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“A teenage girl who drowned when she was sixteen. Back in ’92. She was brought by ambulance to this hospital. Already dead from what I can gather,” said Rachel. “I was hoping someone might remember bringing her in.”
“DOAs go to the hospital morgue. You could go down and speak to Stuart. Pretty sure he’s on night shift this week. Stuart’s worked here for decades. He might remember. What was the girl’s name?”
“Jenny Stills,” said Rachel. She could tell from the shocked expression that immediately appeared on Nurse Rice’s face that she recognized the name. “You’ve heard of her?” Rachel asked.
“Sure, I’ve heard of her. Everyone who went to Neapolis High knows that name,” the nurse said with a catch in her voice.
“How come?” Rachel asked in surprise.
Nurse Rice sighed audibly as she tried to find the words to formulate a response. “The name ‘Jenny Stills’ was like a cautionary tale about what happens when a girl sleeps around,” she said. “There used to be songs and jokes about her. Graffiti in the bathrooms. At school her name became slang for being a slut. Always felt awful for that girl, having her name dragged through the mud like that.”
Nurse Rice’s pager beeped and she paused to check it. “The waiting room’s filling up again. I have to get back,” she said. She quickly gave Rachel directions to the hospital morgue and rushed through the swinging doors of the ER.
Rachel followed the sign to the morgue, taking the elevator to the lower basement. The morgue was down a long white corridor lit by a row of bright fluorescent lights. Rachel reached the closeddoor and turned the handle. It was locked. Next to it was an intercom. She pressed the button. Nobody answered.
Rachel was about to turn to leave when she heard footsteps coming down the stairs. She waited until a barrel-chested man with thick arms, a ruddy complexion, and a reddish gray beard emerged from the stairwell. A hospital badge pinned to his blue scrubs identified him as “Stuart.”
“Tracey Rice from the ER said you might be able to help me with a question about a DOA,” Rachel said.
“Come inside,” Stuart replied.
He scanned his hospital key card and pushed open the door to the hospital morgue. Rachel followed him as he led her into an office with a couple of upholstered chairs and a tired framed print of flowers on the wall. At the back were rows of filing cabinets and a desk with an oversized computer screen.
“If you’re here about the DOA from this afternoon then he’s already been transferred,” Stuart said. “The ME decided there will be no autopsy. Apparently, he had a long-standing heart condition.”
“Actually,” said Rachel, “I want to know if you remember a case from the summer of ’92. A teenage girl drowned. I was told that she was brought here and pronounced dead on arrival. Her name was Jenny Stills.”
Stuart stared at her, unblinking. When he saw that she was serious, he pulled a crumpled pack of cigarettes out of his hospital scrubs.
“Can we go outside? I’m not allowed to smoke here,” he said.
He took her through the morgue itself. It was a white-tiled room that smelled of antiseptic, with a wall of stainless-steel refrigerators for bodies. There was an empty metal stretcher pressed against the wall, blocking access to an external door. He rolled itout of the way and opened the door. They came out into a basement loading area. He lit a cigarette as he leaned back against a raw concrete wall.
“That was a long time ago. Why’re you asking about Jenny Stills now?” he asked.
“Her sister asked me to look into her death. I’m an investigator,” said Rachel, choosing not to mention the podcast. “Her sister was very young at the time, but she believes that her older sister was murdered. Not drowned, which was apparently the official cause of death.”
He nodded and exhaled. “She did drown. Lungs were full of water,” Stuart said.
“But?” Rachel prompted, half-shocked and half-excited that he remembered the case.
“There were bruises. All over her body,” he said. “Not from hitting rocks, like they said afterward. She’d been hit and kicked. Physically beaten. One bruise was in the pattern of the sole of a shoe. I still remember that. Looked to me as if she’d been badly hurt before she drowned.”
“Did you tell anyone?” Rachel asked.
“Did I tell anyone?” he repeated. “Of course I did. I told the medical examiner. Usually he’ll discuss a case like that with me. When I asked afterward what had come out of the autopsy and whether the police were investigating, he was evasive. I asked a friend on the force who confirmed there was no police investigation under way. So, I did the only thing that I could do.”
“Which was?”
“Went to see the girl’s mother. She was in bed. Could barely sit up. Told her that I thought there was more to it than a drowning. That there had been bruises and cuts on her daughter’s body that looked suspicious. Told her that if she wrote a letter requesting aninquest then the authorities would have to look into it properly. I told her to ask for them to investigate it as a potential homicide. I waited while she wrote the letter and then I mailed it for her.”
“Why did you think it was a homicide?” Rachel asked.
“I don’t know if it was a homicide, but it sure was suspicious. Those fresh injuries on her body should have been enough for a homicide investigation. I said as much to the medical examiner at the time. He wouldn’t hear a word of it.”
“The newspaper said there was no investigation. Why?”
“Town was burying those two boys. They died the same night. Drove into a tree. By the time everyone was done grieving, the girl’s mother was dead and there was nobody pushing for an investigation. I’d done everything I could do,” he said. “Couldn’t do any more without risking my job. I had a young family. Needed the income.”
