Authors: Eileen Browne
Tags: #Mystery, #thriller, #Suspense, #Murder, #True Crime, #Crime
“A welt, nothing more than an abrasion, here,” Friedman commented, drawing their attention to the victim’s left cheek. “Other than that, no serious bruising of either the torso or facial area. The knuckles of the right hand are slightly skinned, but I wouldn’t describe it as being a defensive wound.”
Kruter said, “What, then?’
“I can’t say, but p
re-
mortem and non-defensive.”
With Carson’s assistance, the Medical Examiner proceeded to conduct a more thorough examination of the vaginal and rectal area, a mandatory procedure in child homicide victims. Here, there was no bruising or apparent indication of bleeding or recent tear.
“She wasn’t raped, Paul.”
Kruter sighed, thinking of his own granddaughter.
“That’s good,” he said, as if forgetting the victim was dead.
Before Kruter could exhale, Friedman elaborated. “I didn’t say there was no sex, only that from the condition of the vaginal area, there is no evidence of forced penetration.”
“I don’t get it?”
“See here,” Friedman said. Reluctantly, Kruter stepped forward. “She’s not a virgin. From the discharge, it’s possible to determine that intercourse occurred recently; there’s obvious evidence of ejaculate. And here,” she continued, waving him forward. “Closer, it’s something you need to see. Typically, anal tissue is elastic and soft. The diameter of the fully extended orifice on a child this age should be no greater than this.” She indicated the notch on a rectal probe. “The diameter here is too wide, much too wide,” she concluded, indicating a second notch of greater circumference.
“I still don’t get it,” Kruter said.
“The tissue is tough, Paul. There is scarring here.” Friedman used the tip of the probe to elaborate. “And here. Clearly, there is evidence of a previous tear. She wasn’t raped, but this child is no stranger to sex, in all its aberrant forms.” Kruter looked at the Medical Examiner, perplexed. “Anal, Paul,” she explained. “You don’t suffer penetration without carrying the scars. A microscopic section will confirm what I’ve just told you, but for the time being, I would proceed on that assumption.”
“What is a thirteen-year-old doing having anal sex?”
Abby shrugged. “In essence, what is a thirteen-year-old doing having sex at all?”
“Could she have been abused, Abby?”
Friedman turned to retrieve a chart from Carson. She reviewed it and said, “Possibly, though that’s for the police to decide. She’s a nicely developed young girl for her age. Notice the breasts, small but full, and the swell of the hips. In many cases, though I won’t say all, it’s an indication that she has been—or been forced to be—sexually active before her time, certainly from an age before it was appropriate. In the matter and manner of this child’s death, I would suggest you look close to home. Promiscuous or abused: that’s for the police to decide,” she reiterated. “Though if you notice, Paul, she trims herself down there; an attention to detail I certainly wouldn’t expect in a young woman. Not something most do—or need to—until they have kids, or are fully matured.”
For the record, Friedman stated that when discovered the child was no less than seven hours dead, no more than ten, and likely about nine. Rigor
m
ortis sets in three hours after death and is established at twelve to thirteen. Her preliminary examination at the crime scene revealed advanced but not fully vested evidence of the condition. She disqualified temperature as a reliable indicator. The body cools from its normal ninety-eight point six degrees at one degree per hour after death. Given the child’s slight physique, absence of warm clothing and the outside temperature, Friedman concluded a reading at the crime scene of eighty-two degrees not to be unusual.
“That puts her dead no earlier than two, no later than say, six, likely about three to five Sunday afternoon. Is that consistent with what you know?”
Kruter agreed that it was. “She was last seen at three, failed to return home for dinner at five, and was reported missing at approximately five-thirty or thereabouts. Near as we can tell, it’s consistent.”
Abby said, “She was probably dead about the time her family reported her missing. She was killed either in the alley or the body placed there very shortly after death. On this, I have to agree with the officer in charge. Postmortem stasis supports the hypothesis. The blood has settled here, here and here.” She indicated the purple crescents that appeared like bruises on Missy’s buttocks, back and at the rear of her legs. The child’s chest, abdomen and upper thighs were blanched white with the discoloration that occurs after death, when the force of gravity causes fluid to vacate raised tissue no longer being irrigated by a steadily pumping heart. Friedman pressed a finger to the body. “The color is fixed, Paul; it wouldn’t be if she were less than nine hours dead. There has been some shifting of fluid of course, when the body was moved from the alley to here, but she was in that bin soon after being killed. She remained there until she was found.”
“Can you say for certain the killing occurred at the place the body was discovered?” Kruter asked pointedly.
“No, but then it’s not my job is it?” The pathologist smiled, aware of Kruter’s impatience with Medical Examiner’s who offered opinions, and his frustration with those who didn’t.
Friedman performed the standard “Y” incision, cutting from each of the cadaver’s shoulders to the pit of the stomach, then in a straight line down to the pubic bone. She removed the child’s piercing before doing so, passing it to Kruter, who photographed it, bagged it, and tagged it. Abby then inserted a pair of rib cutters mid-way along the dangling tail of the Y and severed the bony cage protecting Missy’s now silent heart and deflated lungs. The internal organs were removed and inspected by Carson who declared no evidence of pre-existing illness and no sign of internal trauma. Missy’s plural cavity and lungs were clear, proving conclusively that she did not bleed to death or drown.
Friedman examined the contents of Missy’s stomach; Kruter turned away.
“Paul?” she asked, her voice rising with the excitement of discovery. “Did you say the child
failed
to arrive home for dinner?”
“That’s the story,” Kruter confirmed.
“Well, be that as it may,” the Medical Examiner said, “
somebody
fed this child her last supper. And from the look of it, I’d say it was a bacon double cheeseburger with fries.”
…
With the autopsy complete and Missy’s body returned to her locker, by one o’clock the Medical Examiner and Identification Officer sat in Friedman’s office enjoying a cup of green tea. Kruter’s wife served a similar blend at home, claiming the brew had restorative powers and as an anti-oxidant prevented cancer causing free radicals from wreaking havoc on his immune system. Paul Kruter was skeptical but accepted the claim to please his wife. He knew only that he enjoyed the beverage when accompanied by Martha’s homemade chocolate chip cookies and vanilla cream wafers, even if it did leave him feeling constipated the following day.
Friedman herself was pleased, thinking the morning had gone well. The autopsy was complete, she would have her husband’s shirts in time to accommodate his schedule and tonight she would present a fitting tribute to her daughter and only child turning twelve.
“She didn’t suffer, Paul, she died quickly,” Friedman said.
“Strangulation?”
“Broken neck,” Friedman corrected. “And before you ask,” she said, raising a palm to forestall the anticipated query. “Left handed, right handed, woman or man? Your guess is a good as mine. In this regard, the forensic evidence is inconclusive.”
“Did she put up a fight?”
“There are no apparent defensive wounds, no signs of struggle. Of course, there’s the discoloration on her cheek, but I’d characterize that as an abrasion, hardly even a bruise. There is a very small split in the lip, which could be no more than a case of very dry skin: hardly enough, even, to draw blood. As defensive wounds, the knuckles don’t count. There is no apparent tissue residue lodged beneath the finger nails either, though we’ll need to look more closely.”
“She knew her killer?” Kruter offered.
“She’d had sex, consensual from what I can see. She neither fought off or defended herself against penetration.” Friedman thought of Martha, her own daughter. “It doesn’t mean, though, that she gave herself up willingly. It amounts to statutory rape, either way.”
“The larger offense here is murder, Abby.”
“It’s reasonable to expect, Paul, that one might lead to the other.”
Kruter agreed. “I’m glad this is Dojcsak’s case and not mine. I don’t envy him this investigation.”
They spoke another fifteen minutes, reviewing the medical examiner’s findings so that a preliminary report could be dispatched to the officer in charge. Dojcsak would have it within the hour, Friedman promised. For his part, Kruter agreed for the autopsy photos to be developed immediately. He would deliver one set personally to Church Falls and by tomorrow drop off a second set here. Results from the more detailed and extensive toxicology tests could take two to three weeks Friedman cautioned, though she doubted they would alter her early conclusions.
Kruter struggled to pull himself from his chair, despondency rather than fatigue pressing like a weight on his shoulders.
“And, Paul,” Abby said as he turned to the door. “The parents must be confronted. Clearly, my examination indicates the child was either promiscuous or abused. As you pointed out, she was thirteen; I’m inclined to believe she was abused, though as I say, it’s not for me to decide.”
The day was warm, the sun beating on the pavement like a bright candle by the time Kruter climbed from the gloom of Friedman’s basement office. He watched as a winter scrawny squirrel leaped among the branches of a maple tree whose new leaves were just beginning to bud, its ragged tail releasing one limb, grasping the next at just the moment safety appeared beyond reach. Doctors, nurses and hospital workers crowded the small tree-lined common that fronted Friedman’s building, some returning from a late lunch, others simply enjoying the glory of a premature and flawless spring day.
The spotless sky prompted Kruter to remove his jacket. In the sunshine, in the warmth, he felt inexplicably encouraged, the most difficult part of his day over. Kruter would leave word with Dojcsak that preliminary autopsy reports and photos were available and on the way. Before making the drive to Church Falls, he would pass by the home of his granddaughter, hoping to expunge thoughts of Missy Bitson from his mind, unwilling to speculate on the impact such images might have on his longer-term emotional well-being.
IF CAUSE IN
the death of Shelly Hayden were arguable, the condition of the body of Frances Stoops, when it was discovered, left no room for dispute. The girl was murdered. Even County Coroner Graham Chislett agreed to an immediate declaration of homicide in the death of the second child in as many weeks, though not before evacuating a dinner of roast beef, mashed potatoes and green peas on the riverbank, dangerously close to where the body lay. So much for crime scene integrity, Sidney Womack lamented, though it was difficult to be critical when a half-dozen State Troopers had already come and gone, each managing to deposit a distinct imprint in the tall grass surrounding the body. Also, earlier, it had been raining, making the collection of evidence unnecessarily complicated.
Like Shelly, Frances Stoops was young, fourteen, though if you didn’t already know it the swelling and discoloration about her torso and face would make it difficult to impossible to say. She lay on her back; like the Hayden girl, Frances was naked. Unlike the previous victim, her body had not been recovered from the water, the condition of the corpse indicating that Frances had not entered the river at all. Explain this away, Chislett, Womack thought with some degree of satisfaction before regretting it immediately.
The forensic unit hadn’t yet arrived though a medical specialist requested by Womack had been delivered to the scene under police escort only shortly after the Sheriff’s arrival. Dr. Ward Fallon stooped over the body now, one knee up, the other planted firmly in the grass for balance, supporting his weight and making his trousers damp from the early evening rain.
Two hundred yards down river, water spilled over the Church Falls dam, disrupting his concentration. Fallon was just churlish enough at this hour to demand for Womack to shut it down, exercise his authority as an officer of the peace to silence the incessant rumble. It seemed ridiculous, but for a brief moment, Fallon seriously considered the prospect: but only briefly. Instead, he turned to the cadaver, pressing his face close—obscenely so in the opinion of Womack—in an effort, obviously, to have a better look.
Illuminating the crime scene were the headlamps of three police vehicles arranged in a semi-circle around the corpse. The high-beams spilled their light over the body and onto the river where here, the still water bellied the turmoil raging beyond the dam. As the night air cooled, a fine mist formed over the Hudson. By midnight, it would roll like a snowdrift from the water, across the flood plain, to the road beyond. Womack hoped the forensic unit arrived soon, fearing the fog might prevent a meaningful search.
“Has anyone touched the body?” Fallon asked.
Womack hadn’t.
“You?” he asked, referring to a member of the State Police.
The officer raised his hands defensively. He said, “I’m a traffic cop, Doc,” as if it explained everything.
Fallon turned to Chislett. His complexion had returned to something approaching normal. He nodded his head to acknowledge that no he hadn’t, his expression suggesting that simply viewing the body had been trauma enough.
Fallon continued his inspection. Womack watched the procedure with what he hoped was a clinical detachment, but feared was prurient interest as well. Frances Stoops wasn’t his first body, simply his first inarguable homicide, and while Womack could resent that after more than a century the town’s only capital crime had been committed on his watch, he wouldn’t; Sidney was too invigorated to begrudge it. He averted his gaze only once, when Fallon turned the body to insert a rectal thermometer, in an effort to measure the internal temperature at the victim’s core.
“She’s dead, I’ll grant you that,” Fallon said after a while, rising from his knees to his feet, his trousers caked with a residue of grass stain and muck. “Not long gone, though; three, four hours at the most. Rigor hasn’t set in and relatively speaking, she’s still warm. As to how, for now your guess is as good as mine. By the look of her though, she took an awful beating, an awful beating. Doubtless, that has something to do with it. Do we know who she is?” he asked Womack.
“Frances Stoops; reported missing by her parents after failing to return home late last night.”
“Age?” Fallon asked.
“Fourteen,” Womack said.
Fallon said, “Thought so. I couldn’t tell at first. But the physicality is much like a young girl. You know, half way between a child and an adult.” He brought his hands together in a “come see, come ca” fashion. “You have a vicious bugger on the loose here, Sheriff, a real madman, if you don’t mind my saying.”
“I’d be thankful for any input, Doctor. As you know, murder is not a common occurrence here in Church Falls.”
After carefully instructing an ambulance crew on the proper procedure for preparing a murder victim for removal from the crime scene to the morgue, Ward Fallon turned from the body.
“But for God sake, man, wait ‘till forensics has done their job, won’t you?” he said as the head attendant moved to prematurely remove the corpse.
“Idiots,” he said to Womack as they crossed the expanse of now saturated grassland to the road beyond. Womack’s shoes were soaked through to the socks, but he didn’t notice. If Fallon did, he didn’t complain.
Gesturing over his shoulder to the body, he said, “Can’t say for certain whether she was raped, but it’s a crime of passion; lot of emotion goes into making a mess like that.”
“How could anyone do such a thing to a child?” Womack was thinking of his own daughter, who would turn four years next month. He and Rebecca chose to have children early, Becky giving birth to Catherine on Womack’s own twenty-third birthday, and his son, Nathaniel, only eighteen months later. Both he and his wife planned for an early retirement, to the New England wilderness, but perhaps first a trip in a conversion van north along the California coast.
“No telling what motivates a psychotic, son,” Fallon said, running a hand through his short cropped silver hair. “But I’ll tell you something you need to know.” The doctor leaned in to Womack, speaking conspiratorially. “There’s many a men would consider that youngster ripe.”
“Ripe?” Womack said as if he hadn’t heard, rather than simply misunderstood.
“Aye, you’ve no doubt heard the saying: if she’s old enough to bleed, she’s old enough to do the deed.”
“Jesus,” Womack blurted, “that’s disgusting.”
“Be that as it may, son,” Fallon said, “You’ll not have a hope in solving this crime unless you consider it. It’s certainly no time for sensitivity.”
With that, he turned from the Sheriff to his car, placing his medical bag on the passenger side seat. Referring to his wristwatch, he said, “It’s going on four a.m., Sheriff. Depending on how long they take to clear and transport the body, I may be able to give you a sense on how she died, sometime before noon. I’ll call.” Fallon slid behind the wheel of his vehicle and drove off, leaving Womack to debate with himself the exact and unsavory nature of the human condition.
The following morning, as Womack washed down a thick slice of Rebecca’s banana bread toast with the last of the coffee he had carried in a thermos from home (not once experiencing guilt over his ever expanding waistline), the telephone rang. It was early, only nine o’clock. Though he knew his optimism was unwarranted, never having investigated a homicide, Sidney Womack was idealistic enough to believe from hereon each phone call represented a potential break in the case, each break in the case possibly leading to its ultimate resolution. As unlikely and unrealistic as it seemed, on this morning, for Sheriff Sid Womack, it proved to be true. The first call was from Ward Fallon and he was telling him, “There’s something you should see.”
Within forty minutes, Womack was standing with the doctor in a third floor operatory at Albany Memorial Hospital, staring down at Frances Stoops, who now lay on a metal gurney, battered body concealed beneath an oddly incongruent, pristine white sheet.
To his credit, Fallon asked, “How are the parents?”
“The mother is devastated,” said Womack, “the father inconsolable.”
“There’s a difference?” asked Fallon.
“Only that the wife seems to be taking it better than the husband.”
“Well, in cases like these there’s always an element of methinks they doth protest too much; I’d watch for crocodile tears. Were they any help in providing you with clues?”
Womack said, “Seems the child was promiscuous.” His tone suggested disappointment, as if a long held ideal had been shattered. “They didn’t say so, not in so many words, but the inference is clear.”
To Fallon, Womack appeared distressed to be discussing the victim in such terms. That Womack could not imagine promiscuity in himself, made it difficult for him, Fallon decided, to accept it in anyone else, especially in one so young. During his time in practice, the doctor had been sufficiently disabused of such idealistic notions.
“Can’t say as she was promiscuous, Sheriff, though she wasn’t a virgin.”
“Same thing isn’t it?”
“Don’t be such a Puritan,” Fallon replied. He retrieved a pair of surgical gloves from a cabinet, snapped them over his fingers and returned to the corpse.
“She’s a kid, Doc. How did she come to be having sex?” Womack wanted to know.
Fallon seemed to consider before answering. “Children mature differently, at different rates of speed. It may be hormonal—purely physical—it may be environmental: the influence of family, friends or the process of socialization. No one knows for sure, though God knows every clinical psychologist has his—or her—own theory. Some girls at thirteen are playing Barbie; others at thirteen aspire to
be
Barbie. Typically, in a case like this, you look closer to home.”
“The father.”
Fallon shrugged. “It’s no surprise, Sidney. Have you any idea how many youngsters suffer at the hands of a father? More than you’d care to believe. And it’s not only girls, you know, boys too.”
“You’re suggesting…”
“It’s the easy answer, but no, no, nothing like that. Not in this case, anyway.”
“How can you be sure?” asked Womack.
Fallon brought the sheet covering the victim to waist height, exposing the genital area. Reaching for a magnifying glass, he passed it to Womack and said, “Something called forensics. Have a look, Sheriff. Don’t be shy. It’s no time to be skittish. Besides, you’ll be doing the poor soul a favor.”
Womack hesitated, and asked, “What am I looking for?”
“Something that shouldn’t be there.”
“Don’t be cryptic, Doc. I’m new at this.”
“And so you are.” Fallon retrieved the glass from Womack, holding it inches from the pubis. “Observe.”
Womack did as instructed. Through the glass, the child’s hair seemed like down, a fine layer of strawberry feathers. With neither the stomach nor the heart to conduct a thorough inspection, Womack was preparing to pull away when he saw it. Indistinct at first, a closer look made it more noticeable against the victim’s red hair and pale skin:
something that shouldn’t be there
.
“A hair,” he said.
“Not simply a hair,” Fallon elaborated. “A hair that can’t possibly belong to the victim. A pubic hair, if I’m not mistaken. Negroid, if I were to hazard a guess.”
“Negroid.”
“Is that a question, Sheriff, or a confirmation?” Fallon replaced the sheet over the corpse. Frances’ hair had become disheveled during the exercise. He now re-arranged it carefully, brushing it from her face in a futile effort to restore her dignity.
“Her attacker is Negro,” Sidney stated.
“Well,” said Fallon, “if we accept she had sex with her attacker and her attacker was the person with whom she had sex, then yes, I suppose her attacker is Negro.”
“You aren’t convinced?” Womack asked.
“Sheriff, I deal in fact, not supposition; a different kind of connective tissue drives my conclusions. I’ll test the semen against any suspect you apprehend. Together with a match on the hair, the evidence will be awfully compelling.”
“We had a death two weeks ago,” Womack offered tentatively.
“Yes. Shelly Hayden. I do read the newspapers too,” Fallon added in response to the question he knew was forthcoming.
“She was a redhead, Doc. Shelly Hayden. Like Frances; she was a redhead too. Do you suppose it’s relevant?”
“Perhaps in the movies, though I wouldn’t consider it insignificant.”
After leaving the Medical Examiner’s office, Womack spoke next to a Captain at the State Police, over the radio in his car. An examination had been conducted of Frances Stoops’ clothing, he was told. Her blue jeans, halter and underclothes had been found near the body, folded and neatly placed, though saturated with rain, and
not
forcibly removed. (Womack recalled the naked body of Shelly Hayden, whose clothing had never been found.) In a rear pocket of her jeans they had discovered a photograph, such as one might take in a portable picture booth. In what had been obviously happier times, Frances smiled in the photo, accompanied by a Negro teenager whose over-size teeth gleamed from his dark skin like bits of white ivory in black tar. On the opposite side of the photograph was an inscription, though in whose handwriting they could not say: “Frances and Drew”, it read.