“But even if I discovered anything, all I could do is report it to the detectives.”
“Of course. I’m not trying to go around those fellows, but they’ve pretty much pushed me out of the official investigation. Truth is, I don’t have any skills that they don’t. I’m about as useful to them as an udder on a snake. You, on the other hand—well, I know how to use the Internet, Ginny-girl, and I’ve made a few friends over the years. I did my research after our conversation, and I know you’re good. I know you’ve been consulted on cases far outside Cook County. I know you’ve developed a reputation for your work on exhumation cases.”
For a moment, neither of them said anything. Out in the backyard, a cat meowed loudly, and several houses away a mother called for her kids to come in for dinner. Gin had been in this house a hundred times, long ago. Watched TV on the comfortable plaid couch. Eaten dinner at the oak kitchen table.
Shared stolen kisses with Jake when Lawrence wasn’t home.
Lawrence cleared his throat. “If you’ll excuse me for a moment, I need to go take my blood-pressure pills. I’ll be just a few minutes.” He stood and pulled his phone from his pocket, setting it carefully on the coffee table between them. “This damn thing, I try to shut it off at night. Don’t feel like taking calls when I’m off the clock, you know?”
At the foot of the stairs, he paused. “Speaking of pathologists,” he said, not meeting her eyes. “One of them called me this afternoon, not half an hour before you came over. Course I couldn’t help him much, seeing as the county crew had already turned in their paperwork, and I didn’t have anything to add. Guess he had a few questions before starting the autopsy, some things he couldn’t sort out. Oh, and he had a memorable name—Stephen Harper, just like the former Canadian prime minister. No relation, I’d suppose.”
Then he was climbing the stairs, his boots heavy on the wooden treads.
Gin stared at the phone, her mind swirling with thoughts. Had Lawrence really just given her the name of the pathologist who was going to autopsy Lily’s body?
Was he asking what she thought he was asking?
If she was right, he’d intentionally left her alone with his phone. Gin picked it up and tapped it on. There was no passcode, and she checked his recent calls.
Right at the top was a number with a 412 area code. Gin dug a pen from her purse and jotted the number on one of her business cards. She’d just stashed it and set the phone back, face down, when Lawrence came back down the stairs.
“Sorry,” he said, “I’m taking so many pills these days I probably qualify as a scientific experiment myself. I do appreciate you coming by, Virginia. I wish it was under better circumstances.”
“Me, too,” Gin said, standing. She would have liked to say more . . . there was so much unsaid between them.
So many questions. So few answers.
“I’d better go,” she said. “Mom’s going to need help with all the food people dropped off.”
“I’d ask you to give them my regards,” Lawrence said sadly. “I don’t expect they’re welcome, though.”
Gin held out her hand; it felt like an inadequate gesture, but Lawrence took her hand in his large, callused one. “These are hard days,” he said quietly, every one of his sixty-something years suddenly reflected in his face.
Gin was halfway back home before her heart returned to a normal rhythm. She was really going to go through with it. She was about to interfere in an official investigation. Even if she could talk her way into examining the body, any evidence she found could be deemed inadmissible because of her personal connection to the victim. She risked blowing the whole case.
But for the first time since coming back to Trumbull, she felt a spark of hope. Hope that she might be able to learn what happened to Lily. Hope that, for the first time in seventeen years, she might find some sort of peace.
As she drove, thoughts roiled in her mind, memories and contradictions and questions, too much to keep straight. Only after she had arrived at home and was getting out of her car did it come to her—the word that had gotten Jake disqualified from the spelling bee.
Vengeance.
14
Gin turned off her headlights before pulling into the driveway. Her father’s truck was parked behind her mother’s Lexus, so she knew they were both home. She hoped they hadn’t noticed her arrival; she wanted privacy to call the number she’d taken from Lawrence’s phone.
Stephen Harper didn’t pick up, but Gin could tell from his voice mail message that she’d reached his private number. She expressed her request as succinctly as possible and asked that he call her back as soon as he could.
Then she bit her lip and dialed Ducky Osnos. At this point, she had nothing to lose by letting her boss know that she was getting involved—and asking for his help.
He picked up on the first ring. “I saw the news,” he said, not bothering with a greeting. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
It had taken her almost a year to tell him about Lily, and that was only because her fellowship had ended and she was being hired fulltime as a pathologist. She had been afraid that the story would be unearthed in the reference check, and she confided in Ducky in hopes of convincing him not to tell anyone. He’d promised to keep it just between them and had never mentioned it again.
“I need your help,” she said, ignoring his question.
“Anything.”
When she’d explained what she hoped to do, Ducky whistled. “You’re sure about this? I mean, I can get you the time off, no problem. You’ll owe a lot of favors when you get back, but you’ve built up a lot of goodwill.”
Gin had covered for just about everyone over the years. She was one of the few staff who had no children or spouse to get home to.
“I’m sure.”
“You know all I can do is vouch for your skills,” Ducky said. “I can’t change protocols.”
“I would never ask you to. Ducky, I can’t tell you how much this means to me. I just—I mean, I guess it’s like the families always say. That they just want to know the truth.”
“Virginia . . . I’m so sorry. For your loss, for the way it happened, for you having to find out like this. I’ll be praying for you. For your whole family.”
“Thank you, Ducky.”
“Good luck.”
After they’d hung up, Gin rested the phone on her thigh and stared at the old house that had been the only true home she’d ever known. Through the kitchen window, she could see her mother moving around, setting the table, taking dishes from the oven. She’d soon call Richard in from the den, where he would be watching the evening news.
It was a good excuse to simply go in, to put off this call for yet another day. Instead, Gin took a deep breath and dialed.
Clay picked up on the third ring. “Where have you been?” he asked, sounding both irate and concerned.
“I’m so sorry, Clay. It’s been hectic.”
“Too hectic to let me know you’re all right? Sorry,” he amended almost immediately. “I don’t mean to snap at you. And I can understand why you didn’t want to talk about it that night. But I’ve been worried.”
“It was really thoughtless of me,” Gin concurred. “And I’m so sorry that I lied. I just—I guess I was in shock, at first.”
“It’s all right,” Clay said, his tone softening. “I just wanted to know that you were okay.”
Briefly, she described the memorial service, the many people who’d expressed their condolences. She left out any mention of Jake, telling herself it was too complicated to explain—and knowing that wasn’t the only reason.
“Do you really think there’s any chance they’ll find out who did it after all this time?”
“Well, it all depends on what they’re able to find. If the killer left any DNA on the body or the cooler, they’ll cross check it with CODIS.”
“But that only helps if he’s been arrested before, right?”
“Yes, more or less. Depends on the state where
they were arrested and a few other variables. But they’ll also be able to use it to rule people out.”
“Yeah, I guess . . . but there are a lot more people who didn’t do it than did.”
Welcome to my world, Gin resisted saying, remembering how his eyes would sometimes glaze over when she talked about her cases. “I’m going to stay for a while,” she blurted.
“A while,” he repeated. “Is that like a few days? Or a month, or . . . ?”
“I’m not sure yet. I’m sorry, Clay, I wish I could be more specific. I just—” She squeezed her eyes shut before telling a lie. “It’s just that I think I need to be here for my parents.”
There was a pause before Clay said, “I understand.” His tone implied otherwise.
“I’ll try to do better about checking in.”
“I’ll see if I can get someone to take the opera tickets,” he said, a little stiffly.
She’d forgotten—they were supposed to see Der Rosenkavalier next Friday at the Lyric. The tickets had been a coveted perk, a gift from the senior partner at Clay’s firm. Clay had made reservations at Brindille for before.
“I know that evening is a big deal,” she said. “And I was really looking forward to it, too. I’m sorry, Clay. I just . . . everything is a little overwhelming right now.”
“Do you want me to come? I can rearrange my schedule—”
“No.” She hadn’t meant to sound quite so abrupt. But the idea of Clay coming here, seeing her hometown, her family, the complicated and painful echoes of a past she had never fully shared with him . . . it was just too much. “I mean, thank you, really. Maybe I’ll come back next weekend for a day or two.”
But she wouldn’t, she suddenly realized. She wasn’t going back to Chicago until she could make some kind of sense of Lily’s death, no matter how long it took.
“That would be great. We can . . . whatever you need to do, Gin. Talk, or—or whatever.”
But the awkwardness in his voice underscored the distance that she had kept between them; they never really talked. Not about the most important things. She had held back so much: not just what had happened to Lily, but how it had changed her, changed the course her life had taken. Her fears that she would never really be whole again.
Other than Lily, there was only one person in the world that she had allowed to know her that deeply. Only one person had understood who she really was, and loved her for it.
“Well, I’d better go,” she said, pushing away the unwelcome thoughts of Jake. “Mom’s got dinner ready.”
“Right. Take care of yourself, Gin. Good night.”
“Good night,” she said, hanging up.
Neither of them had said “I love you.”
Gin headed for the house, into the comforting aroma of her mother’s latest casserole.
***
Her phone rang as she was loading the dishwasher.
“Hi, this is Stephen Harper returning your call,” he said when she picked up. In the background, she could hear a child’s shriek. “I got your message.”
“I’m so sorry to disturb your evening,” Gin said, wiping her damp hand on her jeans and hurrying to the laundry room where she wouldn’t be overheard.
“No, don’t worry about it. I also spoke to Lawrence Crosby earlier in the day.”
“Again, I regret taking up your time with—”
“You’re a godsend, to tell you the truth. I’ve never had a case like this. I gotta ask, though—I mean, it’s your sister. Are you sure . . . ?”
“I’m sure.” She wasn’t, of course. She had no idea what she would feel when confronted with the physical reality of her sister’s death. But it didn’t matter—she was committed to doing anything she could to help.
“It’s pretty irregular, I guess I don’t have to tell you. I’ll need to run it by the chief.”
“Yes, of course. Whatever you need me to do, whoever you need to clear it with, I understand.”
“I think one of the detectives is going to stand in,” Harper said. “Bruce Stillman, he’s a good guy. I’ve worked with him a couple of times before. Maybe one of the CSIs too. Looks like this is turning into a real party.”
Gin’s heart sank. So much for trying to get ahead of the investigation. Still, maybe it was better for the detectives to be present if she was able to discern anything important.
“Also, I think it’s probably best if you just observe,” Harper went on.
“I have no problem with that.”
“Were you really a Boettcher Fellow at U of C?”
Gin felt the blush rise in her cheeks. Few people would know—or care—that she’d been awarded the honorary fellowship after her second year of medical school. There was only one person who would have shared that information—which told her that Ducky had called ahead, paving the way for her. “I’m afraid so,” she said, hoping she didn’t sound arrogant.
“Damn. Well, I’m looking forward to meeting you, Dr. Sullivan.”
“Please, just call me Gin.”
“Okay, Gin, and I hope you’ll call me Stephen. We’ll do this first thing tomorrow, so come in at nine thirty. You need directions?”
“No, I’ll be fine. See you tomorrow.”
Gin hung up and realized that she had been staring at a basket mounded with dirty laundry. The dryer was still warm, and she decided to fold the clean laundry and start another load.
It was while she was sprinkling the detergent on the clothes that she spotted the folded paper peeking out of the pocket of her mother’s slacks.
M—
I blame myself for never telling you before that I’m sorry. And now I’m afraid it’s too late. But know that you are in my heart.
The words were written in a blocky, masculine hand on a plain sheet of unlined white paper. There was no signature.
“M” was for Madeleine, presumably. But who had written the note? And what were they sorry for?
15
Traffic had slowed to a crawl due to construction as Gin headed into Pittsburgh the next morning. Luckily, she’d allowed plenty of time, telling Madeleine she was going to visit a friend from college. For once, Madeleine didn’t pepper her with questions; she seemed distracted as she left for her office.
The Allegheny County Medical Examiner’s office was housed in an unremarkable low-slung beige building tucked next to the interstate in downtown Pittsburgh. The most redeeming aspect of its location was its proximity to the Strip District, several blocks of gourmet supply shops and outdoor food markets, though Gin had no appetite for exploring today.
Gin showed her identification and was buzzed back to the morgue, where a tall, rangy, balding man waited next to a distinguished-looking older gentleman, both of them in scrubs.
“Gin Sullivan, I presume?”
“Yes, I am,” Gin said.
“Stephen Harper,” he said, offering his hand. His grip was firm and warm. “Pleased to meet you, and this is Dr. Harvey Chozick, our chief.”
“It’s a real pleasure to meet you, Dr. Sullivan,” Chozick said, taking her hand in both of his. His eyes were a vivid blue behind his thick glasses. “I’ve read about your work in Srebrenica. If I was twenty years younger, I would have loved to have joined your team myself.”
“The pleasure is mine,” Gin said with sincerity. “I read your work on immunohistochemistry during my fellowship.”
Gin followed the two men to the sink where they washed their hands before putting on disposable surgical caps, masks, and gloves, as well as plastic gowns.
At the door to the morgue, Harper hesitated. “I just wanted to say,” he began, ducking his chin. “If it gets too . . . well, I would understand if you needed to step out. Or . . . or anything.”
“I appreciate your concern,” Gin said. Through the square pane of glass in the door, she could see the two detectives, Stillman and Witt, standing over the steel table on which her sister’s remains were laid out, their details indistinct. “But I’ll be fine.”
Harper held the door for her; next Dr. Chozick followed, Harper taking up the rear. They arrayed themselves around the table, and Gin had her first look at her sister’s body.
She was dimly aware of the hushed greetings of the detectives and the tech who had prepped the work area, and she answered automatically, but her attention was riveted to Lily’s remains. Nearly all the clothing had been cut away, except for a few small sections that had become fused with the body’s tissues. Some of the skin had sloughed free of the bones, revealing the dried and stretched tendons below, the remnants of organ and muscle tissue still clinging to the skeleton. The sealed cooler had kept out the animals and insects that might have disturbed the tissues, but moisture had still made it inside, allowing the putrefaction process to proceed. The body cavities had long ago burst, the tissues liquefied and then eventually dried, leaving behind a blackened and moldering skeleton covered here and there with tight-stretched, leathery skin. The eyes had sunk and disintegrated, and little facial skin was left to stretch over the teeth and jaw.
Only Lily’s hair, a mass of unruly blonde tangles, was recognizable.
Harper began with the external examination of the remains, documenting his findings into the digital recorder. He took samples from the teeth, hair, and nails, which would be tested for further clues to Lily’s death. The body had already been weighed and x-rayed, the teeth providing positive identification, but examining the metabolites in the teeth would also provide a general indicator of Lily’s health at the time of her death.
All that would happen later, though. At the conclusion of the autopsy, samples would also be cut from the bones, to be scrubbed and ground and purified before being spun in a centrifuge to extract microscopic DNA particles. For now, Harper would work from the outside in, examining what he could of what was left behind.
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