fracture, and weren’t entirely sure you’d make it. But you did. You were lucky that night, Tyler. You could very easily have died.”
I sat there listening to him, speechless. No one had explained to me how close to death I had come. Not my doctors, not the nurses, not Spence’s family. No one.
“And you were there all along,” I said, as if I still couldn’t believe it.
“Yes. I’ve been working your case since the very first night. I know you aren’t aware of that, but it’s true. I was there when the techs worked the crime scene. I was at the morgue to view your partner’s autopsy. While the medical examiner worked, I tested for DNA under his fingernails, hoping he might have scraped one of his assailants with his nails. The only substance I found was semen. It was from you.”
I jumped. “That night, we…. It was our anniversary. Just before we left the house, we made love.” I studied the detective’s face. “You saw Spence at the morgue?”
It was Chris’s turn to stare into the empty fireplace. “Yes. I saw what they did to him. If it’s any consolation, he died instantly. He didn’t suffer.”
I nodded. “I know. The doctor told me.” I rubbed the tracheotomy scar, as if I needed the comfort of it to ground me in reality. “I thought the doctor was lying. I was sure Spence had suffered, lying there beside me on that filthy toilet floor while the dew settled over us and I was too weak, or too knocked out, to try to help him. While the men who killed him went toddling off to laugh about their exploits. I had the whole scenario worked out in my head.”
Chris’s words were gentle when he said, “There was nothing you could have done for him. I have no idea what your attackers did afterward, but I can tell you unequivocally that your husband did not suffer from his wounds. He was rendered unconscious with the very first blow of the metal rod.” Chris reached over and laid a comforting hand atop my forearm. His touch was cool from the glass of Coke he’d been drinking from. “That little bit of knowledge should give you at least a smidgeon of relief, Tyler. Spence didn’t suffer. Not for a second.”
I could only stare at his hand as his words assuaged a fear I had held since the moment I woke from the coma. It was true, then, what the doctor said. Spence had not suffered.
Thank God.
I eased my arm out from under his touch. I’m not sure why. “Did you find anything when you worked the crime scene? Fingerprints? Anything at all?”
He shrugged. “Not much. No prints, or I should say, too many prints. Impossible to analyze. At some time or other, everybody in San Diego must have wended their way into that bathroom to take a piss. But we did find the murder weapon. And shoe prints in blood. Boot prints to be exact. Probably from the boots that kicked you in the chest and maybe even broke your fingers.”
“Motorcycle boots with chains,” I said.
He nodded. “I know, Tyler. I remember everything you told us.”
“Of course. I’m sorry.”
“Let’s get back to business,” Chris said, his voice still kind but with an earnest edge to it now, as if it was time to get back on track. He opened the book of mug shots and positioned it in front of me on the coffee table.
“Take your time, Tyler. Study each face you see. I know there are certain things we’re looking for. The ugly fat guy with the round face and the mole on his cheek. The skinny guy with the wispy moustache. But don’t hunt for those traits alone. Open your mind to each photograph you see. The brain’s a funny piece of equipment. You never know what might trigger a memory. You might even get a glimpse of the third man, the one you haven’t spoken of. The one you thought you didn’t see at all.”
“All right,” I said, weary already and certain it would do no good, but determined to go through the motions. For the detective’s sake, at least.
The book was heavy, and there were three more leather-bound
I sat there listening to him, speechless. No one had explained to me how close to death I had come. Not my doctors, not the nurses, not Spence’s family. No one.
“And you were there all along,” I said, as if I still couldn’t believe it.
“Yes. I’ve been working your case since the very first night. I know you aren’t aware of that, but it’s true. I was there when the techs worked the crime scene. I was at the morgue to view your partner’s autopsy. While the medical examiner worked, I tested for DNA under his fingernails, hoping he might have scraped one of his assailants with his nails. The only substance I found was semen. It was from you.”
I jumped. “That night, we…. It was our anniversary. Just before we left the house, we made love.” I studied the detective’s face. “You saw Spence at the morgue?”
It was Chris’s turn to stare into the empty fireplace. “Yes. I saw what they did to him. If it’s any consolation, he died instantly. He didn’t suffer.”
I nodded. “I know. The doctor told me.” I rubbed the tracheotomy scar, as if I needed the comfort of it to ground me in reality. “I thought the doctor was lying. I was sure Spence had suffered, lying there beside me on that filthy toilet floor while the dew settled over us and I was too weak, or too knocked out, to try to help him. While the men who killed him went toddling off to laugh about their exploits. I had the whole scenario worked out in my head.”
Chris’s words were gentle when he said, “There was nothing you could have done for him. I have no idea what your attackers did afterward, but I can tell you unequivocally that your husband did not suffer from his wounds. He was rendered unconscious with the very first blow of the metal rod.” Chris reached over and laid a comforting hand atop my forearm. His touch was cool from the glass of Coke he’d been drinking from. “That little bit of knowledge should give you at least a smidgeon of relief, Tyler. Spence didn’t suffer. Not for a second.”
I could only stare at his hand as his words assuaged a fear I had held since the moment I woke from the coma. It was true, then, what the doctor said. Spence had not suffered.
Thank God.
I eased my arm out from under his touch. I’m not sure why. “Did you find anything when you worked the crime scene? Fingerprints? Anything at all?”
He shrugged. “Not much. No prints, or I should say, too many prints. Impossible to analyze. At some time or other, everybody in San Diego must have wended their way into that bathroom to take a piss. But we did find the murder weapon. And shoe prints in blood. Boot prints to be exact. Probably from the boots that kicked you in the chest and maybe even broke your fingers.”
“Motorcycle boots with chains,” I said.
He nodded. “I know, Tyler. I remember everything you told us.”
“Of course. I’m sorry.”
“Let’s get back to business,” Chris said, his voice still kind but with an earnest edge to it now, as if it was time to get back on track. He opened the book of mug shots and positioned it in front of me on the coffee table.
“Take your time, Tyler. Study each face you see. I know there are certain things we’re looking for. The ugly fat guy with the round face and the mole on his cheek. The skinny guy with the wispy moustache. But don’t hunt for those traits alone. Open your mind to each photograph you see. The brain’s a funny piece of equipment. You never know what might trigger a memory. You might even get a glimpse of the third man, the one you haven’t spoken of. The one you thought you didn’t see at all.”
“All right,” I said, weary already and certain it would do no good, but determined to go through the motions. For the detective’s sake, at least.
The book was heavy, and there were three more leather-bound
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