Sleep Softly. Gwen Hunter
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paper with writing on it. Unfortunately, it was so heavily damaged by the elements and the conditions of the grave site that only a portion could be read. You’ll see a partial transcript on page eleven, though the lab is still working on it.”
“The paper was handmade, which I understand is still possible,” Jim said, sounding skeptical. “The lab is tracing the paper and the dyes used in the ink back to the manufacturers. We hope one of the manufacturers will be able to pinpoint where the ingredients were purchased.”
I waited patiently for someone to tell Jim that papermaking was all the rage now in the arts-and-crafts crowd, that products could be purchased in every craft store, every Michaels, every Wal-Mart and Garden Ridge store in the nation. No one did. Unless the maker had put something very odd into his paper or used a rare ink, it would be nearly impossible to trace who had bought the paper ingredients. But no one pointed that out. Maybe I could tell him later, after the meeting.
“Fiber evidence is finally back from the lab, revealing a wealth of information. It appears the leotard and tights may not have been washed following the abduction and were not continually worn in the intervening months. This allows us a visual of specific moments in the victim’s life. The victim’s bedroom, the short ride to the dance studio, the fabric fibers picked up in the dressing room, the immediate moments after the abduction. And the last hours before her death.
“The most common fiber not originally from the victim’s own environs and the dance studio was a short, smooth, black fiber, most likely nylon. The analysts speculate the fibers are from velour or velvet, as if she was wrapped in a black velour robe or blanket. Fibers were found head to foot, even under the dance shoes she was wearing.”
Other people in the room were following along in their red folders, most taking notes. From my peripheral vision I could see Steven’s color copies of microscope photos of the fibers and his pen, writing fast, firm comments on a yellow legal pad. But my mind was seeing something else entirely. A little girl goes to the bathroom, perhaps walking down a long corridor. A man tosses a black throw over her, silencing her screams, and runs out an exit into the darkness, holding her down while she screams and struggles.
My maternal instincts were kicking in as they never had when taking the forensic nursing course. As they never did when dealing with victims in the emergency room. I understood my own reactions. In the E.R., I was helping, doing something to make it right, to make it better. Here, I was on the sidelines. And no one had helped the victims. Little girls had been stolen and kept by a stranger, killed. I wanted to cry and rage and I couldn’t.
Someone at the front of the room stood and someone else sat, and I realized Jim and two other suited types had covered the rest of the fiber evidence while I wool-gathered and grieved. Knowing I was missing important parts of the meeting, I forced my emotional reactions down into a dark hole inside of me. I pulled myself back to Jim’s words. Breathed deeply to center myself. Watched my hand as it flipped pages in the red folder.
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