“Because this isn’t the first time something like this has happened,” Sister Anselm said in a voice that was little more than a whisper. “I’ve seen it before.”
She stopped and didn’t continue. “Tell me,” Ali urged.
With effort, Sister Anselm gathered herself. “There was a similar case a dozen years ago. The victim was a girl probably a few years older than this one, seventeen or so. She was found naked and savagely beaten on a road leading to the Hualapai Mountains. That Jane Doe wasn’t as lucky as this one. She was taken to the hospital in Kingman. Her baby was delivered by cesarean. The mother died a day or so later, and the baby a week after that. I cared for the baby through her all too brief life, and I was holding her when she died.”
Overcome by the telling, Ali watched as two tears slid down Sister Anselm’s checks and dripped unnoticed onto the Formica-topped table. Ali said nothing, not because she was unmoved, but because she could see that Sister Anselm’s wound, whatever it might be, was too deep for mere words. Anything spoken right then would have been meaningless.
Noticing the tears at last, Sister Anselm took a tissue from the box on the table. She wiped her eyes, blew her nose, and then mopped up the tears that had dropped onto the table. Finally she continued.
“When Baby Doe died, her mother’s body was still in the morgue in Kingman in the hope that eventually someone would turn up to claim her. After the baby died, Bishop Gillespie arranged for both mother and daughter to be buried in a single casket and with a single marker, one that reads ‘Jane and Baby Jane Doe.’ They’re in a shady corner of Holy Name Cemetery near downtown Kingman. Whenever I’m in that area, I always visit the grave and I always pray that somehow we’ll learn who they were and where they came from.”
Sister Anselm paused and let her hand sweep over the table and the collection of items resting there. “I’m afraid this is God’s answer to that prayer—another victim—a mother and her infant child.”
Another long silence ensued. At last Ali said what was in her heart—the only thing that made sense. “This is not your fault.”
“But it is,” Sister Anselm insisted. “Don’t you see? When the sheriff’s department let that first case go cold, I should have insisted that they keep it alive. The victim had no family to intervene and make sure she and her child weren’t forgotten. I was their patient advocate, and I failed them. Now, that means I’ve failed them all—that girl, this one, and both babies.”
“How do you know the two girls are connected?” Ali asked.
Sister Anselm reached across the table and picked up the Ziploc bag containing the bloodied braids. “These,” she said. “The first girl wore her hair the same way—in braids wrapped around the crown of her head. It’s a very distinctive style that tells me they must have come from the same place,” Sister Anselm asserted. “They fled the same place, and, according to David Upton, last night’s victim begged that neither she nor her daughter be sent back there.”
“Who is David Upton?”
“The young man who hit her with his car. He may well be the last person she spoke to.”
“Is Mr. Upton a suspect?”
“Not as far as I can tell. So far the investigation seems to bear out Mr. Upton’s claim that he was already slowing down to pull over when she ran across the pavement directly in front of him. Hitting her was unavoidable. I’ve been told that the right-hand turn signal on his vehicle was still blinking when deputies showed up to do their investigation.”
Ali studied her friend’s face for some time. “That’s why you wanted me to come today and look at all this, isn’t it,” she said. “It’s also why you had me wear gloves. The victim’s personal effects are here because she came in an ambulance and was admitted to the hospital. If she dies, everything here will become part of a police investigation.”
Sister Anselm nodded almost imperceptibly.
“And you’re hoping that somehow I’ll be able to help identify her?”
“Yes,” Sister Anselm answered.
“But why? Why not let the cops do it? She’s the unidentified victim of a motor vehicle accident. I’m sure they’ll do their best to ascertain where she came from.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Sister Anselm admitted. “I’m afraid they’ll figure it out. At that point, the father will most likely assert his parental rights, and the baby—assuming she survives—will be taken back to the very place her mother tried so desperately to escape. It’s possible the mother might be sent back there as well.”
Sister Anselm gestured again at the paltry collection of items that had come from the box. “Look at this. The poor girl ran away with almost nothing—a jacket, a spool of thread, a scissors, a light jacket, and a Navajo blanket. She did that for a reason. Perhaps, if we can solve the puzzle before the sheriff’s department does, we can marshal the resources to protect both mother and child. In both cases, these two girls chose death rather than going back to face whatever life they had lived before.”
“Was there any DNA evidence collected in the course of that other case?”
Sister Anselm shrugged. “I wasn’t privy to much of the investigation, but I assume so. However, there was no sign of a sexual assault, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“And nothing was found with the first victim? No possessions of any kind?”
“None whatsoever. No shoes. No clothing. She was wearing a wedding ring—a simple gold band. The same kind of band last night’s victim was wearing.”
“You said you thought the Kingman Jane Doe was about seventeen?”
Sister Anselm nodded.
“So both of them were young, married, very pregnant, and very unhappy.”
Sister Anselm nodded again.
It didn’t take long for Ali to make up her mind. She was her mother’s daughter after all. Over the years Ali had seen what happened whenever one of Edie Larson’s friends asked for help. A request like that quickly morphed into a sacred duty.
“All right, then,” Ali said. “It appears to me that we have three important clues here. Do you have any way for me to reach out to that young man you mentioned, David Upton?”
In answer, Sister Anselm read off his phone number, and Ali keyed it into her iPhone.
“Next we have the blanket,” she said. Ali had taken off her latex gloves. Now she put them back on. Lifting the blanket off the table, she unfolded it, and held it up. “I’m no expert, but this one feels genuine. That makes it both rare and valuable. So how does a girl who has to knot her broken shoelaces together end up with a blanket worth hundreds of dollars? I want you to use my phone and take a picture of it.”
“What good will that do?” Sister Anselm asked.
“As I understand it, each Navajo weaver uses her own particular designs and dyes. I have a friend over at the museum who may be able to identify the weaver. If we can figure out where the blanket came from, maybe we can also learn how this Jane Doe came to have it in her possession.”
The picture-taking process took time. When it was finished, Ali carefully refolded the blanket and returned it to the box.
“And then there’s this,” she said, picking up the tiny scrap of paper. “I found this hidden in the corner of her jacket pocket.”
Sister Anselm looked at it but didn’t touch. “Irene,” she read aloud. “And that’s a Flagstaff telephone exchange.”
“So maybe someone here in Flagstaff was expecting Jane Doe to show up last night. For all we know, they may have already reported her missing. Would you like me to make the call?”
“Please,” Sister Anselm said.
Putting the scrap of paper down on the table, Ali keyed the number into her phone. It rang several times before the call was answered.
“May I help you?”