Page 31 of Fallen

For an instant, I struggle to make sense of what I’m seeing. Too many stimuli hit my brain at once. I see white skin marred with the blue-black bruising of livor mortis. Breasts drooping to each side of a rib cage that isn’t quite symmetrical. Hip bones and a flat belly with the silver pinpoint of a piercing at the navel. The dark triangle of hair at her pubis. Bare feet that are somehow undamaged. It’s the pink polish on the toenails that turns me inside out and rouses the stir of outrage. And for the hundredth time I’m reminded that just a day and a half ago this young woman cared about such trivial, everyday things as a pedicure. She painted her nails and put on makeup. She went shopping and combed her hair. She laughed and breathed and touched the lives of the people around her. I take all of it in, the broken heap of what’s left, and for an instant I’m frightened in some base and primal way.

A paper sheet covers the victim’s head, a quarter-size stain of watery pink blood warning me that I don’t want the doc to pull it away. The ends of damp blond hair stick to the stainless steel.

Then my cop’s brain clicks into gear; the questions begin to boil, part habit, partly the side of me that wants to catch the sick fucker that did this to her. “Cause of death?”

“Preliminarily speaking, she likely died of nonpenetrating trauma. Of course, I won’t officially rule on cause or manner until I’ve completed the autopsy.” He shakes his head. “To be perfectly honest, Kate, the injuries are simply too numerous to quantify. Several of these injuries could have been fatal on their own. All of that said, I do have some specifics and the postmortem CT scan will help us break it down.”

Reaching up, he angles the reflective overhead light. I’m aware of my heart thrumming against my ribs. The heat of the light. The hum of something unseen on the other side of the room.

Doc Coblentz pulls away the paper covering the victim’s head. I see damp blond hair. The gaping red mouth of a scalp wound. A forehead that’s been laid open to the bone. A cheek that’s caved in. Her left eye bulges from its socket, unseeing and dull. Mouth open, tongue bulging. Front teeth missing. Her chin is simply … gone.

Something unpleasant jumps in my chest. I think of the little girl I used to babysit. The one that was loud and bold and challenged my authority. The one that liked to run and laugh and pick on the other kids …

“In looking at the CT scan,” the doc begins, “I counted six impact sites on the skull alone. There are multiple cranial-bone fractures. Fracture of the occipital bone. Subdural and subarachnoid hemorrhages. The areas affected include the frontal, parietal, and temporal regions.”

“Do you have any idea what the murder weapon was?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “I may be able to come up with a theory once I’m able to look at the CT scan and take some measurements. If we’re lucky, the scrapings I sent to the lab will come back with some foreign material that will tell us. Something like a flake of rust from a steel pipe. Wood splinters from a club or board. Something like that. At this point, I do not know.”

I’m looking at the doc. He’s staring back at me, uncertain, waiting. I force my eyes back to the victim. Calmer, I start to notice details I missed at first glance. Her right hand is purple. Her fingers twisted into unnatural shapes. The right side of her rib cage is misshapen, the ribs obviously broken.

“What about the rest of her?” I ask.

“Whoever did this struck her with indiscriminate brutality. Head. Body. Whatever he could reach. It was likely a frenzied attack.” Using a swab, he indicates the swollen hand. “The middle phalanx on the right hand is fractured. Probably a defensive wound.”

“She tried to protect herself,” I say.

He nods. “Ulna is fractured.” He shifts the swab from her forearm to her shoulder. “Clavicular fracture. Sternal fracture. Scapular fracture. Ribs four through six are fractured. There are likely internal injuries of the lateral thoracic walls and posterior thorax as well.”

“Was there any indication of sexual assault?” I ask.

“There’s no trauma, but as a manner of routine I took vaginal and anal swabs which will tell us if there’s semen present.”

I nod, trying not to look at what remains of Rachael Schwartz, but unable to look away. “Did this attack require physical strength?”

“I can’t answer that definitively, but if I were to venture a guess, I would say a strong person did this. The magnitude of the force was considerable.”

“Was any of this done postmortem?”

“As you know, bruising ceases once the heart stops. There are at least two locations where bones were fractured and yet there was little in the way of bruising. I would venture to say the beating continued after she was deceased, at least for a short while.”

After leaving the morgue, I sit in the Explorer for several minutes, gathering the frayed edges of my composure, tucking them into some semblance of order, so I can get back to work. It’s not easy. When I close my eyes, I see the horrific injuries that were done to Rachael Schwartz. The gaping wounds and broken bones. In my mind’s eye, I see her as a nine-year-old Amish girl who smiled because I said something inappropriate. As a kid, Rachael wasn’t quite sweet. She wasn’t quite innocent. Charming, but not always genuine. If you were a parent, you were never quite sure if you wanted your own children to associate with her. But she loved life. She lived it to its fullest. Maybe with a little too much gusto—and, perhaps, at the expense of others. But she deserved the chance to live her life.

My face is hot, so I lower the window and force myself to listen to the call of a blue jay in the maple tree next to the parking lot. I focus on the breeze easing into the cab. I draw a deep breath, discern the smell of fresh-cut grass. The distant bark of a dog. After a few minutes, the jittery sensation in my stomach subsides. The darkness ebbs. My hands grow steady on the steering wheel. When I close my eyes, I recall everything I know about Rachael Schwartz not with the shock of a woman who is a little too close, but with the emotional distance of a cop determined to do her job.

Putting the Explorer in gear, I pull out of my parking spot and head toward Painters Mill.

CHAPTER 15

Summer 2008

The rager was in full swing when Loretta and Rachael arrived. Loretta had never seen so many people in one place. She sure as heck had never seen so many English cars. The pasture behind the barn had been transformed into a virtual parking lot, filled with as many cars and trucks as buggies. Two young Amish hostlers were carting around buckets and soliciting tips for watering the horses.

Levi parked his own buggy behind a pickup truck with giant tires and a big chrome tailpipe. Rachael was sitting next to Levi. Loretta was sitting on the outside seat and slid from the buggy the moment it came to a stop.

“Hold up.” Reaching into the back seat, Levi tore two more beers off a six-pack and handed them to Rachael, but his eyes were on Loretta. “One for the road.”

Grinning, Rachael took both cans and slid from the buggy without thanking him. “We need smokes, too, Amish boy.”