“A hanging groove will be deepest opposite the suspension point. So in a typical hanging, that would be here.” Straightening up, Tony pointed to his Adam’s apple. “Then it fades away as it approaches the back of the neck. Now if someone strangled her, the groove should be more marked—and it won’t disappear at the back of the neck.”
He squinted, lifted Katie’s shoulder, peered closer, walked around the table to look at the other side, and finally sighed. “It’s hard to tell. Even though it’s been cold, there’s too much decomposition. Hopefully it will be more clear when I open her up.”
Next he tugged off Katie’s single glove and slipped it into a paper bag for the evidence lab. Her exposed hand looked like a cleverly fashioned wax replica.
He inspected it carefully before looking up at Owen and Nic. “No defensive marks and nothing under her nails.”
Leif snapped a photo of Katie’s hand. He was so quiet that, between flashes, he faded into the background. But his eyes didn’t miss anything. Including Nic watching him. He lifted his head to look directly into her eyes, and Nic felt her cheeks heat up.
“What about her other hand?” Owen asked.
“I already examined it, but it’s a chewed-up mess. Two of her fingertips are gone, and there’s nothing under the remaining three nails. About the best we’ll be able to do is match it up to her.”
“Let’s keep that out of the media,” Nic suggested. “If we need to, we can bluff a suspect by saying we found DNA.”
Owen and Leif nodded.
Tony and the pathology assistant began to remove Katie’s clothes. They unzipped her coat and then rolled her from side to side to take it off. It reminded Nic uncomfortably of undressing a sleeping Makayla. Next the assistant lifted up Katie’s legs while Tony tugged off her pants. The pathology assistant put each item of clothing in its own paper bag, stapled it closed, and labeled it with the case number. They would be shipped off to the lab to be examined for trace evidence—bodily fluids, soil, glass, paint residue, chemicals, illicit drugs.
They were pulling her arms overhead when Nic remembered Wayne’s certainty that this couldn’t be his daughter. She leaned forward. “Is there a scar on her right knee?” Maybe there was some tiny chance that he was right. Maybe this girl had borrowed Katie’s clothes, or simply dressed liked her. Heck, didn’t all the kids dress alike these days?
Tony moved down the table and leaned over her knee. “Yup. A little over six centimeters long. Does that match what the parents told you?”
“Yes,” Nic said in a soft voice.
Owen shot her a curious look. Of course she had already known the answer, just as Wayne and Valerie had. Still, it was hard to let go of hope.
The girl was completely naked now under the merciless fluorescent lights. Nic felt embarrassed on her behalf. But nakedness also restored Katie as a human, offset some of the strangeness and horror of her mauled face and missing hand. Three weeks ago, she had been living, moving, dreaming. Nic pushed the thought away.
But it wouldn’t stay gone. This damaged body had once been some-body’s daughter. With an effort of will, Nic could sit in this room and not have it affect her—but only if she didn’t imagine it was Makayla lying on that slab. If she ever lost her child, then all bets were off. She would howl at the moon, try to throw herself into her daughter’s grave, slit her own throat.
But first she would hunt down whoever was responsible and make them pay.
Of course, this girl wasn’t Makayla. Still, Nic knew that before she fell asleep tonight, she would let herself imagine for a few seconds what it would be like. A secret part of her believed that imagining Makayla in various horrible scenarios—leukemia, bike accident, child molester—somehow magically protected her. If Nic walked herself through the horror, then it could never happen. She knew it was illogical, but a tiny part of her still believed it might help. And another part of her was ashamed that after everything that had happened, she still held on to such an irrational belief.
As for herself, she knew that nothing could help her. Religion, faith, prayers—they were all useless. You didn’t need them to be a good person. You didn’t need them to keep you doing what was right. And they wouldn’t help you when you were desperate, when you needed a miracle. Ten years ago, she had screamed in desperation for God to help her, and what had He done? Nothing.