“I told you that failing to cordon off the parking lot was a mistake. Don’t beat yourself up about it. Nobody knows it all, and those who pretend they do know even less than the rest of us.”
She looks less abashed than I would have expected.
“The footprint found right next to the body might lead to something though. The lab used a casting compound, and say it was a size ten Timberland boot,” she says.
“That’s very specific of them.”
“The size and make are on the sole, sir. The trees sheltered the footprint from the rain, and none of the team were wearing anything that matched that description, so it seems quite likely it was made by whoever killed her.”
The pathologist clears his throat, as though to remind us that he is still here. I stare down at my own size tens, glad I chose to wear shoes instead of boots today.
“I went with the family liaison officer to inform the next of kin before coming here,” Priya adds.
“That must have been difficult. I’m guessing her parents were quite elderly?” I say, knowing full well that they are. Rachel sometimes mentioned them.
Priya frowns.
“It was her husband that we went to see, sir.”
I have a strange sensation in my chest, as though my heart just skipped a beat.
“I thought she was divorced.”
Priya frowns again, combines it with a shake of the head this time.
“No, sir. But he was practically old enough to be her father. So that might be why you were confused. Rumor has it she married him for his money, then spent it.”
“Right,” I say. Rachel definitely told me that she was divorced. Even showed me the indentation on her finger where her wedding ring used to be. I look at her body now, and see the band of gold on her left hand, shining beneath the fluorescent lights as though it is winking at me. I wonder what else she lied about. “Where was the husband at the time of death? Does he have an alibi? We should probably—”
“It wasn’t him, sir,” Priya interrupts.
“I wouldn’t have expected you to be guilty of ageism, Priya. Someone being over sixty doesn’t disqualify them from being a suspect. You know as well as I do that it’s almost always the husband.”
“He’s eighty-two, bedbound, and has twenty-four-hour live-in care. He can’t use the bathroom without assistance, so chasing a woman through the woods seemed like a bit of a stretch. Sir.”
The pathologist clears his throat a second time, and I turn my attention back to him.
“I was told that you found something?”
“Inside her mouth, yes,” he says quickly, as if we have already taken up too much of his time. “I thought you might like to see it before I run some tests.”
His apron makes a shh noise as he walks to the side of the room. He removes his dirty gloves with an unpleasant thwack, washes his hands for an uncomfortably long time, dries them on a towel, then slips on a new pair, before flexing his fingers repeatedly. To say the man is strange would be an understatement. He picks up a small rectangular metal tray, and comes to stand on my side of the table, like a ghoulish waiter serving an unpleasant appetizer.
I stare down at the red-and-white object.
“What is it?” I ask.
The question is a lie because I already know the answer.
“It’s a friendship bracelet,” Priya says, coming a little closer to get a better view. “Girls make them for each other out of different-colored thread.”
“And this was inside the victim’s mouth?” I ask, ignoring her now, and looking at him.
The pathologist smiles, and I see that his teeth are unnaturally white and a little too big for his face. Once again, he looks as though he is enjoying his job more than he should.
“It wasn’t just in her mouth,” he says.
“What do you mean?”
“The friendship bracelet was tied around the victim’s tongue.”
Her
Tuesday 11:30
I wrap my coat around my shoulders, feeling the cold now, before turning on the engine. I’m about to drive away when I see a white van pull up behind me. A small, thin woman gets out, wearing a baseball cap and dressed in black clothes that are too large for her tiny frame. She’s young, but a worried expression is pulled across her face and casts a series of premature lines.
I watch as she carries a large box to my mother’s front door, before dumping it on the porch. She doesn’t knock, or even try to close the gate behind her when she leaves.
I lower my window as she passes me by.