removing, parts that had been damaged, parts that sometimes held the secret to finding a killer. Any personality, any spark of individuality that had once inhabited those bodies, had departed long ago, expelled in that last, silent exhale.
When Jenni died, however, the delicate wall that separated him from these victims splintered into a thousand shards. He hadn’t watched his wife’s postmortem, of course, but every time he entered that room, he knew that she had been there. She had lain on a stainless-steel table. She had her ribs cut open—ribs that Max used to tickle as they lay in bed on lazy mornings. They had lifted her heart out of her chest—just a handful of dead muscle. How many times had he listened to that heart beat against his ear over the years? She had been dissected by a doctor just doing a task that needed doing. The hands that cut her apart had no idea how special she was. How loved she was. They had no idea of the magnitude of loss her death meant to the world—to Max.
He and Jenni were going to see Europe. They were going to have a child—adopt if necessary, or maybe become foster parents. They were going to grow old together. Everything they were working toward still lay ahead of them. On the day she died, Max learned how crushing the sheer weight of those dreams could be. Everything ended so abruptly that it felt as though he had driven into an oncoming train. And in the days immediately after her death, there were moments when he would forget to breathe and times when he was sure his heart would stop beating.
In that impact, not only did he lose the ability to see the bodies as just bodies, but they began to follow him around. He would hear their whispers in the breezes that passed by his ear. Their reflections would beckon to him from muddy puddles or dirty windows. They judged him as he fought to find sleep at night. How often had they come to him in his dreams, the black stitching, the gray eyes? No matter how handsome or beautiful they had been in life, they came to Max as he had seen them on that examination table.
Max thanked God that he had never seen the pictures from Jenni’s death. He was the husband, not the detective. He was prohibited from having anything to do with the investigation of her hit-and-run, but that didn’t stop him from hearing things. It didn’t stop him from taking a peek at some of the reports. The detective in charge was a friend, a man okay with turning a blind eye.
But Max never looked at the photographs. He couldn’t bring himself to do that. He had read enough of the reports to understand why her funeral had a closed casket. He understood why she had to be identified using dental records. Her death had been messy, not the clean bounce-off-the-car that the stuntmen do in the movies. The car that hit Jenni had dragged her before it took her life. Then the car sped away and no one ever paid for her death.
Now the body of Jennavieve Pruitt lay on a stainless-steel table in the center of the room, with a stitched-up incision in the shape of a Y starting at her shoulders and ending at her pelvis. Another incision, not yet stitched shut, opened the side of her neck where the knife wound had been. A strand of the woman’s red hair had fallen across her face, and Max had to resist an urge to brush it back.
“The wound on the neck was the cause of death,” Maggie said from her seat at her computer. “Cut both the carotid and the jugular.”
Max turned to her as he cleared away distracting thoughts. “We have a preliminary ID on the body,” he said. “Jennavieve Pruitt. She’s the wife of a criminal-defense attorney named Ben Pruitt.”
“Ben Pruitt? That name rings a bell. I think he’s cross-examined me once before.” She turned away from the computer monitor to give the name her full attention. “Yeah, if I recall the right guy, he’d be middle to late forties now, dark hair, kind of handsome—when his mouth is shut?”
“That’s
When Jenni died, however, the delicate wall that separated him from these victims splintered into a thousand shards. He hadn’t watched his wife’s postmortem, of course, but every time he entered that room, he knew that she had been there. She had lain on a stainless-steel table. She had her ribs cut open—ribs that Max used to tickle as they lay in bed on lazy mornings. They had lifted her heart out of her chest—just a handful of dead muscle. How many times had he listened to that heart beat against his ear over the years? She had been dissected by a doctor just doing a task that needed doing. The hands that cut her apart had no idea how special she was. How loved she was. They had no idea of the magnitude of loss her death meant to the world—to Max.
He and Jenni were going to see Europe. They were going to have a child—adopt if necessary, or maybe become foster parents. They were going to grow old together. Everything they were working toward still lay ahead of them. On the day she died, Max learned how crushing the sheer weight of those dreams could be. Everything ended so abruptly that it felt as though he had driven into an oncoming train. And in the days immediately after her death, there were moments when he would forget to breathe and times when he was sure his heart would stop beating.
In that impact, not only did he lose the ability to see the bodies as just bodies, but they began to follow him around. He would hear their whispers in the breezes that passed by his ear. Their reflections would beckon to him from muddy puddles or dirty windows. They judged him as he fought to find sleep at night. How often had they come to him in his dreams, the black stitching, the gray eyes? No matter how handsome or beautiful they had been in life, they came to Max as he had seen them on that examination table.
Max thanked God that he had never seen the pictures from Jenni’s death. He was the husband, not the detective. He was prohibited from having anything to do with the investigation of her hit-and-run, but that didn’t stop him from hearing things. It didn’t stop him from taking a peek at some of the reports. The detective in charge was a friend, a man okay with turning a blind eye.
But Max never looked at the photographs. He couldn’t bring himself to do that. He had read enough of the reports to understand why her funeral had a closed casket. He understood why she had to be identified using dental records. Her death had been messy, not the clean bounce-off-the-car that the stuntmen do in the movies. The car that hit Jenni had dragged her before it took her life. Then the car sped away and no one ever paid for her death.
Now the body of Jennavieve Pruitt lay on a stainless-steel table in the center of the room, with a stitched-up incision in the shape of a Y starting at her shoulders and ending at her pelvis. Another incision, not yet stitched shut, opened the side of her neck where the knife wound had been. A strand of the woman’s red hair had fallen across her face, and Max had to resist an urge to brush it back.
“The wound on the neck was the cause of death,” Maggie said from her seat at her computer. “Cut both the carotid and the jugular.”
Max turned to her as he cleared away distracting thoughts. “We have a preliminary ID on the body,” he said. “Jennavieve Pruitt. She’s the wife of a criminal-defense attorney named Ben Pruitt.”
“Ben Pruitt? That name rings a bell. I think he’s cross-examined me once before.” She turned away from the computer monitor to give the name her full attention. “Yeah, if I recall the right guy, he’d be middle to late forties now, dark hair, kind of handsome—when his mouth is shut?”
“That’s
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