“Not since the Urbans,” Eve repeated. “The concealing wall wasn’t built that long ago. And there would’ve been no need to keep them here like this. People died in droves during the Urbans. You want to kill a few girls, need to get rid of the bodies? Just take them out, leave them on the street. And,” she continued before DeWinter could speak again, “how the hell do you kill them, wrap them up, stack them up, then build walls to hide them when the place is full of people? You need time, you need some privacy.”
“Yes, I see you’re right. I only meant, forensically, the remains could be from that time period, and we won’t know until tests are run to determine.”
Eve straightened, handed the evidence bags out to Peabody. “Any documentation on how long the place housed Urban orphans?”
“I’m working on it,” Roarke told her. “This level and the one above were converted into dormitories, loosely. There were two communal baths, second floor, third floor.”
“Best I can figure,” Pete put in, “they went up toward the end of the Urbans, or right after. That’s going by material, and most of what was in them’s long gone. Nobody bothered with permits, inspections, codes back around then. What I can see of the plumbing that’s left, the wiring and basic infrastructure looks like it was scavenged, cobbled together. Same with the kitchen on the first floor, the two johns downstairs.”
“No upgrades?”
“Ah.” He scratched his head. “Some patchwork, some jury-rigging here and there. Done on the cheap. It’s why we didn’t think squat-all about the walls. We could see they weren’t part of the original structure, but it’s had a lot of half-ass fiddling over the years.”
“Dorms.” Stepping out, Eve surveyed the big, open space, imagined it crammed with cots and narrow beds, cheap, boxlike dressers or chests for belongings.
She’d lived through the experience of a state-run dorm—housing for disadvantaged, disenfranchised, and troubled kids. She supposed she’d been all three. But remembered, most of all, the days and nights of misery.
“You could fit twenty, twenty-five in here, double with bunks.”
“Be tight,” Pete commented.
“These kinds of places always run tight, and usually run cheap.”
She walked out, leaving DeWinter to her exam, studied the space across a narrow hall.
“Another dorm, maybe,” Pete suggested.
No, she thought, probably the “group” room, where you had to go for talk therapy, to listen to lectures, to receive duties or assignments. More mi
sery.
She walked down into what had been the communal bathroom for the floor.
And flashed clearly back to the one she’d dealt with.
Room for six stalls, maybe seven in a pinch, she decided. One tub, considered a privilege, open showers, maybe three showerheads that offered a piss-trickle on a good day, three sinks.
She tuned back in, heard Pete’s rambling voice.
“Stripped the old copper clean out, but you expect that. Helped themselves to some of the plastic pipes. Punched some holes in the old walls to get to it. Hauled out the johns, the tub. Had to be a tub over there, from what I can see of the rough plumbing. Mostly the same as this in the one on the third floor.”
“Girls on one level, boys on the other, most likely. Especially if there were teenagers.” At least that fit with her experience.
“Lieutenant.” Dawson walked to her, his face drawn now. “We found more.”
So there were twelve, wrapped, stacked, and hidden between walls. Some with a glitter or two among the bones to speak of the life once lived.
When she’d done all she could do, she stood out on the sidewalk with Roarke. The cold, the noise, the rush of life blew away some of the film, gyp dust and death, that seemed to cling to her face, her mind.
“We’re heading into Central. Any data you can find on the place, the time lines, owners, usage, send it—however minuscule. We’ll springboard off it, find more.”
“I’ve copied what I do have to your units, including the sellers.” He watched the way she studied the building. “You don’t like leaving them to DeWinter—your dead.”
“She’s the expert. And no,” Eve admitted, “I don’t. But I can’t look at their bones and figure out what happened to them. She can. Or I have to hope she can.”
“She’s very skilled. Will she work with Morris?”
Eve thought of the chief medical examiner, another who was very skilled. And one she trusted completely. “Yeah, she will. I’ll make sure of it. Twelve,” she mused. “In four different hidey-holes on three floors. Why spread them out? That’s a question. All the same basic types, but with a spread over racial lines. But height, age, all close. Maybe body type, too. Sloppy enough, or just didn’t care enough to remove all the body adornments.