she was alone.
“Victim’s a postpubescent female,” the tech said when they were graveside. “The ME will be able to give you a better age than I can, but I’m guessing somewhere between fourteen and eighteen.”
Feeling Baz’s eyes on her, Kit reassured him with a quick glance. She was fine.
He always worried about her reaction when the victim was the same age that Wren had been when she’d been murdered, but after four years as a homicide detective, Kit had seen far too many victims who’d been Wren’s age. It never got easier.
She hoped that it never would.
But at least she no longer wondered if it was the same guy who’d done it. That had been her first thought earlier in her career. She’d never stop looking for Wren’s killer, but she’d made her peace with the fact that she might never find him.
The CSU techs had uncovered the victim’s head and torso. The remains were badly decomposed, but some of the girl’s basic features were identifiable. She’d been Caucasian with shoulder-length blond hair.
She was clothed in a pink T-shirt and jeans, the waistband of which was just visible with her lower body still covered by dirt.
Big gold hoop earrings shone against the dirt, her earlobes having decomposed long before. There was a necklace around her neck, a thick ring hanging from the chain. A class ring of some kind.
High school or college? she wondered.
A second later Baz gasped. He was staring at the remains, his eyes wide behind his bifocals, so she looked back.
And abruptly understood her partner’s shock.
“Fucking hell,” she whispered.
The victim’s wrists were restrained with a pair of pink handcuffs that still managed to sparkle despite the coating of dirt.
“Pink,” Baz said hoarsely.
