She pulls a pair of purple disposable gloves out of her coat pocket and slips them on. When she looks up, she sees a big MCU scene truck pull up behind her car, lights flashing. “Let’s wait for Vicki.”

The passenger door on the truck opens. A young woman with dark hair that’s pulled into a ponytail hops out. She’s wearing a blue windbreaker and carrying a digital camera.

“Sergeant Gagnon,” she says in greeting. Quiet. Respectful.

Gagnon turns to the two troopers. “You guys know Vicki Barnes? Best crime scene photographer we’ve got.” She knows a few compliments go a long way this early in the morning.

Barnes exchanges nods with the two troopers.

“Sorry to wake you up, Vicki,” says Gagnon.

“I wasn’t asleep, Sergeant. What’re we looking at?”

“We’re about to find out.” Gagnon walks to the back of the Sentra and lifts the trunk so it’s all the way open. Josephs shines a flashlight into the interior.

Gagnon sucks in a quick breath as if she’s been stung. She’ll never get used to this part of the job.

“Female,” she says, pointing at the skull. “Delicate glabella, and the suborbital rims are really light.” She turns to Vicki. “Shoot this before I move anything.”

The photographer leans in and clicks off a series of shots. Her flash illuminates the trunk in quick bursts.

I see you, Gagnon says to herself. Whoever you are, I see you. Her private mantra.

She pulls a pen from her pocket and gently teases the blue fabric away from the skull. A few spidery strands of hair still cling to the cranium. The skull is resting on a cluster of other bones. Ribs, femurs, tibiae, patellae.

“It’s a whole damn skeleton,” says Tasker.

“Hopefully nothing’s missing,” says Gagnon. She holds the fabric aside as Barnes clicks another series of shots.

“Josephs, pass me the flashlight,” Gagnon says, using two fingers like tweezers to tease out a small packet of red vinyl from among the bones. A wallet. The seams are loose, and the contents are poking out.

“New Hampshire license,” she says. “Old one.”

Through the crusted grime, she can make out an image of a young Caucasian woman with a headful of wavy blond hair. Gagnon squints at the faded print next to the ID photo. “‘Bonanno, Suzanne L.’”

Vicki Barnes leans in, eyes wide. “Bonanno? Holy crap. Isn’t that the cheerleader who…”

Gagnon nods. “Welcome back to the world, Suzanne.”

CHAPTER
50

Greenland, New Hampshire

The man still calling himself Jack Doohan walks out of the massive TA truck stop off I-95, extra-large coffee in his hand. The place is a city unto itself. Seventy-two truck bays, a diner and a fast-food joint, a mini-market, showers, and a laundry facility.