Stacey’s mouth pulled down. “Maybe we should stop and have a chat about that.”
Dolan shook his head. “They didn’t do braces much when I was growing up. My family was big—thirteen kids—and we all had crooked teeth. Look here. Bottoms buckled up, but these top guys are good.” He turned to me. “You have braces as a kid?”
“Nope.”
“Nor did I,” Stacey said. “Well. I’m glad we got that out of the way. So what’s that tell us, the buckteeth?”
“Well, I’d say most kids with a severe overbite have already seen an orthodontist by the time they’re ten,” Dolan said. “My niece has three kids, so I know they start early—sometimes do the work in two or three stages. If this gal was going to have braces, she should’ve been in ’em by the time she died.”
“Maybe her family didn’t have the money,” I suggested.
“That could be. Anything else?”
“Cavities like that, you’re talking poor diet, too. Candy. Soda pop. Junk food,” Dolan said, with a quick look at me. And then to Stacey, “Not to sound like a snoot, but kids from your basic middle- to upper-class families usually don’t have rotten teeth like that.”
I said, “Think about the toothaches.”
Stacey said, “She did get ’em fixed. Matter of fact, the forensic odontist thinks all the fillings went in about the same time, probably in the year or two before she died.”
I said, “That must have cost a bundle.”
“Think of all the novocaine shots,” Dolan said. “You’d have to sit there for hours with that drill screaming in your head.”
“Knock it off. You’re making my palms sweat. I’m phobic about dentists in case you haven’t heard. Look at this,” I said, showing him my palms.
Stacey frowned. “They ever circulate a chart of her amalgam fillings?”
Dolan said, “Not that I know. I’ve got a copy in here. Might come in handy if we think we got a match. We do have the maxilla and mandible.”
I looked over at him. “Her jaws? After eighteen years?”
“We have all ten fingers, too.”
Stacey made a note on the paper. “Let’s see if we can get the coroner’s office to run another set of prints. Maybe we’ll get a hit through NCIC.”
“I can’t believe she’ll show up, given her age at the time of death,” Dolan said.
“Unless she got arrested for shoplifting or prostitution,” I said, ever the optimist.
“Problem is, if she got arrested as a juvenile, her records would be sealed and probably purged by now,” he said.
I raised a hand. “You were talking about why she was never recognized; suppose she was from out of state, some place back East? I get the impression the news story didn’t get nationwide attention.”
“Story probably didn’t rate a mention beyond the county line,” Dolan said.
“Let’s move on to her clothes. Any ideas there?” Stacey asked.
I said, “I thought it was interesting her pants were homemade. If you add that to the issue of poor dental hygiene, it sounds like low income.”
Stacey said, “Not necessarily. If her mom made her the clothes, it’d suggest a certain level of caring and concern.”
“Well, yeah. There is that. Those flowered pants were distinct. Dark blue daisies with a red dot on a white background. Someone might remember the fabric.”
Dolan said, “I’d like to go back and look at that statement the minimart clerk made about the hippie girl who came in. What’s the woman’s name, Roxanne Faught? We ought to track her down again and see if she has anything to add.”
Stacey said, “I talked to her twice, but you’re welcome to try. Is that store still open?”
“As far as I know. It was closed for a while, so it might have changed hands. You want me to take a drive up there?” Dolan asked.
“Let me do that. I can go this afternoon,” I said.
“Good. Meanwhile, what else? What about sizes?”
We spent several minutes working through those details. This time Dolan flipped back through the pages, looking for the list of clothing booked into property. “Here we go. Shoe size—7½. Panty size—medium. Bra size was 38A.”
I said, “That means she’s got a fairly large torso, but a small cup size. Barrel-chested. Girls like that tend to look top-heavy, even if they’re thin.”
Dolan turned a page. “Says here her ears were pierced. ‘Through the left earlobe is a gold-colored wire of a “horse-shoe” configuration. Through the right earlobe a gold-colored wire with a bent clip in its lower end.’ People might remember that, too.”