An eight year-old Joan sat on the floor of the family room, surrounded by shreds of festive pink ribbon and cheerful wrapping paper. Gifts, many of them cuddly teddy bears and stuffed pooches, occupied one chair in the corner of the room. Boxes lie scattered on the floor. The birthday girl held a small, satin box in her hands and studied it carefully. She removed the thin maroon ribbon on the top of the box and opened it slowly. It was as though she sensed this gift was different than the others, somehow.
The box continued a small emblem on a delicate chain. Joan fingered it carefully, running the metal chain through her hands.
"What is it, Grandma?" she asked.
"It's a symbol of St. Joan, your namesake, honey," the old woman replied, offering up a gentle smile. "All the Girardi women have them."
"Now Mom, you know that saint stuff's not tr---" her son protested from the other side of the room, earning him a warning glance from his wife.
Will sighed in resignation and watched his mother close the clasp of the necklace around the little girl's neck.
Will Girardi didn't cry when he heard the news, didn't break down, didn't moan, didn't fall. He simply stood there and watched silently as the paramedics brought the stretcher out from the burned shell of a building.
He had been called to scene by accident, really. He had been dropping off some papers at the fire department when the call had arrived and offered to go along in case of the suspicious circumstances.
Will thought he was as accustomed to death as any one person could be. He spent much of his career working with people he met lying on a cold metal tray. Maybe that's why it didn't register with him at first.
"Female. Badly burned, but I'd guess about 17 or so. No ID on her but a couple of jewelry pieces. Want to have a look?" The paramedic asked, gesturing toward the stretcher.
At first, he didn't even see the body, just the necklace. It was a very distinctive piece, a fleur d'Arc, the symbol of Jeanne d'Arc. Joan still wore that necklace.
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Luke Girardi had never been to a morgue before, though he was sure it would had been interesting from a scientific perspective. The idea of the dead as specimens never creped him out the way at did some people. After all, everyone dies sooner or latter.
The cadavers where just things to be studied to help the living: people like Kevin or Joan, stricken with ailments and maladies. At least, that what he had always thought.
So it is not surprising that "morgue" didn't quite register in his brain the way it did for everyone else. He didn't think of it as a house of dead, just another laboratory. He had always been a scientist.
It was not until he saw Kevin and his mother alone in the car that word took on a new meaning. They were missing two.
On the way to the morgue, Luke counted on his fingers the number of specimens he knew. He had counted like this before, subtracting the days until his birthday. This time, he added.
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Joan had not died a very photogenic death. She did not look like the dead you so often see on TV, waxed over with impeccable make-up and nary a hint of trauma or pain. No smile graced her face; she exuded no sense of peace. Death had not just touched her; it had destroyed her.
Helen Girardi stared at her daughter's body in disbelief and shock. It hardly looked human and certainly didn't look like the child she had bore. Her hair was gone, eaten away by the fire, so that only soot and ash remained on her scalp. Gruesome burns festered on her skin, raw and unadulterated. They descended from her face down past the sheet that still covered her in an attempt to preserve the dignity of the dead.
"85 of her body suffered burns," the attending doctor stated bluntly, keeping his eyes low as to avoid meeting Helen's, "but the smoke is what probably killed her; it'll kill you long before the fire does. If you'll give us permission, we'll do an autopsy and now for sure. The county will cover the full cost of it."
The Girardis stared at him. Who cared who would pay for the autopsy? Who cared it the smoke, not the fire, had dealt the final blow? Their daughter, their sister, was dead.
Will spoke: "That'll be fine, Howard. Just try to make her…presentable. It'll be important the family, you know."
The doctor nodded.
It's just a case, Will thought, just like any other. Same procedure, same dialogue. Just keep a steady head.
"You can have as much time as you need," Howard said, still not able to meet their eyes.
No one moved. Kevin and Luke had seen the expression on their mother's face, and they wanted to see nothing more tonight. They would see their sister when she was "presentable."
Kevin started to wheel out, and the rest of his family followed him. Everyone just wanted to leave.
"Joan might be waiting at home," Kevin said as they got into the police car that would carry them home.
Nobody bothered to correct him. A little delusion was fine; they would have plenty of reality to face come morning.