For a terrible moment I think he’s going to tell me that the little girl died at the hands of a first responder, after being mishandled, not knowing that first responder was me. “What did you find?” Closing my eyes, I brace.
“I don’t believe the child died from injuries sustained from trauma related to the tornado, as we’d initially assumed.”
“What do you mean?”
“The cause of death was a subdural hematoma—”
“What is that?” I interject.
“A hemorrhage between the dura mater and the brain.”
“Brain injury?”
“Yes, but there’s more to it than that. There were several irregularities I noticed right off the bat. In the course of my preliminary examination of the body, I noticed a slight protrusion of the anterior fontanelle—”
“Doc, in English…”
“The soft spot on top of the head,” he says. “There was a slight bulge. So I had an MRI performed, and there was, indeed, a hemorrhage between the dura mater and the brain.”
“Is it possible it happened in the tornado? Doc, that mobile home was off its foundation and lying on its side. I found the baby beneath a playpen, but there was a sofa and television and a chair in the room. Any one of those things could have crushed that child.”
The pause that follows tells me he’s just realized I was a first responder. “Kate, normally under these circumstances I wouldn’t look twice at something like this. There’s no doubt that in the course of a violent storm the child had been tossed about inside her home. But the injuries I’ve described are not crushing injuries.” He sighs unhappily. “I also discovered retinal hemorrhage in both eyes. X-rays indicated two healed rib fractures.”
Terrible images flash in my mind’s eye. The sweet face of a helpless baby girl. A tiny body in my arms, warm against my breast. Darker, disturbing images of an adult, a temper run amok. At the same time, the guilt that had been pressing down on me since the moment I heard of her death transforms into a slow, seething outrage.
“Doc, are you telling me that child was abused?”
“I strongly suspect the injuries present—both new and old—were sustained at the hands of a caregiver hours or even weeks before the storm.”
I think of Nick and Paula Kester and I wonder how a young mother or father could do something so heinous to their own child. “My God, she was only four months old.”
He heaves a sigh. “Look, Kate, shaken baby syndrome is highly controversial, even within the medical community. In light of the circumstances of this infant’s death, and before I can rule on cause or manner of death, I need to bring in a forensic pathologist for a second opinion.”
Shaken baby syndrome. My God.
“Let me know the instant you get that second opinion,” I tell him.
“Count on it,” he says, and ends the call.
*
I leave the police station immediately after my conversation with Doc Coblentz. Our conversation follows me, his words taunting me with terrible possibilities.
… the injuries present—both new and old—were sustained at the hands of a caregiver hours or even weeks before the storm.
… shaken baby syndrome is highly controversial, even within the medical community.
I think of Lucy Kester, so tiny and vulnerable, and I wonder how anyone could inflict violence upon a baby. What kind of person does something like that? But the part of me that is a cop, the part of me that has dealt with individuals who’ve hit bottom—people who for whatever reason are incapable of exercising restraint or feeling even the most fundamental human emotions—knows those people are part of our society and things like this happen far too often.
It’s dusk by the time I arrive at the Kline farm. Somewhere along the way I managed to put the news of Lucy Kester in some small compartment for later, so I can deal with the situation at hand with a clear head.
I’m surprised to find the farm deserted. When there’s a death in the Amish community, friends and neighbors converge upon the bereaved in droves. The women clean and cook and care for the children. The men take over the running of the farm, feeding the livestock and taking care of any crops. When Big Joe Beiler’s datt passed away a few years ago at the height of harvest season, Amish men came from miles away, most leaving their own crops in the field, to cut and bundle forty acres of corn.