Page 43 of Fallen

“She died from multiple cranial-bone fractures, subdural and subarachnoid hemorrhages of the frontal, parietal, and temporal regions. Any one of those injuries could have been fatal.”

“In English?” I say.

“Skull fractures.” He heaves a sigh and for the first time I get the impression that this particular autopsy has exhausted him in a way that has little to do with a lack of sleep or physical stamina.

“All of it from blunt-force trauma?”

“Yes,” he replies. “Manner of death is homicide,” he finishes.

“Were you able to narrow down the time of death?” I ask.

“Between one and three A.M. That’s as close as we’re going to get, Kate.”

“What about the rape kit?”

“No semen.”

I think about that, once again the question of motive swirling. “Is there a preliminary report you can send me, Doc?”

“I’ll email you what I have. Won’t be finalized until tomorrow. I won’t close out until tox comes back in a couple weeks.”

I’m about to thank him when he speaks again. “Kate…” He makes a sound that’s partly the clearing of his throat, but for the first time since I’ve known him, there’s emotion tucked away somewhere in that sound. “That girl had seven broken bones. Internal hemorrhaging. Facial injuries. In all the years I’ve served in the capacity of coroner, I’ve never seen so much trauma as the result of a beating.”

I wait, vaguely aware that I’m holding my breath. That I’m moved by his reaction, the unusualness of it, and part of me knows this moment is important. Not only for me, but for Doc Coblentz.

“I don’t know if what I’m about to tell you is relevant in terms of the perpetrator or if it will be helpful to you in any way as you investigate this crime, but even after this victim was down and unable to protect herself or move, her attacker continued to strike. Those blows continued long after the victim’s heart stopped beating.” He pauses and I hear the hiss and flow of his breaths. “Speaking not as the coroner, but as a citizen? You need to find this guy, Kate. You need to stop him and quickly. None of us will be safe until you do.”

Before I can assure him that I plan to do exactly that, the connection ends.

Rachael Schwartz was no angel, but she didn’t deserve the fate that met her. No one deserves to die like that, especially at the hand of another.

… even after this victim was down and unable to protect herself or move, her attacker continued to strike.

The overkill indicates a high level of emotion. Intense and personal hatred. An all-consuming rage. A complete loss of control. Who hated her enough to beat her with such violence that they broke seven bones? Inside their twisted mind, what had Rachael Schwartz done to deserve it?

I’m in my office at the police station. It’s after four P.M. now. Glock came in earlier for his end-of-shift reports and Skid came on board to relieve him. Lois went home for the day and my new dispatcher, Margaret, has spent the last hour cleaning and rearranging the credenza behind her workstation. I’ve read Doc Coblentz’s preliminary autopsy report twice now. The picture that emerges is a thing of nightmares. In the early stages of the attack, Rachael Schwartz had tried to protect herself. Defensive wounds indicate she fought back; she was a fighter, after all. When those efforts proved fruitless, she tried to escape. But by then she was too injured to get away. While she was down, crawling or pulling herself along the floor, unable to defend herself, her killer stood over her and beat her to death.

I’m thinking about the baseball bat found in the ditch, in the process of reading the report for the third time, looking for details I might’ve overlooked, when the bell on the exterior door jangles, telling me someone has entered the station. A moment later, Tomasetti appears in the doorway of my office. He’s carrying a record storage box. His laptop case strap is slung over his shoulder. He looks tired. Glad to be here. The knot in my gut loosens at the sight of him.

“You lost?” I say.

“I’m looking for Mrs. Tomasetti,” he says.

I stand, ridiculously pleased by his use of the as-of-yet-unofficial title, liking the way he’s looking at me, the half smile curving his mouth. “I don’t think that’s a done deal just yet,” I tell him.

“Say the word, and we’ll make it happen,” he says.

“Thinking about it.”

I’ve lost track of how many times he’s proposed. Of course I plan to marry him; he’s the love of my life. Even so, I haven’t given him the answer he deserves. While marriage is an institution I believe in, the notion of tying that knot scares the daylights out of me. He’s been a good sport about it. I’m a work in progress.

He enters my office. “Shall I close the door?”

Temptation ripples through me. I look past him, catch a glimpse of Margaret gathering the carafe and mugs from the coffee station in the hall and shake my head. “Rain check?”

“Bet on it.” He sets the box on my desk, the laptop on the floor, and sinks into the visitor chair across from me.

“How was Cleveland?” I ask.