Burning Man by Alan Russell Page B

must have been worried about the baby getting cold,” I said.
    Alvarez did his imitation of Dr. Spock: “That’s what sleepers are for.” Then he added with cop disdain, “Of course the mother’s probably a wasted teenage tweaker who didn’t even know she was pregnant.”
    He knew his newborns but not his profiling. From working the last dumped baby, I’d learned that women who abandon their newborns don’t fall into any neat category: they can be any race, creed, or color. College students are as likely to offend as high school dropouts.
    “You were the first on the scene?” I asked.
    Alvarez nodded. “After determining the baby was dead, I cleared the area and made sure nothing was disturbed.”
    “You want to name her?” I asked.
    The officer rubbed his hands on his thighs, leaning one way and then the other, clearly uncomfortable with my question. “It doesn’t seem right, naming the dead.”
    “No, it doesn’t, but the baby’s going to need a name before she’s buried.”
    “I’ll pass, if you don’t mind.”
    “No problem,” I said and then thanked the officer before returning my attention to the baby in the box.
    My adoptive parents were churchgoers with an abiding faith in God. One of my father’s favorite quotations was from the Sermon on the Mount, and he would often repeat Christ’s words to me: “Not a sparrow falls to the ground without His care.” I looked at the fallen sparrow; by naming the baby I would provide her with an identity. The memory of my last trip to a unique and troubling graveyard made me remember roses.
    Rose, I decided, and my victim had a name.
    I checked with the crime scene unit, making sure it was okay for me to do a close-up study of Rose. The blue blanket surrounding her was a polyester blend. A woman’s white cotton T-shirt, size medium, swam over the baby. As I lifted the shirt, I was surprised to see that Rose was wearing knit pink bootees. Rose wasn’t wearing a diaper, and her pink-streaked body made it appear as if she had been hurriedly washed before being clothed and deposited in the box.
    There was some food residue on the blanket, crumbs of some sort. Forensics was probably already on it, but I’d double-check to make sure they bagged it. I removed the pillow, rested Rose on it and then made sure there was nothing else in the box.
    The coroner’s office would decide how Rose had died, but I was betting they would rule her death as an accidental homicide. Dumped babies aren’t usually clothed or blanketed, and this was the first time I’d ever heard of an abandoned baby wearing pink bootees. My gaze lingered on her tiny feet. Someone should have been playing with the little toes and spouting nonsensical words about a piggy going to market.
    “The mother hedged her bet.”
    I turned around and saw Della Tomkins, a veteran of the Forensic Field Unit. We had met at several crime scenes. On those other occasions, Della had been bright and cheery, but this time she couldn’t even force a smile.
    “We found a pair of blue bootees on the steps,” Della said. “Mom must not have known the sex of the baby she was going to be abandoning.”
    I had heard that Della and her life partner, Abby, had been going to fertility clinics for the past year in the hopes of Abby’s conceiving. They were doing all that they could to have a baby.
    “Find anything else?” I asked.
    “A few steps away from the box we found some crumpled cellophane wrapping with the remains of some partially eaten bread. We think the crumbs in the box match the bread. At first I thought it was banana bread, but judging from its aroma I’m now leaning toward pumpkin bread.”
    Halloween had come and gone a few months back. I thought of pumpkin bread as a seasonal offering, but maybe it was a popular item in the trendy bakeries or bistros that I never patronized.
    Della stood next to me and the two of us contemplated the newborn. “I’m identifying her as Rose in the book,” I