Lindsay's hands squeezed the steering wheel in utter frustration. Traffic at 10 on a Sunday night should not have been this taxing, however the sleet had put a cork in the city's taxi flow. She growled openly at the grid-lock paramount to the daily early morning rush hour. It was useless; at this point, she would make better time if she got out and walked, lugging the collected evidence behind her. While waiting for the sea of bright red brake lights to dim before her, Lindsay's thoughts traced back to the circumstances surrounding Trinity's Jane Doe.
By the time she had arrived, Mac had already slipped out with the contents of the victim's pockets in makeshift evidence bags, which consisted of nothing fancier than paper lunch sacs from the cafeteria. He had left Flack behind in his wake, waiting to fill Lindsay in on the case. And now that she thought about it, those particular details had been minimal, at best. A 20ish, petite Caucasian female, had been conscious several hours ago, and they suspected fowl play. That was it. The detective had crossed his heart, even stuck a needle in his eye that they didn't really know anything more. However, his admission was enough to get the wheels greased in the back of Lindsay's mind, especially the way he had enunciated the sentence, emphasizing the word 'really'.
She had chosen to ignore it then, worrying more about processing the poor girl quickly. Collecting evidence from the deceased was one thing she had acclimated to over the years; it came with the territory. But when the subtle rise and fall of a small chest was involved, it would always be more difficult to detach.
But now, banging her head against the steering wheel, while traffic was at a standstill provided the perfect opportunity to ponder what Flack had "really" meant. Hundreds of cases like this happen in the city annually, merely blips on the radar of the NYPD crime lab. The issue eating at Lindsay now, however, was that normally a forensic nurse would be processing the victim, especially in favor of calling in an analyst on an off shift and paying them overtime. She couldn't figure out why the hospital wouldn't have sent her clothes, photos, and kits over to the lab to be processed in the morning, as per usual protocol.
She hated to think of the possibility that Flack would leave something out on purpose. But, if that were the case here, Lucy would have some serious splainin' to do. After all, evidence without context was just fingernail scrapings, fibers and hairs.
Rather than dwell on resident conspiracy theories, she forced her focus back to the road. She had moved a grand total of two blocks. In twenty minutes. Just as she was about to seriously contemplate some of the more obvious ramifications of packing over eight million people in a three hundred some square mile chunk of land, her cell phone rang.
"Tell me why I moved to a place that's 438 times smaller, yet miraculously eight times more populated than my entire home state," she grumbled sourly by way of greeting into the phone.
Covertly both amused and impressed that she had actually gone to the trouble of doing the math, he replied, "Woah now there Montana, am I sensing some nostalgia for rollin' fields of wheat? What now, the city not treatin' ya right?"
She could almost hear him shake his head in mock disgust at the thought, but that wasn't enough to put a smile back on her face. "Damn right cowboy, I could get anywhere faster on horseback at this rate," she continued in a surly tone. Pausing a beat to think better of her attitude, she replied, "I'm sorry Danny. I'm tired, my nerves are shot. I wasn't even on call tonight, yet somehow Mac twisted my arm into coming into work anyway."
In truth, she was secretly elated to hear from him. It had been a while since they last spent any real time together, on the phone or off. Things were looking up.
"Yeah, I know, which is actually why I'm callin'. Mac was concerned when you hadn't shown up here yet."
And things were looking back down again. She felt a slight twinge of disappointment at this particular admission. From her perspective, Mac had been the one worried, not her boyfriend after all. In all honesty, if it weren't for her boss's concern, she probably wouldn't have heard from Danny at all tonight. He'd been incredibly distant lately, after Reuben, and she had all but given up on figuratively reaching him. She wondered now if they'd ever be back on the same page when suddenly it hit her; he had mentioned Mac and 'here', meaning the lab. "Wait, you're working tonight?"
"Yup, looks as though you're not the only sucker in the city, workin' while you coulda been downin' a cold longneck and commiserating over the Giants' pathetic loss. Ah, but Mac wanted me to help analyze the vic's clothing and possessions, and I had nothin' better to do tonight. I'm just waitin' on you before we start puttin' the picture together."
Nothing better to do... If she hadn't already been so pissed at the traffic, his flippant remark would have been enough to make her fume. She wasn't angry anymore though, just, exhausted. Tired, and hurt by subtle signs that he was losing interest in their relationship. Trying to hide the prick of pain from her voice, she continued, "I'm not sure when I'll get back, this commute is draining the last bit of resolve I have left."
He could hear the frustration return, and not knowing what brought the second wave on, he asked, "Well, until then, care to fill me in on what you found?" hoping to take some of her mind off the traffic and make the trip more tolerable.
Jumping back into work mode would get her mind off of more than the traffic she mused, and complied almost instantly. "Sure. What do you want to know?"
"Well for starters, what put this gal in the hospital? Mac has left me completely in the dark on this one."
"Strange, Flack didn't have much to offer me either. But for starters, along with a severe cheek fracture, she has a large bruise forming on her back that made an odd impression. It almost looks like a squared cross of sorts. Four spokes radiate out across her back from the center of the injury, and one appears to flare out at the distal end. I'm guessing, it was made by a four way lug wrench maybe, but that would be a funny way to hit someone with it, and it doesn't match the blow to her head. I'm hoping photographs will help clarify things."
"'Kay, go on Montana, I'm followin'," he urged impatiently waiting for more of the story to unfold.
She smirked slightly at his child-like rush. "Patience is a virtue Messer," came a retort, before she continued her now less detailed description. "There are dozens of scrapes all over her, one of her arms looks like it's in bad shape, and a trace of something was taken from one of the deeper wounds. On first glance, it looks like a tiny rock, specifically a piece of asphalt. Which got me thinking..."
"Car accident?" he offered, completing the train of thought.
"Well, the entire picture looks more like what you'd see when a motorcyclist hits the pavement, the way the road tears up flesh. But that theory doesn't fit at all with December." Her mind was racing, now trying to put the pieces together. Suddenly, she had an idea.
Danny saw the light bulb too, blurting out, "Add that with the lug wrench theory, and maybe she hitched a ride in a trunk?"
"More like escaped from a moving one, considering the street tore her up so badly. Trace from her nails seems consistent with rust," she added, sounding far away in thought.
"So someone hits her over the head, figures she's out and tosses her in the trunk of a car. Only she wakes up and somehow finds her way out. From a moving vehicle? How the hell did she manage that?"
"Perhaps this gal's a regular Houdini, Messer." She smirked, before sobering significantly. "Danny, there's more. Our Jane has been hurt before," she admitted somberly, remembering how she first froze in shock, then amazement, while she watched the faded injuries rise toward her with each breath. "I found healed scars on her chest. One's clean, more midline, like a surgical scar. But the other's rough, kind of like an old gunshot wound that has become distorted over the years," she continued coolly, shaking off the vivid memory. Lindsay realized that the girl probably had been just a child, before puberty when she'd been shot at. The stretching of her skin as she matured and the alternate contraction due to scarring would have easily caused the small, but marked distortion on the upper edge of her right breast.
Choosing to let him figure all that out on his own, she changed the subject, adding, "And something else, it was what one of the nurses said. Jane came in already bandaged up, but not by any hospital's standards—no stitches or anything. I'm guessing she was trying to take care of herself."
"Damn, then she probably changed clothes too. That's weird; why not just go to the ER?"
"My thoughts exactly."
"So this kid's been in trouble before, good Monroe. Maybe there's an old case somewhere. I'm gonna go and start lookin' a-," he began, but was cut off with an uncharacteristically small cry from the other end of the line.
"D-Danny," she squeaked, unable to control herself, "wait."
"What is it Lindsay?" he inquired, voice now laden with concern.
She wanted to tell him that she missed him, that things weren't the same. She wanted to say that something had been off, and dare she admit, they needed to talk. But the words just wouldn't come, and she realized now wasn't the time or place. When she didn't respond immediately, he continued, "Did you find something else?"
She chose to fall back on her well worn chicken act and pretend it was the case that was bothering her instead. "Nah, not exactly," brushing it off, she continued, "but there is something about all of this that I can't put a finger on. Maybe I'm just freaked because most of them aren't alive." She admitted, hoping to some higher power that he would dismiss it at that.
"Hey, hard part's over, right?" he offered by way of comfort.
She gulped, her mind considering the possibility that it would be significantly harder to talk to him about their relationship than processes a living, unconscious victim. Rather than answer, she pulled into the lab's parking garage and ended the conversation with a quick, "Well what do you know, this eagle has finally landed."
The stack of brown case files on the corner of his desk had remained the same size for much too long now, he mused. The seasoned detective sat back in his seat, recounting the events of last May in his head, adding his own experience to Flack's rendition of the Wilder drug bust. He was hoping for some inadvertent detail to jump out and bite him. However, with nothing immediately taking the bait in his brain, he thumbed the copy of the article from the girl's pocket absently, turning toward the view of New York at night from his office. He had once stated openly that he'd protect three things at all costs—the honor of this country, the safety of this city, and the integrity of his lab. He wondered now, how many people out there have taken an oath rather different from his own.
One of the thugs, he called me Serpico. Mac suddenly recalled from Flack's story as he looked back down at the picture of the warehouse in Brooklyn. Finding that detail particularly interesting, he wondered why an Irish mobster would choose that particular reference, about a cop fighting against corruption in the department, unless... His eyes opened wide in sudden realization. Perhaps corruption was ultimately what they were dealing with, without being the wiser. Dirty cops, he pondered; the thought certainly didn't make him want to sip champagne and dance the tango. He began to wonder if digging all of this up would inadvertently open a can of worms.
Mac Taylor's gaze fell back to the far corner of his desk, recalling the proverbial snakebite Candace Broadbent had received, as Danny came through the open door, pulling him out of his silent reverie. "You wanted an extra set of hands?"
"Yeah," he replied idly, looking at his watch and suddenly realizing the hour. "Lindsay should be around somewhere, we need to get some answers on this vic from Trinity. You're on clothing and possessions, here," he said, tossing the paper sac over the desk.
The former ball player's instincts didn't miss a beat, catching the evidence with ease. "In a rush? Somethin' I should know?" he toyed lightheartedly, wondering why he was called in to process something that could have waited to see daylight.
Mac dismissed him with the shake of his head, and pointed toward the door. Danny threw his arms up in mock surrender; apparently the atmosphere in the office was cold, with a chance of ice. The older detective watched him comply with the unspoken order, a small spring in his step as he jogged down the hallway in search of his Montana.
As Mac shifted back into his seat again, his eye wafted over that stack of files, the ones that he wouldn't let himself forget. Candace Broadbent's file was still on top, he recalled, and something inside him wondered what more he would know if they had gotten the luxury of meeting for breakfast. She had gotten too close to someone or something; that had been more than evident from day one. But after the cocaine bust, blowing up part of the lab (along with his one solid lead in that particular case), and his trip to London, he had perched Candace back on the corner, waiting for the ability to smoke out that ex member of the IRA, and reveal what she had been digging into. It wasn't a coincidence that she had been killed by someone with ties to one of the most dangerous organized crime families in the city.
And now that pesky tattoo was back again, taunting him.
Picking up the phone and dialing the number of Candace's old partner from the bureau, he silently prayed that his instincts were taking him down the right trail, even if he still didn't know exactly how Jane Doe fit in.