I awoke to rain coming down in buckets and remembered that I’d left my cushions and treasured handwoven wrap out on the deck overnight. They were soaked, no doubt. But I couldn’t worry about that now.
She’s gone.
Nothing pierces the heart more violently than the moment you learn of someone’s demise for all eternity—especially someone you love. I had come to care about Masey James, a girl I’d never met. And now I never would. She was taken from this world, taken from a mother who adored her and denied a future that looked so bright. When the news breaks, people all over this city will mourn her loss as if they knew her, as I did last night.
Even through my sadness, around 7:45, by the time I drank my first cup of coffee, I’d fully recovered from my reluctance to call Pam. I know that once police identified Masey as the victim under the “L” tracks at the eleven o’clock news conference, every media outlet in town would pounce, looking for family members and neighbors to interview.
A woman answered the phone, but it wasn’t Pam.
“Jordan,” she said. Pam must have me listed in her contacts.
“Hello, yes, this is Jordan Manning.”
“This is Cynthia Caruthers, Masey’s aunt,” she said.
I realized then that I hadn’t thought about what I was going to say. Police hadn’t yet announced publicly that Masey had been identified as the victim. But surely the family knew. I, on the other hand, wasn’t supposed to know yet.
“Hi, Cynthia. Is she available?” I felt horrible for asking. It’s never easy to butt into someone’s life while they’re experiencing the worst pain imaginable. Yet it is something I must do again and again in this job. And, if I’m being honest with myself, it can take a toll.
“She can’t talk right now. But I’ll let her know that you called,” she said.
“Yes, I do understand this is not a good time, Cynthia,” I said before I realized my gaffe. Just like that, I gave myself away.
“I know she was trying to get in touch with you yesterday,” Cynthia said.
My guilt flared up.
“It was a chaotic scene, and I didn’t get a chance to return her call,” I said, which was the truth. “Is Pam at her house?” I asked.
“No, she’s with me here at mine,” said Cynthia, trying to hold back her sobs. “Listen, I can’t talk right now,” she said abruptly.
“Okay, I just wanted to say . . .” but she was gone. Concerned that I might have sounded insensitive, I texted through my tears: Thank you for taking my call, Cynthia. I’m praying for your family.
I wished there had been more that I could do. I was glad to hear that Pam wasn’t at her house, which reporters will surely stake out once police make the announcement.
* * *
BREAKING NEWS
Weekend morning anchor Ron Mancino: As so many had feared, the body of an African American woman found in an abandoned field yesterday has been identified as missing fifteen-year-old honor student Masey James. Police say the teenager was the victim of foul play. Police superintendent Donald Bartlett made the announcement a little while ago at a news conference. Our Simone Michele reports.
Simone: Ron, a clearly shaken police superintendent Donald Bartlett has confirmed the remains are that of the missing fifteen-year-old. Masey James hadn’t been seen since she left a family member’s home three weeks ago on her bicycle. She was believed to have been headed home but never arrived.
Clip of Superintendent Bartlett at the news conference: Masey James was one of this city’s best and brightest. I know I speak for the entire department when I say we couldn’t be sorrier for the way this has turned out. It’s heartbreaking.
Out of respect for the family, that’s all we can share with you at this time. To the media, I know you have jobs to do, but I’m personally asking you to respect this family’s privacy as they struggle with this most devastating outcome.
Simone: Ron, police are being tight-lipped about any leads in the case. Certainly the vacant lot where the body was found will likely present some challenges. There have been reports of extensive flooding and water retention in that area recently. That’s not going to make detectives’ jobs any easier.
Ron Mancino: Simone, such a sad outcome to this closely watched case. Superintendent Bartlett said our hearts are broken. Indeed, they are. Simone, thank you for your reporting.
I was glad to see Simone break the news. She was on the overnight desk, so I’m not sure how she ended up covering the news conference this morning, but better her than Keith. It is technically my day off, which buys me some time to check in with a valued resource. I left a voice-mail message for Dr. Marvin Chan, a renowned forensic pathologist, a regular guest lecturer at the University of Chicago, and a friend.
I met Dr. Chan while I was working on my graduate thesis on media coverage of violent crime at Columbia College of Missouri. One day a flyer in the student commons advertising a lecture by Dr. Chan on the principles of homicide investigation caught my eye, and I attended. He shared incredible insights. I bought both his books and stuck around afterward for a chance to speak with him one-on-one. I’d researched Dr. Chan ahead of his talk and found numerous articles about him and by him in academic and law enforcement journals. He had an impressive portfolio of work and admirers around the world. To quote him directly, versus footnoting a passage from one of his books, would give my paper an edge. Blame it on the extra-credit sensibility I developed attending public schools in Austin, where a gifted Black girl could be overlooked if she didn’t do something to rise above ordinary.
I got an A on my thesis and shared a copy with Dr. Chan, with a note thanking him for taking an interest in my project. “You’re an inspiration,” I wrote.
That was years ago, but Dr. Chan and I have remained in touch. I couldn’t believe my luck when, after my first six months on the crime beat in Chicago, Dr. Chan was contracted by the Cook County Board of Commissioners to become a special consultant to the chief medical examiner. The Chicago Police Department had come under fire for the rise in unsolved murders, with a growing number of Black women as victims. The Cook County state’s attorney lobbied to have a specialist brought in, and Dr. Chan fit the description as one of the most revered in the country. A frequent expert witness in murder cases, he could be counted on to provide candid, court-worthy testimony in our interviews. Too candid, at times.
I thought about what Simone had said about flooding and water retention in the area.
I had a hunch that the chief medical examiner had already reached out to Dr. Chan for his expert opinion on the time and manner of death. I sent Dr. Chan an email requesting an interview this afternoon. He responded by the time I got out of the shower.
“Sure, come on by today at four o’clock,” he wrote. “You know, Jordan, there is only so much I can say on-camera.”
“I know, Dr. Chan,” I said, remembering how much he enjoyed playing the role of teacher to an eager beaver like me. “I’ll follow your guidance.”
Scott and I decided not to take the station’s van to the medical examiner’s office. Too conspicuous. We drove separately and, as Dr. Chan had instructed, met him on the lower level of the morgue, where autopsies are performed and bodies are kept in cold storage.
When we arrived, Dr. Chan greeted me warmly. He’d lost weight and his face looked a little gaunt. “Jordan! It’s so nice to see you, my dear. How have you been?” he asked.
“You know me, busy as ever. Wow! Look at you! You trying to fit back in the tux you wore to the prom?” I teased.
“Well, of course, I have to work at maintaining my schoolboy figure,” he shot back.
“Well, aside from the usual, I’ve been following the Masey James disappearance. That’s pretty much been my life the last few weeks. You remember Scott Newell?”
“Yes, Scott, nice to see you again,” Dr. Chan said.
The two men shook hands, and Dr. Chan quickly got down to business. “Follow me. Let’s start in the evidence room,” he said.
He escorted us through a cavernous basement hallway with double doors at the far end. Dr. Chan held open the left side door for Scott and me to pass through.
“Jordan, you’ve been down here before?” Dr. Chan asked.
“Yes,” I reminded him. But it didn’t make it any less unnerving to walk among the last remnants of people who not long ago were living, breathing human beings who met violent ends.
Insulated shelves held boxes labeled with victims’ names in bold letters, followed by a series of numbers that included date of death, birth date, and some other numbers I couldn’t discern. Dr. Chan stopped and pulled one of the boxes off the shelf and set it down on a table at the end of the row. He began to speak as he reached inside and pulled out its contents. Each item was wrapped in a sealed plastic bag.
“What you see in these bags is what investigators collected from the body,” he explained.
Scott started to lift his camera, but Dr. Chan held up his hand. “You can’t film this, though. I can show you to help you understand. But you can’t film here,” he admonished.
Scott lowered the camera. “Okay, sorry about that,” he said.
Dr. Chan then held up what looked like it could’ve been part of a T-shirt. It was so soiled that it was anybody’s guess what color it used to be. “This is the only article of clothing retrieved,” Dr. Chan said.
“So, the body was partially nude?” I asked.
“Yes, except for the remnants of this top. Her lower extremities were exposed,” Dr. Chan said. “See this crusty seam along the edge,” he said, pointing to a discoloration in the ragged, soiled cloth. “It was difficult to discern at first, but under a microscope, it’s clear that this is representative of charring. Even in the muddy conditions, the T-shirt fabric, which includes some plastic fibers, preserved this key evidence to help paint a clearer picture of what happened to the victim.”
“Did you say charring?” I asked.
“Yes, it appears the killer attempted to destroy evidence by setting the body on fire,” he said.
I weakened at the knees. “Oh my God!” I said. “I knew it was going to be bad, but . . .” My voice trailed off.
“There’s more. Let’s go sit down in my office,” Dr. Chan said. He returned the contents to the box and the box to the shelf. “This way.”
Inside his tiny office, my first thought was This is the best the city can do for a world-renowned forensic pathologist? Dr. Chan must’ve read my mind.
“I know, it’s swanky, isn’t it?” he joked. “Trust me, what they’re paying me makes up for it. That’s off the record,” he teased.
The lighting was surprisingly not bad in this bland room with cinder-block walls painted a bright yellow and high-beam LED lighting across the ceiling.
While Scott set up, I quizzed Dr. Chan.
“Apparently the area where the body was found had extensive flooding recently. Masey had been missing for three weeks. So I can only imagine what shape the body was in when you got it,” I said.
“Terrible,” he said. “The worst possible scenario for evidence collection. But that is something I absolutely do not want to say on-camera. I don’t want this bastard to think he’s going to get away with this, because there’s not enough evidence to connect him to the victim.”
“Why do you say that?” I asked.
“The conditions. Burning of the flesh, wrapped in heavy duty plastic, in warm, wet conditions for the better part of two weeks,” Dr. Chan said. “Exposed to the elements, insects and night creatures . . . the decomposition was accelerated by three times.”
“Okay, I’m ready when you are,” Scott interrupted.
Dr. Chan came closer to me and put his hands on my shoulders. “Jordan, I’ve known you, how long?” he asked.
“Oh gosh, a good seven, eight years,” I said.
“You do a hard job, but I know you,” he said, “you’ve got a soft heart. Whoever did this to this child is a monster. He cut her up very badly. I can’t say for sure the cutting happened postmortem, but due to the extent, I believe at least some did.”
I struggled to hold it together. “How’d she die?” I asked.
Dr. Chan sat on the edge of his desk. “My conclusion is death by strangulation, though there was a lot of bleeding from the cutting wounds. That could have been a contributing factor,” he said. “She was eviscerated, Jordan. The fire I can say with certainty occurred postmortem. There was no soot in the windpipe . . .”
“Right, so she was already dead when the fire was set,” I said, completing his sentence.
“What do you mean by eviscerated?” I asked. I knew what eviscerated meant, but I wanted to know what it meant for Masey.
“There were multiple stab and cut wounds to the torso and the legs. And it appears that more than one type of sharp instrument was used to make those wounds,” he said.
My heart sank into my stomach.
“By the time the body was found, it was in an advanced state of decomposition called putrefaction. You’re familiar with that term, right?” he asked.
“Yes, I recall reading in your second book about how much it can complicate a criminal investigation,” I said.
“This process was accelerated by the plastic surrounding the remains in the warm, wet conditions,” Dr. Chan said. “There also were signs of what’s known as lividity . . .”
“The purplish discoloration that happens when the blood pools when a body lies in the same position for a while,” I interjected like I did as a student during one of our lively exchanges.
“Yes, that’s right. It pretty much covered the entire back side, down the back of the legs to just above the ankles,” he said.
My left hand involuntarily rose and rested on my chest. I closed my eyes, taking it all in. I asked the inevitable question. “Was she raped?”
“Yes. The ultraviolet screening showed considerable bruising and lacerations in the genital area.
“I’m releasing my official report in the morning, Jordan, so you can’t run this until after it has been released,” Dr. Chan continued. “But you’ll be the first and the only.”
“What? Are you not doing any other interviews?” I asked, hopeful.
“No. You’re in luck. I’m leaving town tomorrow night.”
“Where are you headed?” I asked.
“New Zealand. I’m speaking at a conference. I’ll be there two days. Then I’m heading to Switzerland for a little R&R,” he said. “I’ve got guest lecturers scheduled to handle my courses while I’m away.”
“Good for you,” I said, happy to change the subject long enough to focus on our interview, a watered-down version of the truth.
“I passed a ladies’ room on the way down here,” I said. “Can you two excuse me for a minute?”
I walked out the way we’d come in. My heart was beating fast, the anxiety building in my chest.
I had barely enough strength to push open the door and steadied myself against the wall. My body shook and tears streamed down my face. All I could think was This is going to kill her mother.
A bright young girl who had a bright future ahead of her. The star of the story her mother loved to tell. Eviscerated. Charred. My God from Heaven!
I grabbed the makeup sponge from my purse and blotted my face dry before rejoining Scott and Dr. Chan. My eyes met Scott’s as I reentered the room. He looked sympathetic and I had to look away to keep the waterworks in check.
“Are you all right?” Dr. Chan asked.
I wanted to ask him the same thing. Dr. Chan looked more fit than I’d ever seen him, but he didn’t seem himself.
“Yes, Dr. Chan, thanks for asking,” I said. “This is a rough one. Let’s get through this. So just talk, as comfortably as you can, about what your investigation has learned. Okay?”
“Sounds good, Jordan,” he said.
“I’m rolling,” Scott said.
Dr. Chan shared what he knew in slightly less graphic detail.
Cause of death: Strangulation. Evidence of sexual assault. Attempt to destroy evidence, but nothing about a fire, nothing about evisceration. Those are the kind of details that typically don’t become public knowledge until trial.
As we were leaving, Dr. Chan pulled me aside. “Hey, Jordan, I didn’t want to come out with this on-camera,” he said. “But I’ve participated in hundreds of investigations. And in more than thirty-five years on the job, I have to say when someone inflicts this type of violence on a human being, it’s either personal or the work of a serial killer.”
“You’ve shared this theory with police?” I asked.
“Yes, of course. It’s speculative. I wouldn’t want to raise the public’s concerns without more proof.”
“Were you able to collect DNA evidence in connection with the sexual assault?” I asked.
“Honestly, Jordan, the body was in such an advanced state of decomposition, there isn’t much DNA evidence to salvage. I’m having some tests run on some tissue that was extracted from beneath the fingernails. But please, don’t share that in your broadcast. I don’t want to tip this guy off.”
“Absolutely,” I said.
“I trust you.” He smiled.
“Thank you, Dr. Chan. Is it all right if I tape my closing right here before we head out?” I asked.
“Sure, no problem. I myself have to step out for a moment. Just come on out when you’re done, and I’ll escort you back upstairs,” he said.
As he walked out of the room, I turned to Scott. “Okay, Scott, let’s get this over with.”
“Are you ready? You need a minute?” he asked.
“No, no, I’m good. I know what I want to say. I’m ready.”
Outside the courtroom, most people would never hear violence against another person described in the horrific detail Dr. Chan had just shared with me privately. We shield them from it. We as in the media, police, and prosecutors. Sometimes I wish the public did know. Then maybe people would understand the true impact of violent crime and the destruction of human life.
“I look okay?” I asked Scott.
“You’re gorgeous!”
I stared into the camera, and for a moment I forced myself to forget that Pamela might be watching. People had to know the truth, as much of it as I think they can stand.