Snow Creek(19)

He nods, and I take my coffee and leave. I can hear him back at the machine as I return to my desk.

I read through the report page by page. Dr. Andrade’s words tell a complete story, yet it’s his photos that really hold my attention. The victim’s burns had to be post mortem. They were so clear, so precise. I flip through them one by one. The face. The arms. The back of the head. When I get to her feet, I do a double take. I pull the photocopy a little closer. I can’t be sure, but it appears that the victim is missing a toe.

I see no mention of that in the report.

Gulping some coffee, I dial Dr. Andrade’s office.

He’s on the line right away.

“Doctor, there’s a discrepancy in your report. There’s no notation—that I could find—that indicated the woman had a missing toe.”

I hear him tapping away on his keyboard. A pause. Maybe even a sigh. Hard to tell over the phone.

“Missing baby toe on the right foot, yes, yes,” he says.

“It’s not in the report, Doctor.”

“My bad,” he says with obvious regret, before throwing an employee under the bus. “I have a new transcriptionist and he has missed a few things. Not terrible, but not great either.”

I wonder why people don’t just admit their mistakes.

People like me.

“Post mortem?” I ask.

“No,” he says. “Not at all. There was scar tissue where the toe should be. Jane Doe lost her toe probably as a child.”

“What else did he miss?”

“The back of her heels collected some soil. It’s on the photographs, but not in the report.”

“She was dragged?”

“Likely.”

“She was only 122 pounds. Not that heavy.”

“Dead weight though. It’s not easy.”

I’m exasperated yet also intrigued.

“Will you amend your report?” I ask.

Long pause. Everyone in three counties knows he hates amending anything. He’s right. Always. Never, ever wrong.

“All right, Detective. I’ll do it. Just for you.” His tone carries a hint of sarcasm.

Do it for the victim, I want to say. But I don’t. Instead, I thank him and hang up.

Later as I head for home, I stop in to brief the sheriff.

He’s up to his neck with paperwork. He looks up with those kind eyes and gives me a nod.

“How’s the carpet case moving along?”

“Not much to report. Ms. Wheaton never had a driver’s license. Nothing from the DMV to help figure if the victim is her. Maybe one thing: She was missing a toe on her right foot. Kids didn’t mention that. I’ll round them up tomorrow.”

“Sounds good,” he says, lowering his wire frames. “How are you doing, Megan? You stressed?”

Tony Gray does know me. What I allow him to know. He’s seen something on my face that I didn’t hide from him. Or maybe couldn’t. It’s true I’m stressed. I guess, with the Wheaton case, things that I’d forgotten, suppressed, have come at me with a vengeance.

“I’m fine,” I tell him. “Just need to confirm our vic and find her husband.”





Twelve





Back in my kitchen I rifle through my completely subpar pantry for something to eat, though I’m not really that hungry. The photos of Jane Doe have worked as an appetite suppressant which would be some kind of benefit if I were overweight. But I’m not. The indignity of murder doesn’t stop at the point where life ceases to exist. It’s a continuum. The victim from Snow Creek was treated like trash. Disposed of. Like she was nothing. Killers like hers invite others to enjoy the impact of the crime. The kids who found her. The team that investigates the crime and goes home to their wives or sisters with the picture of what happened to Jane forever in their consciousness.

And then the line becomes a circle when the loved ones learn what happened.

I know all of that.

I’ve experienced all of that.

Now I wonder if that little tape recorder and the box of tapes had been a good idea. It’s brought me back to a time and place that I’ve wanted to forget yet can’t. I look around for something stronger than wine, but in reality, I’m not much of a drinker. I should be. I have reason to. I should be a raging alcoholic by now. No one would blame me if I were. Sure, they’d feel sorry for me.

If they knew.

Only three people know the sum of everything I’ve done. Hayden, Dr. Albright and me.

A few like the sheriff know the end of my story, not the beginning. As I swallow my wine and stare at the box, I hope more than ever that no one knows the middle. That’s the part that makes me question who I really am.

And why I did what I did.

My hand swipes lightly over the tapes. They are numbered by date. I take a deep breath as I pull out the one from my second session with Dr. Albright. I remember thinking at the time that she had the kind of effect that suggested she was a genuine do-gooder, not some poseur there to enjoy the troubles of others, as though what unfolded during each session was only about entertainment.

I take a breath and press the button.

I hear her calming voice reminding me.

Dr. A: Rylee, you know I’m recording you, right?

Me: Yes. I know that. What are you going to do with the tapes? I was thinking about that after our first, ah, session.