21:11:03: Operator: Yes, Patrick. Who are you?
21:11:28: Caller: I’m the neighbor of the Rawls. Anton called from my phone. Oh, I hear the sirens. Can I hang up now?
21:12:01: Operator: Just another minute. Let me please speak to one of the officers when they arrive.
21:13:12: Caller: All right, let me go answer the door. (Silence – voices) This is Officer Griffiths – ten four. (Line disconnected: 21:14:03).
Claire stared at the report and felt moisture coat her cheeks. Yes, she hated her ex-husband for the things he’d done to her, but no one should have to experience what she just read. She placed the pages on the shiny polished table and pushed back the tall upholstered chair with her feet. Dabbing her eyes, she tried to focus on the melting stacks of pages before her. It was too much. They were acquiring evidence to prove Tony’s guilt, but at this moment Claire didn’t feel vengeance. She felt pity for the man she’d loved.
Unconsciously, she used her sleeve to wipe her eyes and massaged her throbbing temples. She couldn’t stop the awful images of Tony’s parents that floated through her mind. Trying desperately to think of something else, she remembered Amber saying it was a nice day. She’d spent most of it inside. Claire needed a break from all this information.
As she put the report on a stack of pages, another title caught her attention: Santa Monica Coroner’s Report. Her stomach lurched. Claire didn’t want to read more; she was on overload. Closing her eyes she contemplated the unread information. Would it tell the estimated time of death? If it did, would it condemn her ex-husband, or absolve him? Did she want to know the evidence? Or could ignorance allow her peace?
Opening her eyes she looked at the clutter. The pounding in her head and twisting of her stomach told her to walk away. She placed the coroner’s reports in a manila folder, closed the folder, and allowed her hand to linger on the smooth cardstock. The information wouldn’t go away. She could read it another time. In more of a dream state, she continued to fight the visualization of Amanda Rawls lying on her kitchen floor, a dark red puddle of thick liquid surrounding her form.
By the time she and Emily were asked to identify the bodies of her parents, they were cleaned, laid on cold silver tables, and covered with clean white sheets. The coroner reported they both died instantly; their deaths were quick and painless.
Claire often hung to that information. Losing people you love is difficult. It wasn’t a conscious thought process, but those who remain often contemplate the final moments of their loved ones lives. Claire imagined her parents driving down the dark country road, talking jovially, laughing about some story her mother was undoubtedly telling about one of her students. Her mother often dominated the conversations. Claire’s father didn’t mind, actually he seemed to enjoy the sound of his wife’s voice. The endless chatting created a melody which sang continually throughout Claire’s childhood.
The wet roads combined with wet leaves made the road slippery. As physics would prove, their tires lost their grip. The moisture and wet leaves widened the separation. Within an instant, the car slid and the automobile connected a royal hundred year old oak. Due to force and speed, her parents didn’t have time to regret their drive or worry about their children. They just transcended from a loving, happy discussion, directly to a heavenly sleep. Many times in the months and years that followed, this story, this fantasy, gave Claire peace. She never shared this account with anyone, even Emily. Truthfully, she’d compartmentalized the entire momentous event away. Nonetheless, it occasionally decompartmentalized.
Groggily, she got up and walked into the warm kitchen. Amber stood near the counter cutting vegetables. When she looked up from the bright red, yellow, and green peppers, she saw Claire’s tears. “What’s the matter?”
“I just read the 911 call from Samuel and Amanda’s crime scene. I feel bad for Tony.”
At first Amber stood silently scanning Claire’s face and expression, finally she spoke, “Do you remember saying you thought I might have a halo?”
Claire nodded.
“Well, I think you’d be a better candidate.” Amber rinsed the vegetable juices from her hands and dried them on a towel. Empathy no longer evident in her voice, “I find it very difficult to feel compassion for the man who’s caused you so much distress and could -- according to your theories -- be responsible for my fiancé’s death.”
Claire walked to the kitchen table and looked out at the street. Long shadows from the trees covered the ground as the setting sun neared the western horizon. Watching the pedestrians four stories below, she saw people wearing only light jackets. It appeared the temperature had indeed risen. Maybe she needed air.
“I think I’m going to go for a walk.”