Sandy, you reviewed as a guest so I couldn't reply to your lovely review but thank you so much! It was very much appreciated (as is everyone else's).
I hope this chapter isn't too gruesome for anyone. I ended up toning it down just in case.
I'm thinking about the Giants and the last World Series when Morris interrupts my daydreaming by dropping a file on my desk.
"Post-mortem results," he informs me.
"Great," I say unenthusiastically, pulling the file towards me and reluctantly opening it. I always find the minute details in the post-mortem reports too clinically cold and detached and it makes me uncomfortable to read. This one is no different. Manual strangulation. Petechiae of the conjuctivae, a fractured hyoid bone and hemorrhages that confirm it was antemortem fracture, pressure obstruction of the carotid arteries prevented blood flow to her brain, abrasions to the neck and fingernail marks from her own hands trying to free her neck…
I shut the file abruptly.
"Can you call the family? Let them know they're releasing the body?"
Morris gives me a strange look, but says, "Sure." I know he's wondering why I can't do it. I've done it plenty of times before, after all. It's just that this time I'm thinking of Prue's face when I told her what had happened to her sister and I don't want to speak to her again only to give her more unpleasant news. I won't be able to do it without picturing the way she looked in the car that day and I can't do that again. I made her a promise which I haven't kept yet.
At least now they can have a funeral. The first step towards some kind of closure. It's not as good as me actually catching the guy, but it's something all the same.
Morris returns ten minutes later having done the deed.
"Done your dirty work," he informs me with a grin, dropping into his desk chair.
"Thanks. Do you know what's great about you? The way you do me these favors without ever complaining once."
He throws a pen at me which bounces off my shoulder and rolls under my desk.
"So why didn't you want to do it?" He asks.
"I'm just not in a bad news giving mood today," I say with a shrug.
"Then you're in the wrong job," Morris tells me.
"Hmm, probably," I agree.
"Still, I think you've probably missed the boat on that baseball career you were dreaming of," he adds and it's my turn to throw a pen at him although I still laugh.
"Listen," Darryl says in a more serious voice. "If that girl's still bothering you that much then buy some flowers and a card, send them to her, tell her you're very sorry."
"Yeah, because some flowers are going to make up for her sister." I sigh. "I promised her we'd catch him."
"You promised her?" He repeats, raising his eyebrows.
"Well I had to say something, didn't I?" I say defensively.
"Yeah," he says slowly. "That you're very sorry for her loss."
"Those words are empty," I say dismissively.
"Like your promise?" Darryl returns quickly.
I scowl at him. I hate how he's always one step ahead of me and my train of thoughts but he's sort of right on this one.
"Look," he says with a sigh, "she's not going to remember some promise you made while she was crying her eyes out."
"Yes she will. It was kind of a big promise."
"Well we will get him," Morris says confidently. "Eventually. So quit feeling guilty and let's get some lunch."
"Seriously, what is wrong with you?" Morris demands, leaning across the table and waving a hand in front of my face to draw my attention back to the conversation we're supposed to be having.
"Nothing," I say unconvincingly and he rolls his eyes. "No, really, it's nothing," I say again, trying to sound a little more convincing this time.
"You wanna tell me why nothing's got you zoning out on me while I'm trying to tell you about the date I had last night? Not to mention the lunch you've barely touched." He nods at the plate of fries in front of me.
"Date?" I repeat, blinking at him in confusion. The last thing I heard him say was about how the guy in the apartment above his had taken to throwing parties every Thursday night; I don't know at what point we transitioned to his date. For that matter, I don't remember him ever mentioning having a date planned last night to begin with.
"Yeah, date," he says in exasperation. "I told you about it last week."
"Oh, yeah," I say, although I don't remember at all.
"Are you still thinking about the Halliwell case?" He asks me, as usual cutting straight to the point.
"Yeah," I admit sheepishly.
"What is your problem? So you promised some girl you'd find her sister's killer. It's your job."
"No, it's not just that. It's the whole thing."
"What whole thing?" He asks suspiciously, narrowing his eyes at me.
"I don't know," I mutter, but I do know. I just don't want to say.
I know Darryl will tell me it's not like we haven't seen this before, but that's partly the problem. We have seen it before, so many times that I've lost count. When people think about homicides they think about dark alleys late at night, shadowy strangers pulling out knifes or guns and killing just because they can, but that's a far stretch from the reality of it. Instead of a homicidal psychopath the victim has simply had the misfortune to stumble into the path of, often it's someone they knew. Loved.
And in cases of domestic violence it's usually strangulation we see. It's all about power, control. Female victims are often at a physical disadvantage in the event of a strangulation with the bare hands.
"I guess I'm just sick of it all," I say finally. "People make me sick."
"Welcome to the real world," Darryl retorts, taking a bite of another fry.