five

The elevator opened to the basement level of the medical examiner’s floor. Simultaneously, Megan and Nappa took a deep breath as they exited to follow the Coroner’s Office sign marked in bold red letters. They didn’t need an arrow to direct them to Max Sutherland’s office. It was a hallway they had walked down many times before; if they did need a reminder, the noxious smell immediately notified them of their location.

Everything was white: white walls, white floors, white blinds hung in the identification rooms separating life as it identified death. Even the tissue boxes were white, something used often by visitors to the lower level. The minor exceptions were the thin black lines separating the floor tiles and the steel table and chairs occupying each exam room. Megan was bewildered by the notion of calling them exam rooms. No one was being examined. It wasn’t a turn-your-head-to-the-left-and-cough room or a time-to-put-your-feet-in-the-stirrups appointment. The doctors down in the basement didn’t take down vitals. They wrote down the cause of death while sipping Starbucks lattes and weighing body parts in scales just like ShopRite used to weigh fruit. No one got a free Zoloft sample or a B12 shot when exiting the lower-level exam rooms. Nada.

The walk to Max Sutherland’s office was long, not because of its location, but because of its purpose: to tell complete strangers they’d lost someone they loved. The reality being they hadn’t lost them. Their loved ones weren’t aimlessly wandering around Grand Central Station. They had been violently taken from them and would never be seen by their relatives again. Period. It never got any easier for Megan. She knew no matter how delicately she handled meeting the families, they would always remember her as the person who told them of their loss. She was a part of a moment that would never be erased from their minds. It made her hate the perpetrator even more.

Christ, we’re supposed to be the good guys, she’d catch herself thinking.

Conversations rarely took place between the two detectives while en route to the office of Dr. Max, Megan’s little nickname for her favorite medical examiner. The two long hallways led to swinging doors; yes, white swinging doors. Two doors down on the right they turned into Dr. Max Sutherland’s office.

Dr. Max was not one for city-regulated and -approved decor. Entering his office was similar to walking into the Ethan Allen showroom, where you could find entire rooms filled with sets of perfectly matched furniture. An oversized oak desk was centered on a maroon tapestry rug, faced by two custom-made leather chairs. The walls were covered with tokens from his many travels: African tribal masks, hand-carved sculptures from Ghana, framed black-and-white photographs he’d shot himself from all over the world. Dr. Max couldn’t stand the fluorescent lighting in the lower level, so he placed a green banker’s lamp at the top of his desk pad. His fedora rested on a bust of Socrates in the corner. Max opted for Illegitimi Non Carborundum instead of his name inscribed on his desk plate. Translated: Don’t let the bastards grind you down. It was one of Megan’s favorite sayings, and something she tried to remind herself of daily in her job.

“Knock, knock,” Megan announced as they entered.

Dr. Max Sutherland’s glasses sat on his barren forehead as he wrote copious notes on what Megan assumed were medical forms. He skipped the formalities. “These stupid expense reports. I can quote the Latin term for every single body part of the human anatomy, but to fill out New York City expense reports is complete Greek to me. Stupid regulations. Why did we change mayors again?” Max asked as he completed his anti-city-bureaucratic-­duties speech, a speech his secretary heard every few days prior to the monthly expense-report deadline.

“Are we having fun yet, Dr. Max?” Megan asked.

“I detest that phrase, Miss McGinn,” Max said, expressionless.

“Not as much as I hate that one. I mean, Miss? What is it, 1950?”

Max released a sigh of relief at having been interrupted, so he tossed the expense reports into the bottom drawer of his desk.

“So, Dr. Sutherland, what can you share with us about the McAllister case?” Megan asked with a mock-authoritative sound to her voice.

Nappa stood next to her as a tiny grin found its way to his face. If anything, the verbal sparring took the edge off the impending events.

“The lab identified two blue fibers,” Dr. Max said.

Megan’s eyebrows catapulted upward.

“Hold on”—he held up a hand—“before you get those Irish eyes smiling, they’re extremely generic. One hundred percent cotton. The blue dye is consistent with a color The Gap, as well as countless other stores, use. There’s no way of determining where they originated, at least for the time being, unless you bring me the exact sweater they came off of.”

Megan was visibly disappointed. She allowed those emotional displays in Max’s office.

“There’s something else.” Dr. Max placed his glasses on his desk, rubbing his tired eyes.

“What?” Megan asked. She could tell by the grim look on his face that things had just gotten worse.

Dr. Max sat back in his chair, staring down at the files piled high on his desk before him. His eyes took on a level of revulsion Megan had never seen in any of the ME’s before.

For a moment Dr. Max Sutherland’s office had become a black hole of silence. Then he spoke. The news hung in the air like the proverbial elephant in the room.

After several moments, Megan broke the silence. “Sewn shut?” Megan shook her head. “What are you talking about?”

“The victim’s labia majora and labia minora were sutured together so …” Dr. Max paused; this had to be a first for him. “So no penetration would be possible.”

“Jesus Christ,” Megan whispered.

Nappa rubbed his forehead.

“Now, here is what I can tell you. The thread used is very common. You can get it from any sewing kit from any pharmacy. I need to do more research on the type of suturing and the knot that was used. I’ve never seen anything like it before.”

Megan ran her fingers through her hair in disbelief they were having this conversation.

Dr. Max continued, “I’ll have photos for you as soon as possible.”

“Was this done postmortem?” Megan asked.

Please God, say yes.

Dr. Max nodded. “The stitching is quite precise. It was definitely postmortem.”

“Is that where you found the fibers?” Nappa asked.

“Yes, within the thread, but not one pubic hair. Nothing. No vaginal hair on your victim at all for that matter.”

“He shaved her prior to sewing her shut?” Megan asked.

“No, your victim had what looks to be an allover bikini wax one to two days prior, based on the limited hair growth and small traces of body wax I found.”

Megan was about to ask another question when Dr. Max held up his palm. “Wait, I’m not done.” He pulled out a small plastic bag from his desk drawer, the kind extra buttons come in with a newly purchased shirt or pair of pants. “I found this when I cleared the stitches. It was lodged within the victim’s vaginal area.”

“Oh my God,” Megan whispered staring at the item. Neither detective really wanted to take it, but Megan forced her hand to move.

She turned the plastic bag around in the air. It was a gold wedding band, nothing ornate about it, but one thing was for sure: few dead women have a gold wedding band sewn shut in their crotch. That was the only remarkable attribute about the ring, though. She tried to see if there was an inscription.

“I checked. Nothing was inscribed. And if it had an inscription or stamping, it’s long since rubbed off by wear,” Dr. Max said while Megan handed the bag over to Nappa.

“So, we know one thing: it’s old. I’m not all that familiar with wedding bands, but it’s not that large. I’m guessing it was a woman’s. Not a huge clue,” Megan added.

“And, hold on to yourself, not one print was found.”

“Max, that’s impossible. He’d have to have worn a hazmat suit to do all that and not leave any trace.” Awe mixed with revulsion filled the air. The sound of Dr. Max’s phone broke the silence. Max took the call.

“Christ, Nappa,” Megan whispered. “This means the killer took the time to undress her, stuff her with a wedding band, do this fucked-up tailoring, reclothe her, and …” Megan shook her head.

“Position the body in the manner he did,” Nappa finished the thought for her.

“Jesus.” Megan grabbed the Magic 8 Ball off Max’s desk, cradling it in her hands while they waited for him to finish his call. The oversized billiard ball filled with blue liquid and a white plastic die was used to answer questions about the future, which was about as accurate as a quack psychic on crack. Megan silently asked the ten-dollar toy a question, turning the ball over and over in her hands while listening to Max’s end of the conversation.

“Yes? Yes, the detectives are here. Please escort them down. Thank you.” Max laid the receiver down. “The victim’s parents, Mr. and Mrs. McAllister, are here. You’re in exam room five.”

“Thanks, Max. We’ll get back to you.” Megan returned the Magic 8 Ball to Max’s desk, but not without first checking out the answer to her question. The triangle read, Try Again Later. She shook her head and looked at Max. “Get rid of this thing, will you?”

Megan and Nappa waited for the McAllisters outside the exam room. “I hate this, I really hate this part of the job.”

“Me, too,” Nappa agreed.

“Did you have to do this much when you were with Narcotics?”

“Some. The vics were usually heroin addicts, cokeheads, or drug dealers, so the family or friends identifying them were never that shocked. Don’t get me wrong, they grieved, but they were never really shocked. It was more like they expected it, at one time or another.”

She raised an eyebrow. “I guess they would.”

Megan was about to continue when the white doors swung open. She could tell immediately they were Shannon’s parents. Shannon’s mother looked identical to her daughter. Mrs. McAllister walked toward them, grasping her small black purse in one hand and her husband’s arm with the other. Somehow she managed to greet Megan with a crooked smile, one filled with hope that maybe this was all just a terrible mistake; that her baby girl was fine, somewhere.

“Mr. and Mrs. McAllister. I’m Detective McGinn. This is my partner, Detective Nappa.”

Immediately Mr. McAllister asked, “Is it her? Is it Shannon? The police officer who contacted us couldn’t give us very much information. We got here as soon as we could,” he offered.

“If you wouldn’t mind, Mr. and Mrs. McAllister,” Nappa said as he motioned them into the identification room. A small chrome table with three chairs filled the room. The blinds were drawn closed. “Please have a seat.”

Mrs. McAllister couldn’t let go of the grip she had on her purse as tears filled her eyes. “No. Detectives, please, if it’s my baby, I want to know. I want to know now.”

“We’d first like to ask, when was the last time you spoke with your daughter?” asked Nappa.

“Well, she left a message for us last night. We went out to dinner and a movie. She said she was going to review some papers and go to bed. We missed her call by fifteen, maybe twenty minutes. I didn’t want to call her back, in case she had already gone to bed,” Mrs. McAllister answered.

“Well …” Megan looked at Nappa. She just wanted to get the identification over with, as did the McAllisters. Megan went over to the window and softly spoke into the intercom as she held the button down. A few moments later the white blinds opened.

Shannon’s parents walked up to the window. Shannon lay on a pewter table, her hair brushed away from her face. A white sheet covered her just below her naked shoulders, displaying pale skin that now had a yellowish green color. Dark circles surrounded her closed eyelids.

Mrs. McAllister pressed her hands firmly against the glass, tears streaming down her cheeks. “My sweet baby,” she whispered as her breath formed a cloud on the glass.

“Shannon …” Mr. McAllister clamped his eyes shut, making a full turnabout. Any direction was better than the one toward his daughter’s dead body.

Megan noticed the men always turned away first. The mothers wanted to go in and hug their children one last time; they displayed such stout. It wasn’t that the fathers were weak; they merely handled the pain differently. The men couldn’t accept that they hadn’t been there to protect and save their children.

“That’s our baby girl in there,” Mrs. McAllister said. Her voice was monotone, empty. “Who would do this to our daughter?”

Nappa pulled a chair out for Shannon’s mother. “Please, Mrs. McAllister. Please sit down.” Shannon’s father stood at the other end of the table. His hands gripped the back of the other chair, propping his body up as he stared at the floor, shaking his head in disbelief.

“Was there anyone? Anyone you can think of who may have had something against your daughter? An old boyfriend, maybe?” Megan asked.

“No. No. She was someone …” Mrs. McAllister trailed off in thought, realizing she just spoke of her daughter in the past tense.

“Has she lived in that apartment long?” Nappa asked.

“The apartment is Shannon’s grandmother’s. She snowbirds in Florida but pretty much lives there full-time, except during the holidays.” Mrs. McAllister took a deep breath. “My mother never wanted to give up the apartment. She’s lived there forever. It’s extremely low rent, a huge apartment. Well, you saw it, I guess.” That was all she could handle; her face collapsed down into her hands. Mr. McAllister quickly put his arms around his wife, not that anything could lessen the pain.

“What or who do you think did this? Shannon didn’t have any enemies. Who could have done this to her?” Mr. McAllister looked at both detectives with a level of desperation Megan was sure he’d never experienced before this day. “Was it a robbery? Is that it?”

“No sir. Nothing was taken that we can tell of at this time. Her wallet and credit cards were intact. There was a set of Mikimoto pearls in her drawer,” Megan answered. She paused before adding, “Actually, when you’re allowed back into the apartment, that could be something you might be able to tell us: if any other jewelry may have been stolen, such as gold rings, necklaces, anything of additional value.” Megan swallowed hard regarding the “gold ring” comment and how they were about to tell these people their daughter had been used as a fucking piñata.

Mrs. McAllister lifted her head. “They were her sweet-sixteen present, the pearls. Shannon never wore gold, only silver, or pearls.”

“We need as much information from you as possible. Information on her friends, coworkers, anyone she socialized with. We have her address book here. If you can just go through it for us and tell us who some of the people are, it would save us a lot of time,” Nappa said.

“Of course, of course we’ll do whatever we can to help,” Mr. McAllister said.

“Did she have a boyfriend or any close male friends?” Megan asked.

“She didn’t have any boyfriends, at least not that I knew of. MaryEllen, did she talk to you about anyone?” he asked his wife.

“She mentioned a boy she worked with on and off. They were just friends. Nothing romantic was going on. Shannon would’ve told me. We’re very close. She would have told me if there was someone in her life. She was too busy. My God, between school and some of the charity programs she’s involved in, she barely had time for herself, let alone a boyfriend. If she did have someone in her life, I would have known. I’m sure of that. She was my baby,” Mrs. McAllister said, looking up at the now-closed white blinds.

“If there is anything you think of, please let us know as soon as possible.”

“We missed her call by fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes,” Mrs. McAllister said, looking up at Megan.

Megan could only offer a sympathetic look at the woman facing her with mascara-strewn tears and red, swollen eyes. Mrs. McAllister would never be the same. Some sick bastard had taken away the most precious thing in her life, and there was nothing Megan could do to change that. She doled out crippling news, unable to answer the questions families had a right to ask and deserved answers to.

“There’s one thing we’re particularly interested in. We were unable to find a cell phone anywhere. She must have owned one, I’m assuming?” Megan asked.

“Shannon owned a BlackBerry once, but she never got the hang of it. She did have many cell phones.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand,” Megan said.

“Shannon had a knack for misplacing things. Last month she left her purse on a bus. She had to cancel every credit card and order a new cell phone. Last weekend she forgot her laptop at the house. I still need to get it back to—” The pain caught her midsentence.

“What we’d like for you to do is keep the account of the cell phone open, and give us her number, if you don’t mind, so we can start checking records.”

“Of course. Of course,” Mr. McAllister offered.

Now was the point in the conversation neither detective was anxious to get to. They shared glances that had not gone unnoticed.

“What is it? You haven’t told us everything. I can tell,” Mr. McAllister said warily.

Mrs. McAllister hadn’t caught the hesitation between the detectives. Horrific thoughts ran through their minds but none as awful as the news they were about to receive. “Oh, God. Was she”—she put her hand to her face, barely able to get the word out—“raped?”

Nappa fielded this question. “No. Our medical examiner said there had been no sexual assault.”

“Well, then what in hell is it?” Mr. McAllister demanded.

Megan took the small plastic baggie out of her pocket, handing it to his wife. “Have either of you ever seen this ring before? Do you know if this belonged to your daughter?”

Mrs. McAllister took the bag, examining the contents. “I told you Shannon never wore gold. I don’t understand. What—” Her hands started to shake as she passed it to her husband. “What’s going on here?”

“This—this is very difficult for us to tell you, but it seems that whoever killed your daughter placed—”

“What do you mean, placed?” Mr. McAllister’s voice began to rise.

Nappa took a step toward him. “Sir, please.”

Megan continued, “The killer inserted this within your daughter’s vaginal canal.”

Mrs. McAllister grabbed her stomach, doubling over in her chair. Megan went to her side. “I’m so, so sorry.”

Mr. McAllister clutched the back of one of the folding chairs before slamming it against the wall. He could withstand no more. Nappa tried to catch him as he fell to his knees. He grabbed Nappa’s shoulder and released a scream so primal you could feel his soul breaking as he wailed the only word possible:

No. No. No.