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Was this Scarlett? If so, where was the phone? I pulled on a pair of latex gloves I carried in a Ziploc bag in a cargo pants pocket. On more than one occasion, I’d apprehended bail jumpers with open wounds, others covered in vomit, piss, and feces. Always best to be prepared.
Carefully, I searched the deceased’s pockets, but they were all empty. Where the hell’s the phone?
I reached into her b*a and pulled out a flip phone. It was a pre-pay from the looks of it. When I opened the phone, the screen revealed three percent battery power remaining. I scrolled through the calls received and recognized my own number.
“No ID, but this has to be her.” I stood and peeled off the gloves one into another, then stuffed them inside out into my pocket.
Shea’s left arm wrapped around her face to
