Any last fears Gin had about witnessing this final examination of her sister’s body were quelled as she observed Harper at work. She had been trained for this, had repeated these same steps herself hundreds of times before. This body on the steel table was Lily only in the strictest sense of her corporeal existence; everything that had made her the person she was had already vanished, leaving behind a shell of herself that had further morphed into something that had no emotional connection to an ebullient, lively teenage girl.
Harper documented the condition of the skin and the exposed bone and organs. The scalp and facial skin had detached from the skull, and Harper had only to brush decayed matter off the skull to examine it. He pointed to a cracked depression on its otherwise smooth surface. “The fracture extends posteriorly along the midline of the occipital area,” he said, measuring carefully. “Fragments appear to be mostly still attached.”
It was impossible to say whether the injury could have been survivable, had Lily received prompt attention. Sometimes the swelling of the brain could be relieved and healing could proceed. But Gin had her doubts—to cause a fracture of that magnitude, considerable force would have had to be used.
When Harper was finished with the external exam, he cut through the ribbons of skin that remained on the torso, lifting them out of the way to expose the body cavity. Many of the soft tissues had crumbled away, their softening the result of saponification, the breaking down of fats, and what was left was dry and fragile. Harper picked up the rib cutters, an instrument close in appearance to gardening loppers, and carefully cut through the ribs to gain access to what was left of the internal organs. Then he began to remove her organs.
The heart and lungs were recognizable but shrunken and desiccated. The stomach and intestines were another matter, decomposed long ago along with their contents. Harper pulled the liver, kidneys, and spleen free, but despite the care he took, they crumbled in his hands. Lily’s lower organs had decayed to the point that what Harper was removing was little more than dust and hardened clumps.
The uterus had shrunk and hardened, the exterior a reddish color, considerably less decomposed than the other organs. Harper made a careful incision, gently spreading the outer tissues open—and gasped.
“There—there appears to be a . . .” he began, visibly shaken. “It—wow. A fetus. Looks like an intact placenta.”
A fetus. Lily had been pregnant.
Gin felt like the ground was giving out beneath her feet. A wave of dizziness gripped her, but at the last second, she stopped herself from falling by grabbing the edge of the steel table.
She looked away from the tiny, withered sac, catching Harper’s eyes above his mask. They were compassionate but alarmed. “Are you all right?” he asked.
Pull it together, she ordered herself, swallowing hard. She forced herself to stand straighter, squeezing her fingernails into her palms. The pain steadied her, and she nodded. “Yes. I’m sorry. It was just . . . unexpected.”
“What is it? What did you find?” Stillman asked. “Did you just say a fetus?”
Harper explained in as few words as possible, picking up the camera again. “The placental tissue is badly degraded, but I’d like to photograph it before we go further.”
Stillman whistled softly. “Holy shit.”
Everyone fell silent as Harper carefully detached the withered sac and laid it on the table. He picked up a small pair of scissors and cut it open, spreading the sides. Nestled inside was a tiny, curled fetal skeleton.
Lily’s baby.
“Around fifteen to sixteen weeks, I’d say,” Harper said softly, picking up the camera again.
“Can DNA tell us who the father is?” Witt asked as Harper worked.
“Most likely yes, if the fetal skeleton provides viable samples,” Gin said, trying to keep her voice from shaking. “And of course, if we have a sample of the father’s DNA to compare it to. Given the condition of the rest of the tissues, I think it’s a strong possibility.”
“How can you be sure?” Stillman demanded.
Gin took a deep breath, steadying herself. “When I was in Srebrenica . . . there were others. Pregnant women. We were able to collect viable DNA in most cases.”
“Any chance of getting a rush on that?” Stillman asked.
Gin caught Harper’s eye roll. Every medical examiner was asked that question regularly, and no matter how often the answer was no, Gin was certain that cops would continue to ask until the day when the backlog of cases finally was winnowed down. Even then, results for a live suspect would always take precedence over a dead victim—and cold-case results waited the longest of all. Despite the increased interest in Lily’s case, they would still be waiting weeks, if not months.
“Sorry,” Harper said, not bothering to try to sound sincere. “We’ll let you know as soon as we find anything.”
Once the tiny skeleton had been photographed from every angle, Harper set it gently in a plastic bin and continued with the rest of the examination, which revealed little out of the ordinary. When he was finished, the techs took over and the others filed from the room.
“I really appreciate this,” Gin said, as they peeled off gloves and masks and gowns in the anteroom.
“It’s no problem.” With his mask off, the ring of hair along the back of Harper’s head stuck up in a way that was almost comical. “You know . . . I have a sixteen-year-old daughter from my first marriage. Lives with her mom, but I see her whenever I can. It, ah . . . I guess I just wanted you to know you weren’t the only one who . . . Not that I can know what you’re going through . . .”
As clumsy as Harper’s effort to comfort her was, Gin was grateful. Maintaining professional distance meant that there were too few moments like this, when their cases were permitted to be people—sons and daughters, husbands and wives, parents. If it hadn’t been her sister on the table, Gin might have suggested that they get a cup of coffee together.
As it was, she needed to be by herself for a while.
Lily had been pregnant, nearly four months, by the looks of it—and she hadn’t confided in Gin. Had her sister been planning to keep the baby? Was she in denial that her missed periods meant a pregnancy? Was it possible that she truly didn’t know?
According to Pennsylvania state law, Lily would have had to get parental consent for an abortion, since she was under eighteen. An abortion would have been possible through the second trimester—but Gin knew that doctors, especially those in conservative communities, balked when the pregnancy had progressed past twenty weeks. Had Lily been trying to gather the courage to tell their parents as the window slowly closed? Did the father of the child know that time was running out? Was he determined enough to end the pregnancy that he was willing to destroy two lives to make sure it never came to term?
The implications of this new discovery were dizzying, but the worst part was that Lily hadn’t told her. That she had borne this terrible secret alone. Her sister had never kept anything from her before. Why this time?
Was it shame at having made a life-altering mistake? Or was Lily reluctant to reveal the identity of the father? If it wasn’t Tom . . . was she trying to keep Tom from finding out?
Could it have been Jake?
The possibility hit her in the gut, taking her breath away. Seeing him over the past few days had stirred complicated emotions. Even now, Gin believed that Jake had loved her. And she was certain she’d loved him. If she’d ever doubted it—ever wondered if what she’d felt for him was merely youthful infatuation—seeing him again had erased those doubts. None of the men she’d dated since—including Clay—had stirred anything close to the passion she’d once felt for Jake.
But that didn’t make him innocent.
She was walking toward her car when Stillman approached her, striding quickly across the parking lot. With a sinking feeling, Gin realized that he’d been waiting for her outside.
“Oh, hi,” she said lightly, hoping to deflect him.
“Dr. Su
llivan. I was wondering if you’d mind answering a few more questions for us, in light of what we learned in there.”
“My family has been cooperating,” she said tersely, eyeing her car a dozen yards away. Further questioning was inevitable; she just didn’t feel like doing it now. The news about Lily’s pregnancy was weighing heavily on her mind and she’d been thinking a run along the river might settle her. “Maybe I could schedule something with you for later in the week.”
“Our offices aren’t far away,” Stillman said. “Ten minutes tops in traffic. How about we get it done now and save you another trip up here?”
Gin frowned and tried to step around him. “Unfortunately, I’m meeting someone in a half hour, and I need to get on the road or I’ll be late.”
Dodging the detective wasn’t a good idea; evasiveness wouldn’t do anything to shore up their confidence in her. She might even be rousing suspicions. But Gin felt dangerously close to breaking down. She needed time to think, to process what the pregnancy meant.
“That’s a shame,” Stillman said. “On the other hand, your parents were both able to move their schedules around. Detective Witt’s on his way over there now.”
His eyes were obscured by mirrored sunglasses, despite the fact that thick clouds had blocked the sun. Gin wished she’d put on her own sunglasses; she was certain her apprehension showed on her face.
She didn’t want her parents hearing the news of Lily’s pregnancy without her. It was going to be a terrible shock, particularly to her father, who had always been naïve when it came to Lily’s behavior.
Now she was in a bind: she couldn’t go home without giving the lie to her own excuse. But as she endured Stillman’s inscrutable gaze, she figured he already knew.
“Well, that’s convenient,” she said. “I need to stop by there before I meet my friend.”
“See?” Stillman said. “It all works out. I’ll follow you.”
16
Gin kept to the speed limit along the construction-choked stretch of Route 885, fuming every time she glanced in the rearview mirror and spotted Stillman behind her. The polite concern he’d shown her in the autopsy room had evaporated once they were outside, and his manner had become almost antagonistic.
That meant one of two things: either they thought Gin was protecting someone or they suspected her of lying about something.
Being scrutinized in a criminal case wasn’t a familiar feeling for Gin.
As a medical examiner, she frequently did not learn the results of the criminal cases that involved the autopsy evidence she provided, even when she testified in court. Her job was simply to assess the cause and means of death and, in the case of murder, provide any information the police needed for their investigations. What followed—arrests, investigations, convictions—was rarely reported back to her. Sure, she could have picked up the phone and made inquiries herself, but with her challenging case load, there simply wasn’t time to become invested in the outcome of every case.
Occasionally, she’d see an officer she’d worked with while she was at court or when they stopped by the office, and she’d find out if a killer had been convicted, a manslaughter charge dropped, a victim finally laid to rest. By then, though, she had often already satisfied herself as to the cause and means of the deaths that they investigated, facts that could be reduced, in the best scenarios, to science. As for the rest—motive, the passions that drove killers, the remorse they might have felt—it was beyond the scope of her duties.
As she passed the hulking skeletons of the steel industry rising up from the banks of the Monongahela River in the half-dozen towns between Trumbull and Pittsburgh, Gin had a fleeting impulse to pull off the road and head back to Chicago, back to her life. The routine of her job seemed deeply attractive right now, an easy escape from the questions swirling around her sister’s death.
Instead, as she passed the Welcome to Trumbull, Home of Prayer sign, she reduced her speed to what felt like a crawl and continued on to her parents’ house. She could see Witt’s cruiser parked neatly behind her mother’s Lexus. She took the last available space in the driveway, behind her father’s truck, leaving Stillman to park on the muddy shoulder.
She left the front door open, not bothering to wait for Stillman to catch up. As she entered the living room, she spotted Witt sitting in her father’s chair, his notebook on his lap, looking deeply uncomfortable. Richard sat on the couch with his arm around Madeleine, whose face had gone chalky and pale. A single tear streaked her makeup. When she saw Gin, she staggered to her feet.
“Did you know?” she demanded. “Did you know she was pregnant?”
“I just found out today,” Gin said, stung. Did her mother really think she could have kept that secret all these years?
“So you saw it for yourself?” Richard’s voice was hollow, his eyes desperate. Gin realized he’d been holding out hope it might be a mistake. “There was really a baby?”
“I did, Dad,” she said as gently as she could. Stillman entered the room behind her, and she went to her father and hugged him, angry that this painful, private moment should be witnessed by the two detectives.
She took a seat on the sofa next to her parents, leaving the love seat for Stillman. Catching the look that passed between the two detectives, she gritted her teeth and tried to appear calm.
“I was just telling your parents that we won’t have the lab results back for a couple of weeks,” Witt said.
There was a knock at the door. Gin got up and answered it. Standing outside, holding his hat in his hands, was Lawrence. He’d parked behind Witt’s cruiser, his truck blocking the sidewalk.
“I thought I should be here,” he said in a low voice. “Witt and Stillman didn’t bother issuing an invitation, but Witt called on his way over to let me know about the pregnancy. You all right?”
“I guess,” she said, standing aside for him to enter. “It’s just a lot to take in.”
When Richard saw Lawrence, he buried his head in his hands. “You,” he sputtered, his voice muffled. When he looked up again, tears of rage glittered in his eyes. “Why is he even here? That can’t be right. Isn’t it a conflict of interest? His son is a prime suspect. Doesn’t anyone else get that?”
“Mr. Sullivan—” Witt began, but Lawrence made a noise of disgust.
“I want the same thing as you, Richard—to find out who killed your daughter.”
“Dad,” Gin interjected. “Please, we all need to work together here.”
But Lawrence was already backing toward the door, holding up a hand in defeat. “I’ll go, but I just ask that you think about what you’re saying,” he said beseechingly. “When this is over, when we’ve got the guy who hurt Lily, we’re still all going to be living here in this town. We’re going to have to find a way to make it work. Madeleine, Richard, we’ve been friends for thirty years. You know me.”
“Just go, Lawrence.” Madeleine begged. Her hair hung wilted and stringy around her face. “Please. All of you. My husband and I need time to process all this.”
“If you think of anything,” Witt said, tapping a card that he’d set on the glass coffee table. “Otherwise, we’ll be in touch if we find out anything more.”
“Thank you,” Gin said, ushering them as quickly as she could out the front door. Lawrence was already pulling away from the curb. Once out of her parents’ earshot, she rounded on Witt. “The ME could have handled informing them of the pregnancy. Why come here and upset them? You have their statements.”
Witt shrugged. “You never know—sometimes new information will jog a memory loose, clarify something that didn’t make sense.”
Stillman gave her the ghost of a smile. “This is a big case,” he said, as though telling her she’d won the lottery. “Media all over it, not to mention departmental politics. We don’t have time to be worrying about everyone’s feelings. Unless they’re feeling moved to share something they might have been keeping to themselves.” His flinty gray eyes bored into hers.<
br />
“Your sister didn’t just undergo an immaculate conception. Somebody was responsible for knocking her up.”
***
Gin knew it wouldn’t be long before her sister’s pregnancy was in the news, ratcheting up the stakes for the media. It was up to the detectives how and when to release the information to the press, and how to craft the story. Sometimes key details were held back, for a variety of reasons—trying to draw out suspects, or control public outcry, or simply respect the privacy of the bereaved—and sometimes they were strategically leaked.
Still, the murder cases she’d been involved with had taught her that news tended to find its way out, even when investigators tried to keep a lid on it. The temptation to leak information—for money, notoriety, or darker, personal reasons—was simply too great in a complex investigation involving too many people at too many levels.
That meant she had only a brief window of time to try to figure out whose baby Lily had been carrying before the entire town was in an uproar.
When Lily had gone missing, Tom was among the first people questioned, since they’d been dating for six overheated months. But Tom had an alibi; Spencer had been teaching him how to drive a stick shift out in the parking lot of the shuttered Montgomery Ward’s that night. Two days later, when Jake finally admitted that he had been with Lily that afternoon, Lawrence had stepped aside and let Lloyd question Jake; he’d even taken the extra step of notifying the county police and inviting them to take over. The county police had declined, since they only got involved in homicide, large-scale narcotics cases, weapons trafficking—problems requiring their greater resources and firepower. Missing persons cases, especially those involving teens, which were far more common than anyone cared to admit, rarely got their attention.
The last that Gin knew, Tom had been working in management at the medical center, a job it had been widely assumed that his father had helped him get. She took a chance and tried the general number for the center. An operator directed her call.
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