He was on I-95, headed for Biddeford, when Johansson called.
“They got something from the autopsy,” Johansson said.
“They’ve already done the autopsy?”
“This morning, I guess. Don’t know how much help it will be, because the decomposition was advanced, but…they did get something.” He cleared his throat. “I, uh, I thought you should hear it from me.”
“What is it?”
“She was pregnant,” Johansson said.
For a long time, there was no sound except for the tires of Barrett’s Ford Explorer on the asphalt.
“Pregnant,” he said finally, as if he were unfamiliar with the word.
“Yeah.”
“How…it couldn’t have been far along.”
“Two months, tops,” Johansson said. “The ME found a, um…the start of a pelvic bone. I guess that’s the first one to form. Who knew that? I’ve got a kid, but I never knew that.”
For a while they were both silent, and then a horn blew, and Barrett snapped his eyes to the rearview mirror, saw a Cadillac hugging his bumper, and realized he’d let his speed fall from seventy to fifty without even being aware of it.
“Do the families know?” he asked as the Cadillac passed him. “Does Howard know?”
“Yes. County sheriff called them. A stranger. Somebody they’d never met in their lives, never talked to. He beat Broward on it, even. Said he felt it was his duty to tell them as soon as possible.”
“Fuck that,” Barrett said, and now his own voice was hoarse, his throat tight and thick.
“Yes,” Johansson said. “That was my sentiment as well.”
More silence. Barrett realized his speed was dropping off again. He felt light-headed. He shifted into the right lane and looked for an exit sign. He wanted to get off the interstate. He wanted to get out of the car and into fresh air. Wanted to punch something. Wanted to lie down and close his eyes.
“I’ll see you in Biddeford,” Johansson said, and he hung up without another word.
Barrett put the window down and let the wind rip into the car, grateful for the way it stung his eyes.