AN: During physical therapy yesterday I wondered how Sam would react to the human remains of Andy McNally. Maybe my ideas are a little bit darker that your average fluff, but a lot of cops struggle with the things they see on the job, depressions and addictions. Please note that I am not from Canada or the U.S. and not a native speaker. Furthermore I don't have any expertise in biological anthropology. I simply mimicked Kathy Reichs' assessments from her books.
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The crime scene looks unspectacular. It is a shallow grave. In his career he has seen a lot of them. But usually they are way outside the city limits. In this respect this one is special. It is right here, in Toronto and it looks like it has been here for quite some time. He can see the white layer of burnt lime on top of the skeleton. Long time ago, when he first started at homicide, Detective Spears explained to him, that calcium oxide doesn't actually accelerate the decomposition but slows it down. He knows though, that bodies beneath burnt lime smell considerably less. He guesses it is the reason they didn't find this body sooner. These human remains are nothing more than a skeleton and some long hair. Even though they haven't unearthed the whole body, he is pretty sure: The person was naked when she went into this grave. From where he stands he can't see any metal artefacts. There are no zippers, no bra wires, nothing. A body like this usually means the killer is either very smart or extremely ruthless and dangerous. He guesses the latter one in this case. A smart killer would not have chosen a burial ground in an area with a revised land use plan. So his guess is, that the killer made the victim undress before her death. He hopes for the it was only for one last humiliation and nothing more. It makes him angry and deeply depressed, but he knows why he still does this job. The reason that keeps him going all these times. Fearing, one day he might come across this particular reason.
It is at the coroner's office, when he looks at the long dark hair, that he thinks of it again. But the body didn't have a face for him. It is just a skull, not even the teeth are in it anymore. So how could he match her face with this? But the hair is dark and long. He shakes his head. He doesn't even know, what hair color she had. Maybe she stayed brunette, maybe she needed a change. It was something she was really good at, change. He is in the middle of his musings when the anthropologist walks in. He is the kind of academic you imagine: Elderly, with a bow tie and only living for forensic science. He greets him and starts with his expertise.
„Hello Detective Swarek. You brought me quite a beauty here. Why would someone shoot her in the head? Well, I guess that is your job detective. We have here a caucasian female, who never gave birth. She was probably in her early thirties and around 5'7". From the lack of wear on her joints I would guess she was average weight or slightly overweight. My guess would be, that she was fit. She has the typical indicators at her knees, that she was either a soccer player, a basketball player or both. See the longbones of her legs, how they are even now bow shaped? In this case it is not a genetic defect. Strong muscles deformed them permanently. And I found some more identifying marks. She broke her right arm while she grew up, they even put some pins in it and removed them later. And see these ribs? She cracked them, but they healed very well. If you found me the medical records of a possible victim, I should not have any trouble identifying this woman. Unfortunately I can't give you any specifics on the post mortem interval for your search. I referenced the town plan and would guess she lay there for at least five and not more than fifteen years, but that is only speculation."
Even though Sam has mastered his poker face ages ago, it takes all his will power not to run over to the sink and puke his guts out. He knew someone with exactly the medical history the anthropologist just discribed. A person he spend the nine years hating. A person who might be dead for ten years. The woman on this slate was in her early thirties, she never had a child. He would not, he could not believe, that she never got her happily ever after. Even in his darkest time, when he had cursed her to hell, he never thought she would die before she could achieve anything. He knew, how much she wanted a happily little family in the suburbs, something she herself never had. But what if it really was her?
He had been the one to ultimately drive her away. The others had never said so, but he knew, that it was his attitude that made her leave. She had come back and was full of hope, ready for them to start again. But he had broken his promise. He had not listened to the small voice in the back of his head, that told him to wait for her. He had convinced himself, that he needed to move on. And he had worked hard to do it. He had conciously sought out Marlo and when she had hesitated, he had all but begged her to move in with him. Proving to McNally like a petulant child, that he didn't want her anymore. That he had changed. And she hadn't been there to benefit from the improvements. It was what drove her undercover for a second time. By the time she came back, he was engaged and she cleared her locker. It wasn't until his divorce was through, that he saw her again. He had transferred to OPP and was responsible for the special cases. But back then, he only wanted a distraction. Maybe deep down he wanted her to hurt as much as he did. It didn't matter, that he understood very soon, that his harsh words had been unreasonable. She had said her goodbye to the possibility of them together. It didn't matter, that he finally realized what he wanted all along. She had already given her notice and put her furniture in storage. No amount of digging gave him any clues where she went.
For a year he called in favors and searched in every bar in Ontario. In the end he had called every precinct everywhere from Halifax to Vancouver and had personally ridden to every police station in Quebec. There was no trace of her. She had gone under. When she didn't come to her father's funeral he knew, she was in deeper than he woud have dared to go. She had ultimately chosen her job over them. That was what he thought at least. Until today. Today his personal nightmare seemed to come true. Why had he let his hurt turn into hate?
He can hear the clanking from his watch against the metal of the slate. His hands shake. Where is his thermos? He needs something to drink. He needs the hot feeling of the brown liquid running down his throat. He doesn't know when he turned to the bottle. It hadn't been immidiately, it had taken him some years. But the job took its toll and he loathes himself enough not to care, if he destroys himself.