The Kramers knew their roles within the family. It was Charlotte’s task to be the disciplinarian with their daughter. With their boy, Lucas, the roles were often reversed, likely because of his age (ten) and his gender. Tom described this arrangement as though describing a blue sky—it was as it should be, as it is in every family. And he was right in theory. There are always roles to be played, shifting alliances, good cops and bad cops. With the Kramers, though, the natural ebbs and flows seemed to have given way to Charlotte’s needs, with the others taking parts she did not monopolize. In other words, the normalcy Tom attempted to ascribe to their family would prove to be quite abnormal, and untenable.
The nurse smiled at them sympathetically as she released the lock on the door to the treatment rooms. They didn’t know her, but that was true of most of the support staff at the hospital. Lower-salaried professionals rarely lived in Fairview, coming in from the neighboring city of Cranston. Tom remembered her smile. It was the first hint that this was a more serious incident than what they had been led to believe. People underestimate the hidden messages in a fleeting facial expression. But think about the type of smile you would give a friend whose teenager got caught drinking. It would express a comical type of empathy. It would say, Oh man, teenagers are tough. Remember what we were like? And now think about the smile you would give if that teenager had been assaulted. That smile would surely say, Oh my God! I’m so sorry! That poor girl! It’s in the eyes, in the shrug of the shoulders, and in the shape of the mouth. When this nurse smiled, Tom’s thoughts shifted from managing his wife to seeing his daughter.
They walked through the security doors to triage, and then to another circular desk, where nurses processed paperwork and files behind computer screens. There was another woman, another worrisome smile. She picked up a phone and paged a doctor.
I can picture them in that moment. Charlotte in her beige cocktail dress, her blond hair carefully pinned up in a twist. Arms folded at the chest, posturing for when she first saw Jenny, and for the staff who she would imagine were passing judgments. And Tom, half a foot taller as he stood beside his wife with his hands in the pockets of his khaki pants, shifting his weight from foot to foot with increasing concern as his instincts fueled his runaway thoughts. Both of them agreed that those few minutes they waited for the doctor felt like hours.
Charlotte was very perceptive and quickly spotted three police officers drinking coffee from paper cups in the corner. Their backs were facing the Kramers as they spoke with a nurse. The nurse then caught Charlotte’s eye, and a whisper later, the officers turned to look at her. Tom was facing the other way, but he, too, began to notice the attention they were drawing.
Neither of them would recall the exact words the doctor used to tell them. There was apparently a brief acknowledgment by Charlotte of knowing of each other—the doctor’s daughter being one grade below Lucas at the elementary school—which then made Charlotte increasingly concerned about Jenny’s now tarnished reputation and how it might trickle down to their son. Dr. Robert Baird. Late thirties. Stout. Thin light brown hair and kind blue eyes that grew small when he said certain words that caused his cheeks to rise. Each of them remembered something about the man as he started to discuss her injuries. The external tearing of the perineum and anus … rectal and vaginal lesions … bruising to the neck and back … surgery … stitches … repairs.
The words left his mouth and floated around them like they were of a foreign language. Charlotte shook her head and repeated the word “no” several times in a nonchalant manner. She assumed he had confused them with the parents of a different patient and tried to stop him from revealing any more to spare him the embarrassment. She repeated her name, told him their daughter had been brought here for “overdoing it” at a party. Tom recalled being silent then, as though by not making a sound, he might be able to freeze time before the moment continued down the path he had started to see.
Dr. Baird stopped speaking and glanced at the officers. One of them, Detective Parsons, walked over, slowly—and with visible reluctance. They stepped to the side. Baird and Parsons spoke. Baird shook his head and looked at his black shoes. He sighed. Parsons shrugged apologetically.
Baird then stepped away and returned to stand before the Kramers. Hands folded as if in a prayer, he told them the truth plainly and concisely. Your daughter was found in the woods behind a house on Juniper Road. She was raped.
Dr. Baird recalled the sound that left Tom Kramer’s body. It was not a word or a moan or a gasp, but something he had never witnessed before. It sounded like death, like a piece of Tom Kramer had been murdered. His knees buckled and he reached for Baird, who took hold of his arms and kept him on his feet. A nurse rushed to join them, offering assistance, offering to get him a chair, but he refused. Where is she! Where is my baby! he demanded, pushing away from the doctor. He bounded toward one of the curtains, but the nurse stopped him, grabbing his forearms from behind to steer him down the hall. She’s right over here, the nurse said. She’s going to be fine … she’s asleep.