Page 48 of Buried Secrets

“One positive identification.” She slid a photograph across the table: a smiling young lady with feathered hair and bright eyes. “Margaret Straub, reported missing from Presque Isle in January, 1991. She was nineteen, a community college student who’d told roommates she was going away for a few months to ‘sort things out.’ Her family never heard from her again. She was the strangled victim.”

Matt studied the young woman’s face, memorizing the features that had long since returned to earth. She was no longer bones in the dirt but a person with a name, a history, connections, and a family still waiting for answers after three decades.

“And the second victim?” he asked, sliding the photograph to Cook, who had leafed quickly through the contents of the folder and slid it out of Matt’s reach.

“Still unidentified.” Frustration colored Samira’s voice. “We’ve uploaded the DNA profile to CODIS and commercial ancestry databases, but no matches yet.”

“I’ll notify Sullivan’s family,” Agent Cook stated, leaving no room for discussion.

Matt tamped down his frustration with the man. “I’d like to speak with them as well. They might have information about how she came to the mansion, who referred her.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Cook interrupted smoothly. “I’ll extract any relevant information and share it with local law enforcement.”

The idea seemed sound on its surface, but it irked Matt to be told what information he would be getting. Nothing prevented him from reaching out directly, and he planned to, once their initial shock wore off.

Samira’s tightened face almost imperceptibly. “Sheriff Winters has the advantage. Local investigators often pick up on regional connections that might elude federal agents unfamiliar with the area.”

The pair glared at each other over the conference table. The tension crackled like static electricity in the confined space. He suspected Samira had the guy underfoot, and he was secretly glad Cook was staying off island.

“I appreciate both perspectives,” Matt said diplomatically. “But we have two murders to solve here.”

Samira took the segue and reached for her tablet. “Preliminary facial reconstruction might help with the second victim.” She tapped the screen to bring up a three-dimensional rendering of a young woman’s face, features assembled from skull measurements, tissue depth markers, and educated extrapolation.

“This is our best approximation of what our Jane Doe might have looked like,” she explained, passing the tablet to Matt. “Caucasian female, approximately twenty years old.”

Matt studied the digitized rendering. Pretty, pleasant features that might have belonged to any of the thousands of young women who passed through Portland in a given year. Yet something in the curve of the jaw, the spacing of the eyes, triggered a distant recognition he couldn’t immediately place.

“I’ll email these,” Samira continued, primarily addressing Matt. “Along with the preliminary DNA analysis from the commercial database. Perhaps someone on the island might recognize her or know relatives who match the genetic profile.”

“I’ll look into it,” Matt promised, returning the tablet. “We’ve been interviewing former mansion staff, but most claim limited knowledge of the residents. With an actual identity now, we have something concrete to work with.”

“The Bureau will want reports of those interviews related to this case,” Agent Cook stated, his tone hardening slightly.

Matt met his gaze directly. “Of course,” he said, forcing friendliness. “Like I said, not much to report. Many of the key figures employed at the time, such as the administrator and the doctor, are long dead.”

“And of course, interviewing their families would not be fruitful, as it was so long ago.” Cook stood, tucking Samira’s folder under his arm and checking his watch with a subtle flourish that drew attention to the expensive timepiece on his wrist. “I should check on Kaitlin. We’ve covered the essentials, haven’t we?”

The abrupt conclusion to their meeting felt premature to Matt, but Samira was already gathering her materials with the efficiency of someone accustomed to working around difficult personalities.

“I’ll send those files this afternoon,” she told Matt. “Call if you have questions about the technical aspects.”

They walked together back to Cook’s office, where Kaitlin now sat upright on the sofa reading something on her phone. The color had returned to her cheeks.

“Matt, Samira,” she greeted. “Another coincidence.”

“Yeah, right,” Matt replied, stepping into the room. “How’s the head?”

“Much better. Whatever Agent Cook gave me worked quickly.” She smiled toward Cook, causing a twist in Matt’s gut as the agent’s hand came to rest briefly on her shoulder in a gesture that appeared supportive but struck Matt as unnecessarily possessive.

“You seem fully recovered,” Cook said. “Perfect timing for lunch and a boat ride back to the island.”

Samira’s gaze flicked between Agent Cook and Kaitlin, something unreadable passing behind her professional mask. “I thought you were heading north, Agent Cook, to speak to a family?” Samira asked.

Matt immediately jumped in. “Yes. Unless of course, you’d like me to take care of that, Agent Cook?”

Satisfaction rolled through his gut as he watched fury race across Cook’s face that was quickly replaced by abject professionalism. “Kaitlin, I’m afraid we’ll need to take a raincheck on our date. Duty calls.”

Matt felt his jaw tighten. “Well I should get going if we want to make the afternoon ferry.”