Louis went to the shelf. There was the snowflake obsidian that his partner in Michigan, Ollie Wickshaw, had given him. Next to it was a puka shell necklace. There were two picture frames. The smaller one held a sepia-toned portrait of his mother, Lila. The other was a letter with a quote from Winston Churchill: “The only guide to a man is his conscience...with this shield, however fates may play, we march always in the ranks of honor.”
Louis picked up the obsidian, rolling the smooth black stone between his fingers, thinking of Ollie. It is a stone of purity, Louis, that balances the mind and the spirit.
He was thinking, too, about the baby skull, trying to figure out why he wanted it.
The light was fading. He glanced at his watch. He had to get to the station.
It was after six by the time he got to the station. As he climbed the stairs, his thoughts turned to Frank Woods again. He would have to tail him, see what kind of life he led outside the library. But he had the feeling Frank Woods was one of those guys leading a life of quiet desperation, as the saying went. And that this case was going to be even more boring than usual.
At Horton’s door, he stopped to knock.
“He’s left for the day.”
Louis turned to see Mel Landeta standing in the doorway of another office, a file folder in his hand. His tie hung loose and his black suit looked like he had slept in it.
“You know if he left anything for me, a FedEx box?” Louis asked.
“You mean the skull,” Landeta said taking off his yellow- tinted glasses.
“Yeah. He said I could have it.”
Louis waited for a reaction from Landeta, but the detective just rubbed the bridge of his nose.
“It’s in here,” he said, nodding to his office.
Louis followed him in. Landeta’s office was small and furnished with only a desk, two chairs, and some black file cabinets. The blinds to the street were rolled shut, and there was not one certificate, plaque, or picture on the walls. The place was lit up like a hospital operating room.
Landeta reached down beneath his desk. He set the Federal Express box on the desk.
The top was open and Louis looked inside. The skull was nestled in a bed of Styrofoam peanuts. Louis carefully lifted it out. He felt Landeta’s eyes on him and turned. Landeta was sitting at his desk, still holding the file folder.
“So what are you going to do with it?” he asked.
“I don’t know. Try to trace it, maybe.”
“Why?” Landeta asked.
Louis shrugged. He carefully set the skull back in the box. Landeta was whistling softly, a low sad-tinged sound with no particular melody.
“Well, I gotta get going,” Louis said picking up the box and starting to the door.
“You want to hear about Jane Doe?” Landeta asked.
Louis hesitated. “You got an ID yet?
Landeta shook his head. “Not yet and she has no prints in the system. We put out a statewide BOLO and sent out a sketch of her face and a photo of the ring to the papers. Nothing. Nada. Rien. Zero.”
Louis came back in, setting the box on the desk. “Is there any way to tell where she went into the water? You know, currents and stuff?”
“Normally, maybe. But not with the storm.”
“Maybe the ring can be traced. What’s it made out of?”
“Coral.”
“Seems someone would know.”
“Someone does know. They just aren’t talking.”
“Nothing in her jeans? Wallet? Papers?”
“Not a thing,” Landeta said. He picked up a folder. “This just came in a few minutes ago. It’s the autopsy report. Haven’t even had a chance to read it yet.”
He held it out to Louis. “Go ahead, take a look. You can read it to me while I clean up,” he said, going behind his desk.
Landeta didn’t offer a chair but Louis sat down anyway. He opened the folder. “No skin separation or swelling. So estimate is she went in the water the night of the storm,” he began.
“That’s what I thought,” Landeta said, moving folders and boxes. “Go on.”
“She was shot from a distance of about fifty yards. The bullet was a .250-3000 Savage.” Louis looked up at Landeta. “Probably from a Savage model 1899 rifle.”
Landeta paused, a box in his hand. “They shoot small and medium game with those,” he said. “I think they stopped making them some years ago.”
Louis went on. “She had salt water in her lungs, but probably not enough to drown her. The ME says she died of the gunshot wound first.”
Landeta nodded thoughtfully. “Any blood, hair, skin found under her nails?”
“Just dirt,” Louis said. “Soil consistent with local mangrove habitats.”