The Night Swim(51)

Nurse Rice explained how the victim’s clothes were put into evidence bags, much like the clear plastic evidence bags containing Kelly Moore’s clothes that Alkins had presented in court earlier that day. After that, a sterile paper sheet was put under the victim to capture trace evidence such as hairs, fibers, and body fluid.

“When that’s all logged and bagged, we examine every inch of the victim, from the tip of her head to her toes. We document each bruise, scratch, and abrasion. We remove any foreign pubic hairs, semen, fibers. Anything we find. And we take swabs and samples of the victim’s own pubic hairs for comparison purposes.”

“Do you photograph the victim as well?” Rachel asked.

“If the victim agrees, we photograph all scratches, scrapes, bruises. We use a camera called a colposcope to photograph internal injuries. Lacerations on the genitals. Anything that might be evidence of a sexual assault.”

She explained that once the evidence was collected, medical issues were treated. The victim was offered the morning-after pill if there was a risk of pregnancy, or medications for HIV, syphilis, and other STDs if needed. After answering a few more questions, Nurse Rice checked her watch.

“I have to get going. I hope you have what you need,” she said to Rachel, packing up the sample rape kit and putting it back on the top shelf of the examination room cupboard.

She walked Rachel out through the swinging doors of a back entrance to the ER, which led to the ambulance bay and then the car park. There were two ambulances parked in the ambulance bay. A paramedic was wiping down a stretcher alongside the ambulances. He greeted Nurse Rice and they chatted for a moment.

The sight of the ambulances reminded Rachel of the newspaper article on Jenny Stills’s death. It said that Jenny was brought to the hospital and pronounced dead on arrival. She wondered if the original ambulance crew was still around. Maybe they’d be able to shed light on what happened that night.

“Do you know the paramedics well?” Rachel asked Nurse Rice. “I’d like to speak to someone who was on the job in the early nineties? It’s about another case that I’m investigating.”

“I don’t think any of the paramedics go back that far,” answered Nurse Rice. “They’re all young. In their twenties, or thirties. The burnout rate in that job is high so they generally quit after a few years and do something else. What do you want to ask them about?”

“A teenage girl who drowned when she was sixteen. Back in ’92. She was brought by ambulance to this hospital. Already dead from what I can gather,” said Rachel. “I was hoping someone might remember bringing her in.”

“DOAs go to the hospital morgue. You could go down and speak to Stuart. Pretty sure he’s on night shift this week. Stuart’s worked here for decades. He might remember. What was the girl’s name?”

“Jenny Stills,” said Rachel. She could tell from the shocked expression that immediately appeared on Nurse Rice’s face that she recognized the name. “You’ve heard of her?” Rachel asked.

“Sure, I’ve heard of her. Everyone who went to Neapolis High knows that name,” the nurse said with a catch in her voice.

“How come?” Rachel asked in surprise.

Nurse Rice sighed audibly as she tried to find the words to formulate a response. “The name ‘Jenny Stills’ was like a cautionary tale about what happens when a girl sleeps around,” she said. “There used to be songs and jokes about her. Graffiti in the bathrooms. At school her name became slang for being a slut. Always felt awful for that girl, having her name dragged through the mud like that.”

Nurse Rice’s pager beeped and she paused to check it. “The waiting room’s filling up again. I have to get back,” she said. She quickly gave Rachel directions to the hospital morgue and rushed through the swinging doors of the ER.

Rachel followed the sign to the morgue, taking the elevator to the lower basement. The morgue was down a long white corridor lit by a row of bright fluorescent lights. Rachel reached the closed door and turned the handle. It was locked. Next to it was an intercom. She pressed the button. Nobody answered.

Rachel was about to turn to leave when she heard footsteps coming down the stairs. She waited until a barrel-chested man with thick arms, a ruddy complexion, and a reddish gray beard emerged from the stairwell. A hospital badge pinned to his blue scrubs identified him as “Stuart.”

“Tracey Rice from the ER said you might be able to help me with a question about a DOA,” Rachel said.

“Come inside,” Stuart replied.

He scanned his hospital key card and pushed open the door to the hospital morgue. Rachel followed him as he led her into an office with a couple of upholstered chairs and a tired framed print of flowers on the wall. At the back were rows of filing cabinets and a desk with an oversized computer screen.

“If you’re here about the DOA from this afternoon then he’s already been transferred,” Stuart said. “The ME decided there will be no autopsy. Apparently, he had a long-standing heart condition.”

“Actually,” said Rachel, “I want to know if you remember a case from the summer of ’92. A teenage girl drowned. I was told that she was brought here and pronounced dead on arrival. Her name was Jenny Stills.”

Stuart stared at her, unblinking. When he saw that she was serious, he pulled a crumpled pack of cigarettes out of his hospital scrubs.