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Authors: Clinton McKinzie
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that begins the description of the injuries to her face. I put down my coffee and flip back to Bender's report. He'd written that Kate Danning was found facedown. Then how did she get an injury to the back of her head? I wonder.
By the time I return to my room at the Holiday Inn, the day is already warming and even the perpetual wind off the glaciated peaks feels like an idle car's blower just starting to heat. I open the curtains to watch a few reporters sitting by the pool, some of them working on laptop computers and others talking on cell phones. I'm disappointed that Rebecca Hersh is not among them. At the small table by the bed I pull out the envelope of photographs.
During my six years as a state investigator I've seen a lot of bodies. Fresh corpses, old corpses, and worst of all, corpses during autopsies. Physically, the fresh ones aren't so bad. They're simply pieces of meat after they've lost their souls. The only really disturbing thing about them are the cloudy, sad eyes that always seem to be open. You can't help but think of the future that they'll miss seeing. Old corpses are certainly more disturbing, but it's a physical agitation rather than an emotional one. Bugs and animals enter first through the soft flesh of the eyes, mouth, and anus and drag out what belongs inside and unseen. Then there are the autopsies. They give me nightmares. There's something about a naked man, woman, or child being clinically cut apart on a stainless-steel table that is bad for the soul. The grinding of the electric saw on a skull, the crisp snap of bolt cutters on ribs. To me it's the ultimate desecration even though I understand the obvious necessity. I've never left one without immediately taking a long, hot shower and wanting several stiff drinks. But the shower and alcohol can only remove the taste and the stench, not the memory.
And so I feel an all-too-familiar reluctance when I slide the photographs from the stiff envelope. Working quickly and averting my eyes as much as possible, I sort out the pictures that document the autopsy from the stack and place them facedown on the bed. The unfocused glances at them alone bring the fresh-meat stink into my mind. I'm determined not to look at them at all unless it becomes necessary. Instead I study only the pictures of the girl as she'd been found.
The first photo of Kate Danning's corpse was taken from a short distance away. The photographer had stood high on something, probably a rock. It shows a young woman lying facedown on top of several large boulders. Part of the picture shows the base of the cliff just a few feet away from her. I don't quite recognize it although it appears somewhat familiar. Which isn't surprising as it has been almost twenty years since I've spent much time at Vedauwoo.
The girl wears tight black leggings and what looks like a heavy fleece jacket. Her legs are lean and athletic but one is sprawled at an impossible angle. Her brown hair is straight, just long enough to hide her ears. I'm relieved that there is no evident gore and that her eyes face the earth. The next photos were taken closer and show just the body as it was found. I hold the pictures close to my face and can see where her hair is slightly matted with blood on the back of her head.
Then there are more photos of the entire scene, this time taken from a greater distance and facing the cliff. The first of these shows the body and the base of the rock. A second focuses higher on the cliff and shows it in its entirety. The granite looks perfectly vertical and sheer. It's also vaguely familiar, but doesn't appear to be anywhere near where I soloed yesterday. The final photo from the scene was apparently taken from over the body, looking up the wall. I instinctively look for a way to climb it and see only a fist-size crack that leads almost all the way to the top. There are no photos of the top, where the party had taken place.
I call the hotel operator, who connects me to McGee's
By the time I return to my room at the Holiday Inn, the day is already warming and even the perpetual wind off the glaciated peaks feels like an idle car's blower just starting to heat. I open the curtains to watch a few reporters sitting by the pool, some of them working on laptop computers and others talking on cell phones. I'm disappointed that Rebecca Hersh is not among them. At the small table by the bed I pull out the envelope of photographs.
During my six years as a state investigator I've seen a lot of bodies. Fresh corpses, old corpses, and worst of all, corpses during autopsies. Physically, the fresh ones aren't so bad. They're simply pieces of meat after they've lost their souls. The only really disturbing thing about them are the cloudy, sad eyes that always seem to be open. You can't help but think of the future that they'll miss seeing. Old corpses are certainly more disturbing, but it's a physical agitation rather than an emotional one. Bugs and animals enter first through the soft flesh of the eyes, mouth, and anus and drag out what belongs inside and unseen. Then there are the autopsies. They give me nightmares. There's something about a naked man, woman, or child being clinically cut apart on a stainless-steel table that is bad for the soul. The grinding of the electric saw on a skull, the crisp snap of bolt cutters on ribs. To me it's the ultimate desecration even though I understand the obvious necessity. I've never left one without immediately taking a long, hot shower and wanting several stiff drinks. But the shower and alcohol can only remove the taste and the stench, not the memory.
And so I feel an all-too-familiar reluctance when I slide the photographs from the stiff envelope. Working quickly and averting my eyes as much as possible, I sort out the pictures that document the autopsy from the stack and place them facedown on the bed. The unfocused glances at them alone bring the fresh-meat stink into my mind. I'm determined not to look at them at all unless it becomes necessary. Instead I study only the pictures of the girl as she'd been found.
The first photo of Kate Danning's corpse was taken from a short distance away. The photographer had stood high on something, probably a rock. It shows a young woman lying facedown on top of several large boulders. Part of the picture shows the base of the cliff just a few feet away from her. I don't quite recognize it although it appears somewhat familiar. Which isn't surprising as it has been almost twenty years since I've spent much time at Vedauwoo.
The girl wears tight black leggings and what looks like a heavy fleece jacket. Her legs are lean and athletic but one is sprawled at an impossible angle. Her brown hair is straight, just long enough to hide her ears. I'm relieved that there is no evident gore and that her eyes face the earth. The next photos were taken closer and show just the body as it was found. I hold the pictures close to my face and can see where her hair is slightly matted with blood on the back of her head.
Then there are more photos of the entire scene, this time taken from a greater distance and facing the cliff. The first of these shows the body and the base of the rock. A second focuses higher on the cliff and shows it in its entirety. The granite looks perfectly vertical and sheer. It's also vaguely familiar, but doesn't appear to be anywhere near where I soloed yesterday. The final photo from the scene was apparently taken from over the body, looking up the wall. I instinctively look for a way to climb it and see only a fist-size crack that leads almost all the way to the top. There are no photos of the top, where the party had taken place.
I call the hotel operator, who connects me to McGee's
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