The Cutting Room. Jilliane Hoffman

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      11

      The grand jury deliberated for thirty minutes before unanimously voting to indict Talbot Lunders for capital murder. While the indictment itself might not have come as a surprise, the speed with which it was delivered did; Manny hadn’t even made it back to his office when Guy Kuzak called him. He could only hope the rest of this case would move as expeditiously through the system, yet still he couldn’t seem to shake the ‘calm before the storm’ feeling in his gut. Holly’s murder had been a chest-thumper from the second her body was fished from the dumpster — starting with the sad demise of Papi Munoz. And if yesterday’s meeting with Mami Lunders was any indicator, he should probably be running to the pharmacy to stock up on antacids.

      He sat at his desk now, twisting his mustache, studying the still photo of Jane Doe he’d pulled from the video, searching for tattoos, birthmarks, discolorations — anything at all that might make her more readily identifiable in a ViCAP entry than, ‘blonde-haired, green-eyed, white female, approximate height between 5'2" and 5'6"; approximate age between twenty and thirty years’.

      He was probably clutching at straws, trying to determine who this girl was. The overwhelming fact of the matter was that she could be anyone. And she could be from anywhere. He wasn’t sure if he should start his search for her in Florida, or halfway across the globe in Greenland …

      The numbers on missing persons were mind-numbing. Nationwide, almost a million people each year were reported missing to police — most of these were teens or young adults, like Jane Doe. That averaged to around 2,300 people, each and every day. And that wasn’t accounting for the throwaways — the poor souls who nobody gave enough of a shit about to report them missing when they didn’t make it home. He was no expert, but Manny had heard estimates as high as another million or so throwaways that never made it into a police report. That sad fact alone made the prospect of combing through a haystack of missing person reports not just daunting, but probably useless. And if those were the US figures, Manny couldn’t begin to imagine what the global number of missing persons might be. Which was probably why he was sitting at his desk, hours after the grand jury, still pulling on his mustache and still staring at the same nasty photo, trying to come up with a game plan to find a girl who may or may not be missing, and/or who may or may not be the victim of a sexual assault, and/or who may or may not be a homicide victim.

      Mike Dickerson planted half a droopy butt cheek on the edge of his desk. He was munching on a bag of Cheetos. ‘Watcha doing, Bear?’ he asked, in between crunches. The air smelled like fake cheese and Old Spice. ‘Your face is all twisted up. You look constipated.’

      Manny groaned and stretched. ‘Arrgh … I got a puzzle to solve here, Pops. Problem is, I only got one piece and I ain’t got no idea what the picture on the box even looks like.’

      ‘That don’t sound good.’

      ‘Nope, it don’t.’

      ‘Okay, now stop talking in Chinese riddles and tell me what the fucking problem is. Is that it?’ Mike asked, nodding at the photo. ‘Is that your puzzle piece?’

      ‘Yup.’

      ‘Nice. Perky tits; they look natural. Now, is this a case you’re working or is that a girlfriend you need advice with?’

      ‘You’re a hoot. It’s a case. I think. Not sure, actually. But it definitely ain’t a girlfriend, you sick geezer.’

      ‘I was gonna say she’s way too pretty to be one of yours.’

      ‘I ain’t responding to that.’

      ‘Who is she?’ Mike asked with another crunch.

      ‘That’s the million-dollar question. The case I’m working, the dumpster case—’

      ‘Holly Skole.’

      Manny cocked an eyebrow.

      ‘Just ’cause I’m over sixty don’t mean I have Alzheimer’s. I listen when you talk,’ Mike shot back.

      Manny shrugged. ‘Okay. Well, the mom of my defendant in that case claims that someone anonymously sent her a fucked-up video clip right before the Arthur Hearing. She don’t know who and she don’t know why. But in the video that I made this picture from, this girl is being strung up from the ceiling by her wrists like a pig in a slaughterhouse, and she might or might not be being tortured by an unidentifiable white male. The clip’s under a minute long, so it’s hard to tell what’s really going on. Could be real, could be fantasy role-play. So I’m not sure what I have, Mikey. Not sure what to do about it, either. But it’s not sitting right with me and I want to see if I can get an ID on Jane Doe. Only I’m not sure where to start.’

      ‘Most guys would walk away. Let the defense handle it. Sounds like it’s their problem anyways.’

      ‘Yup. Most guys would.’

      ‘Have you run her through ViCAP?’

      ViCAP — the Violent Crime Apprehension Program — was the FBI’s largest investigative repository of major violent cases in the US. A computer database of missing persons, unsolved sexual assaults and homicides, and unidentified remains collected from police agencies around the country. In a perfect world, Manny could put in the information he had on Jane Doe and ViCAP would spit out a similar missing person or homicide victim in an unsolved case. But the world wasn’t perfect. The system was only as comprehensive as the information put into it, and not every police agency was diligent providing cases for ViCAP. Most small agencies didn’t have access and a lot of large agencies weren’t assiduous about doing it.

      ‘Yeah. I checked,’ Manny replied. ‘Didn’t see anything that matched up, but I don’t got much to go on here. I also looked at Broward County’s Found and Forgotten website, but came up empty there, too. I’m trying to think of my next move.’

      ‘Let me see that. You mind? And can I see the video?’ Mike asked.

      Manny nodded, handed him the picture, and got up from his seat. ‘Help yourself. When did you figure out how to turn on a computer?’

      Mike ignored the jab and moved into Manny’s chair. He watched the entire clip through three times without saying a word, then ran it a fourth time and paused at forty-one seconds in, studying the screen. ‘That window cleaner there … it’s a knock-off.’ He captured the shot and zoomed in on the far corner. ‘I thought so,’ he said, mumbling under his breath. ‘I thought so. That there’s the Shoprite logo. On the red part — doesn’t that look like a grocery cart to you?’

      ‘Could be,’ Manny said, studying the screen. ‘What’s Shoprite?’

      ‘Shoprite’s a supermarket chain up north. New York, Jersey, Connecticut. I’m not sure it’s around anymore, but that’s where you need to focus, Alvarez. Have the boys in Tech see if they can enhance that picture — I’d bet my bottom dollar that’s Shoprite. Been a while since I saw that brand. They used to have some crazy commercial about how Shoprite’s got the can-can sale, with a bunch of French dancers singing about stocking up on peas.’

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