Pray For Us Sinners

by Philip Luber

Chapter Two: THE MANNER OF DEATH

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The body is opened with the usual Y-shaped thoracoabdominal incision....

      On a midwinter New England night, I sat alone in my den and paged through Rachel Pace's autopsy report. There were words and terms I hadn't read since my medical-school training almost twenty years earlier. Sclerae....Sella turcica....Subconjunctival hemorrhage....

      I learned some personal details: Her daughter was born by C-section. A childhood fracture of Rachel's left tibia healed poorly, leaving a visible bump and, perhaps, a slight limp. She had a hysterectomy. Her final meal -- only partially digested at the time of death -- included pasta, broccoli tips, and pieces of white meat chicken.

      I learned things that weren't known until after her death: the thickness of the adipose tissue in her abdominal wall; the quantities of fluid in her bladder and pericardial sac; the weights of her heart, lungs, brain, liver, spleen, and kidneys.

      And I learned that skull fracturing ran from the anterior cranial fossa to the right parietal-temporal region.

      In his summary opinion, the medical examiner was unequivocal.

      The decedent died from multiple blunt-force injuries to the head. These injuries involve the central forehead, nose, and right forehead and face. These injuries caused skull fracture, facial fracture, bleeding within the brain, and bruising of the brain.

      There were finger marks present on the neck, but there was no significant trauma to the neck muscles or other tissues, except for the skin.

      There were no preexisting injuries or disease which may have contributed to death.

      The manner of death is homicide.

      I knew that the name Rachel meant "like a lamb." I thought: A lamb to the slaughter.

      I tossed another log into the fireplace and stoked the embers. I looked outside; the light snowfall that had dropped an inch of fresh powder was winding down. In the distance, off by the wildlife refuge, I heard a few staccato beeps: hardy Canada geese whose winter migration had taken them no farther south than Concord, Massachusetts.

      I returned the autopsy file to its folder and reviewed the crime-scene report and witness statements. I already knew the essential facts from conversations with Rachel's husband and daughter, although both of them were reluctant to talk very much about the murder. "I don't want to cry anymore," the daughter had told me.

      It occurred to me that Rachel had unknowingly saved her daughter's life by not allowing the girl to share her bedroom that night. I wondered if her daughter ever considered that. If she did, the thought probably heaped a pile of survivor's guilt onto the normal terror and depression that someone who witnessed her mother's murder would feel.

      Survivor's guilt: Someone in my field -- some other psychiatrist, or maybe a psychologist or social worker -- coined that expression to describe the depression experienced by people who come through accidents in which others were killed. They think: Why was I spared? I am no better than those who died. I do not deserve a fate better than theirs.

      According to the police report, a neighbor heard the shots Rachel's daughter fired and telephoned the police.

      She had told me that after firing the gun, she cowered on the floor, her eyes shut tight as if she were willing the horrible scene away. She didn't know how much time passed. She was aware of doorbells ringing, knocks on the front door, and people moving through the house and up the stairs to the second floor.

      Two Wellesley police officers entered the bedroom: crouched, guns drawn. They saw two collapsed bodies on opposite sides of the bed: the inert form of a murdered woman, and a trembling nine-year-old girl. I supposed the acrid smell of cordite hung in the air; the police report said the girl was still holding the handgun when the officers got there.

      By the time the police photographer arrived, Rachel Pace's skin had blanched and the streams of blood had clotted and dried on her face. Blood looks jet-black on monochromatic film; gazing at the crime-scene pictures, I was struck by the sharp contrast between the dark congealed liquid and Rachel's alabaster skin. Her head tilted toward the side at a most unusual angle; I was surprised the autopsy didn't list a broken neck in its catalog of injuries and insults.

      I scanned the reports from the homicide investigation: the reconstruction of the victim's final hours, the interviews with friends and relatives, the questioning and requestioning of the young girl. But I already knew the bottom line: No one had any idea who the murderer was, and no one had a clue about identifying him. Rachel Pace's killer was still at large.

      Forensic evidence was sparse. There were fibers underneath Rachel's fingernails: fibers consistent with the ski mask her daughter said the killer wore. There were no unexplained fingerprints: not at the point of break-in, or in the bedroom, or on the kitchen telephone that the killer lifted from its hook.

      I put all the documents back into the folder, pausing over one of the crime-scene pictures: a close-up of Rachel's face. Her lifeless eyes were open. I wondered: What if her retina could retain the last image cast upon it before death, her killer's ski-masked visage? Would we be any closer to knowing who had snatched her life away?

      "Hi, Dad."

      My daughter startled me. Lost in thought, I hadn't heard her enter the den. I hurriedly slipped the photograph into the folder. Melissa saw me do that. She said, "Let me guess. You're looking at something you think I'm not old enough to understand."

      I avoided the question. "It's a school night, sweetheart. Don't you think you should be in bed?"

      Melissa shrugged. "Usually the geese help me fall asleep. Tonight they're keeping me up. What's in the folder?"

      "Nothing, really. Just some reports."

      "About one of your patients?"

      I shook my head. "No, it's something Veronica brought home for me to review."

      "An FBI case?" The thought clearly excited her.

      "Not exactly. But something like that." I glanced at my watch. "I really think you should get into bed."

      "Yeah, I guess so." She yawned. "Where are you sleeping tonight -- your room, or Veronica's room?"

      I nodded toward the window, in the direction of the barn that was converted into an apartment years earlier. "I think I'll walk over to see Veronica. Is that all right with you?"

      "Sure."

      "If you need me, just use the intercom."

      "Uh-huh. And remind her she's supposed to come talk to my class tomorrow, okay? I think the other fifth-grade class is joining us."

      "I'll remind her. But I'm sure she hasn't forgotten."

      "Thanks." She walked toward the door, then turned back toward me. "What should I call her?"

      "What do you mean?"

      "When Veronica comes to my school tomorrow. I could say she's my father's friend, but that sounds so weird. And I can't say the two of you are boyfriend and girlfriend."

      "Why not?"

      "Dad-dee. You're too, uh..."

      "Too what?"

      "You're too, you know -- too old to be somebody's boyfriend."

      I thought for a moment. "Why don't you just introduce Veronica as your friend?"

      Melissa considered that. "Yeah. That'll be okay. Thanks, Dad. G'night."

      She turned away again. I called after her. "Melissa?"

      "Huh?"

      "Nolan Ryan pitched a no-hitter when he was about a year older than me. He threw another one a year later."

      "Nolan who?"

      "You know who Nolan Ryan is."

      She smiled. "G'night, Dad."

      "Good night, sweetheart. I love you."

      "Uh-huh." She yawned once more, then went upstairs.

      I used the intercom to call over to Veronica in the barn apartment. "It's me," I said. "I'll be there in a few minutes."

      "All right, Harry."

      I grabbed the folder with the autopsy and police reports. I put on an overcoat and stepped outside, locking the door behind me. I looked up at the second story; Melissa's room was dark. I walked the thirty yards to the barn, my footsteps scattering the thin layer of freshly fallen powder.

      My wife and I bought the property almost a dozen years earlier, when she was pregnant with Melissa. The old Concord farmhouse was built around 1800, and it sat on two acres of land near North Bridge, where colonial Minutemen returned British fire for the first time. We converted the barn into an apartment, complete with an intercom setup to communicate with the house, and a live-in housekeeper stayed there for many years, until the previous July. After she retired, Veronica moved in.

      My wife had been dead for almost seven years. Janet lay buried a mile down the road in Sleepy Hollow Cemetery, the resting place of the Emersons, Alcotts, and Thoreaus. There was snow on the ground when she died. And now, whenever it snowed, I remembered what Melissa said the day Janet was buried: "I don't want Mommy to be cold."

      I let myself into the barn. When I flipped the switch for the stairwell light, the bulb blew. I pulled my key chain out and used the small flashlight on it to light my way.

      I climbed the stairs to Veronica's apartment. I walked through the living room and into the bedroom.

      Veronica was sitting on the edge of the bed, toweling herself dry from her shower. She watched me set the folder with the murder materials on her dresser. "Put it in the safe," she said. "Melissa may come over in the morning. It's not a healthy thing for an eleven-year-old to see."

      I thought: It's not a healthy thing for anyone to see. I opened the small safe that doubled as a nightstand. I placed the folder on top of Veronica's service revolver. Then I shut the door and spun the dial.

      I said, "The light on the stairs needs a new bulb."

      "I'll tell the landlord."

      "Very funny. I'll replace the bulb for you in the morning."

      "Thanks." She yawned. "Are you staying here tonight?"

      "Yes," I replied.

      "Did you remember to leave a note for Melissa?"

      "She was still awake a few minutes ago. She knows I'm here."

      She nodded toward the bed. "I don't think I feel like...you know, doing anything."

      "That's okay." I kicked off my shoes and began to get undressed.

      She asked, "What did you think of the materials?"

      I hesitated. "It's sad beyond words."

      She sighed. "I couldn't bring myself to look at the pictures. I had a hard enough time just reading the reports." She looked at the floor for several seconds. "What do you think I should do, Harry?"

      I didn't know what to say. "Let me take a shower first. Then we can talk about it." I grabbed a towel from the linen closet, walked into the bathroom, and turned the water on full force.

      I was worried about Veronica. Her depression had ripened for several weeks. I knew it was related to the murder I had spent the previous hour reading about.

I couldn't bring myself to look at the pictures. Before she moved over to the FBI, Veronica prosecuted homicide cases. Over the years she had visited dozens of murder scenes. So she was no stranger to scenes of utter depravity: She walked in them, studied them, sifted through the evidence...all in the name of justice, and all without blinking an eye.

      But Rachel Pace's murder was different. And Veronica couldn't bring herself to look at the pictures.

      I crawled into bed and made sure the covers on my side were tucked firmly in place, lest Veronica pull them off of me during the night. You always thrash around when you sleep. I moved toward her. Her back was toward me; I placed an arm around her waist and kissed her lightly on the neck. The fire glow reflected off her cheek.

      She said, "I've never had a fireplace in my bedroom before. It soothes me."

      "It was Janet's idea. She thought that when Melissa grew up we would give the house to her, and we'd move over here. She had it all planned out. I guess things have a way of not working out like we plan them."

      "I know." She brushed her dark curls off of her face. "It still bothers me sometimes when you talk about your wife. Maybe someday it won't." She turned around. "Harry, please tell me. What do you think I should do?"

      I knew she was talking about Rachel's murder again. "Any reasonable person in your situation would have a hard time deciding."

      "Don't talk to me like I'm one of your patients. I need to know what's on your mind. What do you think I should do?"

      I held her in my arms and said, "I think you should let it be."

      She pressed her cheek hard against my chest and wrapped her arms tightly around me. "I guess I should," she said. "But I can't." She trembled silently, and I felt her tears dropping onto me. In our year and a half together, I had seldom seen her cry.

      Veronica turned away again and stared at the fading fire. She said, "When I was in school I read a play about a man whose spirit was forced to wander in limbo until the person who killed him was brought to justice. And that's how I think of her. She's out there, somewhere...wandering...and I have to do something to help her rest in peace."

      Nothing is worse than having to watch helplessly while someone you love suffers. I went through it with Janet when the cancer devoured her. I had done it with Melissa countless times, over sorrows large and small. When the only thing you can do is love someone, love never seems enough.

      I rested my hand on Veronica's side. "Whatever you decide to do, I'll help you any way I can."

      She clasped her hand over mine: tightly at first, then more weakly as she drifted off to sleep. She said, "Her last words to me were, `We'll always have each other.'"

      And as the flames died and the embers cooled, just before she fell into a fitful slumber, Veronica Pace murmured, "I have to know....Who killed my mother?"

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