Before You Knew My Name (37)

Best to keep the police close to home, maybe.

Seventy-two hours after my murder, on a grey-skied morning, Ruby finds herself returning to the precinct. She walks past the building a dozen times, but she never goes up to the entrance, cannot bring herself to do more than hover across the street. It is enough for her to stare at the front doors, to know there are people like Detective O’Byrne and Officer Jennings, that kind policeman, working away inside. Solving crimes, helping people, keeping them safe. Just a few days ago, she thought, This is how people go crazy. Now she understands she had no idea back then. What it means to need answers no one can give you.

Her body was found by a jogger. Such a famous line. Two anonymous women connected by just seven words. Just how close had they come to each other that morning? Close enough to change roles, play each other’s parts?

The victim is estimated to be in her mid-thirties. She is 5'7, 155 pounds. She has brown hair, and brown eyes. She has a tattoo of a heart on her right wrist.

Was Ruby’s life decided in the time it took to put on her running shoes? Had she arrived in the park just a few minutes earlier, might she have been the one in danger?

(How close do we all come?)

As she stands across from the precinct, Ruby thinks about Detective O’Byrne. By now, she has seen him many times on the news, read every single article about him she could find. It was no surprise to discover he is famous in his field, a respected, much decorated investigator known for solving many of the area’s high-profile cases. The grim stuff, the murders of women and children, cases Ruby skipped over at first, but often returns to in the dark, pressing her tongue against the exposed nerve of violence when she cannot sleep. She wonders how much more Detective O’Byrne knows about this particular murder than what has been shared with the public so far. A girl was assaulted, strangled. A seemingly random attack. The perpetrator’s DNA was found under the victim’s fingernails (and other places Ruby doesn’t like to think about). This is all common knowledge now. But what new secrets has the girl’s body offered up to the medical examiners and photographers and crime scene investigators? Three days on, obviously not enough to give away her identity. Posters with a detailed sketch at their centre have now gone up around Riverside: Do you know this woman?

(A forensic artist has approximated my face, painted a small smile at my lips, coloured right up to the edges of me. It could almost … but the artist has softened my expression, widened my eyes. I look like a girl who knows nothing of the world. Who is going to recognise that?)

There must be more that he knows, Ruby thinks of O’Byrne, today. She can almost see him shifting all of the different pieces from hand to hand, rubbing the truth between his fingertips until it sparks. An odd image, and when she looks down, Ruby sees that she herself is pressing thumb to forefinger, a new and nervous twitch.

‘Does he know who you are, Jane?’

Ruby doesn’t mean to say this sentence out loud, but the words slip from her mouth, just as Officer Jennings quietly comes up beside her. She jumps, their faces mirroring surprise and recognition. He thinks Ruby looks nicer in the light, sexy even, then scolds himself for such an inappropriate thought. Smith sent him outside, said the Australian woman from the Riverside case had been standing out front of the building all morning, and he should probably go see if she was okay.

‘Ah … Ruby?’

She nods and ducks her head at the same time, embarrassed. Jennings is looking at her with concern, and she remembers his softness down by the river. The way he breathed out slowly when she pointed to the body. Officer Smith had wrapped the blanket around her, squeezed her shoulders, but it was Jennings who looked like he wanted to cry.

‘Hi, Officer Jennings,’ Ruby says finally, willing the flush in her cheeks to settle. ‘I … ah, I was just walking past. And I was wondering if there have been any breakthroughs. Or, you know, leads. In the case.’

While she is talking, Jennings keeps glancing back at the precinct doors, his discomfort clear. He should have made Smith do this part. His partner is far better with the traumatised ones, she somehow knows what to say, how to find the balance between professional distance and small comfort. He clears his throat, wishing he’d paid more attention to how Smith does it.

Mistaking this unease for censure, Ruby’s blush deepens.

‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to be a bother. I shouldn’t even be here, and I know I have no right to ask questions. It’s just … I can’t seem to stop thinking about her. I’m going a bit crazy, I think.’

At this somewhat alarming admission, Jennings blinks through his nervousness, remembers something from his training, and takes a step closer.

‘It’s okay, Ruby. Did you want to come inside and talk? Maybe you remembered something? Detective O’Byrne is further uptown today, but I could …’

He trails off as Ruby shakes her head, tears pooling, then spilling down her cheeks.

At the sight of her tears, Jennings reaches over and awkwardly pats Ruby’s arm, then coughs. His own cheeks are burning now. Will he ever get used to the crying?

(Think, Jennings, think.)

‘Um. Ruby, I can get you some phone numbers. There are people—experts in this kind of thing—who can help you. It’s pretty normal to feel upset after what you went through. Witnessing a crime can be traumatic, and lots of people say talking about it helps. So, you don’t, you know, get stuck.’