Pretty Girl Gone (Mac McKenzie #3)

Pretty Girl Gone (Mac McKenzie #3) Page 70

It’s her. What should I say?

Only a glance at the numerical display told me I was wrong.

“Hi, Bobby,” I said.

A fist of cold air gripped me as I stepped out of the bathroom. Goose bumps formed on my naked flesh and my body shivered.

“Good morning,” Dunston said.

“What time is it?”

“Almost nine. Rough night, McKenzie?”

“Long night, anyway.”

“I have the information you need.”

“Hang on a sec.” I went to the small table in the corner of the room where I found my notebook. “What do you have?”

“Want me to read it all to you or just give you the pertinent details?”

“Details.”

“Let’s see . . . Office of Nicholas County Coroner. Want the file number?”

“Not now.”

“Decedent—Elizabeth Mary Rogers. Age—seventeen. Sex—female. Place of death—Victoria, Minnesota. Time of death—the coroner estimates death occurred between 2200 hours Saturday, March 15 and 0200 Sunday, March 16. Cause of death—she had a crushed larynx, resulting in acute asphyxiation. She died hard, Mac. The reports says, let’s see—‘indicates that the victim lived four to six minutes after the wound was received.’ ”

“Damn.”

“Yeah. The coroner believes the larynx was crushed by hand—with the thumbs pressing inward—from the front—the killer was facing the victim—where is it?—skin and blood were found under the fingernails of the index and middle fingers of the victim’s right hand classified as type O positive. She fought back, scratched him good.”

“Just a second.”

I wrote swiftly, trying not to see Elizabeth’s face as I did. A hard rap on my door distracted me.

“Hang on, someone’s knocking.”

I carried the phone, pressed against my ear, to the door. I looked through the spy hole. I dropped the phone on the bed, grabbed my jeans, and slipped into them.

“Hey, babe,” Danny Mallinger said when I opened the door. She was dressed in her police uniform and holding a cardboard cup holder containing two large coffees.

“I’m on the phone,” I told her. I retrieved the cell from the bed, and retreated to the table.

“Sorry about that,” I said.

“ ‘Hey, babe?’ ”

“It’s not what you think, Bobby.”

“Of course it is. You are such a slut, McKenzie.” In Bobby’s book, that was a good thing.

“Cut it out,” I told him.

“Where was I?” He took a deep breath. “Indications are that the victim engaged in sexual intercourse with multiple partners shortly before she was killed. Less than an hour.”

“Multiple partners?”

“Let’s see. Presence of sperm—microscopic examination—she had intercourse with a type A negative and a type B positive secreter. They found male pubic hair, consistent with a type O positive, so that’s three at least.”

“At least?”

“There could have been more than three. Back in those days the best they could do was ABO blood typing. They couldn’t identify nonsecreters and they couldn’t separate, say, one O pos from a second O pos.”

“She was gang-raped.”

The words tasted bitter in my mouth.

“Not necessarily. The report—the coroner said he couldn’t determine whether the sex was consensual or nonconsensual. There was no physical trauma, Mac. No bruising, no contusions, or lacerations. Except for her throat, there wasn’t a mark on her. There’s one other thing to consider. An alcohol analysis was performed on spleen tissue and was 0.144 grams over 100 grams.”

“She was drunk?”

“One hundred and twenty pound teenage girl? Oh, yeah, she was drunk. Does that help?”

“I don’t know. Did they keep the samples?”

“No. My guy told me that samples in unknown suspect cases were not routinely held for any length of time in those days unless it was a high-profile case. There was no DNA testing, so there was no point.”

I pivoted toward Mallinger. I looked her directly in the eye as I said, “Thanks, Bobby. I owe you one.”

“You owe me a helluva lot more than one, but we’ll talk about that later.”

“Love to the family.”

“Back at ya.”

I deactivated the phone and set it next to the notebook.

Mallinger handed a cup of coffee to me and drank from the other.

“I thought you could use this,” she told me.”

“Thank you, Danny,” I said while removing the plastic lid.

“That phone call—is there something I should know?” she asked.

“This is good coffee.”

“Are you holding out on me, McKenzie?”

“Very good coffee.”

“Uh-huh. I was going to ask you if you slept well.”

“I did. How about you?”

“You were too much of a distraction. I had to go home, remember? It was lucky I did. The ME called at the crack of dawn. He was up all night trying to prove that you were wrong about Josie Bloom.”

“Did he?”