Stevan Mena - Transience

Sam Cheung was considered one of the best forensic pathologists in his field. He had thick black hair and wore silver rimmed bifocals. He stood alongside Jack, examining the bones of the deceased girl. Sam pointed with a serrated blade to the area around the clavicle and jawbone. Jack leaned in.

“The hyoid bone was crushed. Here and here, see? Powerful hands.”

The skull was tilted backwards, mouth open, as if frozen in a silent scream. Sam walked around the table, removing the tarp that covered the victim’s lower extremities. He’d cleaned the excess dirt and residue from the cadaver. The bones had acquired a yellowish color from the years of decay.

“These marks on the fibula and ankle were caused by some sort of restraint, a wire. Lab’s testing the residue.” Sam pointed to each mark as he described them. “She pulled so hard to break free, it dug right through the skin, serrated the bone.”

“Held captive?” asked Jack. Sam nodded.

“Same as the others.” Sam lifted the foot of the victim. “There’s trauma to the patella and feet. These indentations here were caused by being kept immobile on a hard surface for an extended period of time. The ulna and radius in the right forearm were shattered, possibly from blunt trauma, a fall maybe.”

Jack examined the remains, trying to envision what the girl once looked like. For a brief moment, he became introspective. He saw himself lying on that cold table, someone poking around at him. Only there would be no question what did him in.

Jack’s eyes drifted over the bones. He looked at the pale flesh of his own hand, then back at the skeleton. Soon that will be all that’s left of Jack Ridge .

He drifted inwardly long enough for Sam to notice. He cleared his throat and Jack looked up.

“You okay?” Sam asked.

“Yes, I’m sorry—” Jack said as he erupted into a coughing fit that echoed loudly in the cramped, white tiled exam room.

“Sounds serious.”

“Continue.” Jack wiped his mouth with a folded handkerchief. Sam moved back up towards the skull.

“No cavities. These missing front teeth weren’t from poor hygiene.” Jack exhaled painfully.

“How long on an ID?”

“Still waiting on dental. If she’s US, it shouldn’t take long. If the caregiver’s abroad, might be a few days, a week, maybe more.”

“The coroner at the scene estimated she’d been down there possibly 10 years.”

“Yes, at least that.” Sam removed his glasses to rub his eyes, leaning on the table. “The years of decay make it hard to determine ultimate cause of death. But it doesn’t appear to have been quick and painless.”

Jack stared long and hard, his brain spinning. The press would want to know, first and foremost, the source of the information that led him to discover her remains. He had no answer for them. None that made sense anyway.

Jack sat in his office and watched the clock; it was almost 11 A.M. He was so certain the body unearthed would be Angelina’s, he’d made peace with the end of his tenure as detective while scaling that hill. When he learned it wasn’t, it was like he’d gotten a reprieve. A second chance. It spurred him to work even harder, smarter.

The pain was like caffeine, keeping him awake. He shook two pills into his hand. Then a third. It was so unbearable now, painkillers were becoming like candy. And they really weren’t doing much for him. The doctor offered to up his prescription to something more powerful, but the side effects prevented him from driving, concentrating. Right now that wasn’t an option.

Harrington entered, carrying a printout. “I took the over on Denver last night. Drinks are on me.”

Jack put his bottle of pills away discretely, behind the most recently printed edition of the Police Procedural Guide for Collecting Evidence.

“Oh, I forgot,” Harrington said, “you don’t go out. You don’t socialize at all, do you?”

“Is that it?” Jack asked, holding out his hand. Harrington tossed him the printout.

“Her name’s Carmen Muniz, she was 19.” Jack’s eyes gravitated towards the smiling picture of Carmen at the top. A face to the bones. Plain, young, sweet; she resembled all the others.

“Carl said she was held captive, several months or more,” Jack said.

“If you’re right, then this guy’s been getting away with murder for over ten years.”

“I know I am.”

“Press is going nuts. The Captain’s phone hasn’t stopped ringing all morning. Everyone wants to know how her body was found…Jack.”

“I was hoping we could keep it out of the press for a while.”

“I can run a play fake, but that will only buy us a little time.”

Jack read through the document some more, there was a listing for a next of kin, Hester Muniz, with an address. “This guy likes to have his way with them. Take his time.”

“A power thing?”

“Maybe. It means Angelina might still be alive. This girl, Carmen, parents been notified yet?”

“I don’t think so,” Harrington said. Jack stood and reached for his coat. “Oh, you volunteer? Good.”

“He didn’t bury the others, made no attempts at all to conceal their bodies,” Jack said. “Why this one? What was he afraid of?”

“Maybe it was his first? He was less cavalier?”

“Maybe she was too close to home. Which means he’ll be nervous we found her.” Jack collected the report, tucking loose pages back inside the folder. He headed for the door.

“They want to do the press thing this afternoon,” Harrington said. “I’ll try and stall, what should I say?”

“You love to talk.”

“Only about football.”

“Tell them we have nothing to go on. That there doesn’t seem to be any connection to the other murders. Let him think he’s safe.” Jack left the room in a hurry.

“Hey, you still haven’t explained how you found the body!” Harrington listened to Jack’s footsteps get farther and farther away. He pushed up out of his chair and walked over to Jack’s desk. He’d spotted Jack hiding something behind a book when he first walked in. He moved it and discovered Jack’s pills. He picked them up, squinting to read the prescription. Harrington was no dummy, he knew it was a heavy painkiller. Jack had never complained of pain, never betrayed a wince. But apparently Jack didn’t only look like shit, he felt like it too. Harrington was confused and, at the same time, impressed.

He put the bottle back, careful to lean the book in place just like he found it.

Jack pulled up to a crowded housing complex. The tenants were mostly a cluster of Hispanic groups: Dominican, Ecuadorian, Puerto Rican. He checked his handwritten address, matching it with the street sign across the road. Woods Avenue. Right place .

He took a moment to collect his thoughts. Even though Carmen had disappeared over a decade ago, there was no doubt her family hadn’t enjoyed even one day that wasn’t clouded by the horror of not knowing what became of their sweet daughter. Some things in life you can never move past, never forget. Like Sarah .

Not a day went by he didn’t think about her face, how she felt in his arms. Twelve years, but the pain was still fresh. He would trade every day he had left, and every day he’d spent since, to hold her just once, hear her voice one more time.

The only difference between Carmen’s parents and Jack’s loss was that Jack knew the fate of his wife. Now they were about to learn Carmen’s, or at least half of the story. The other half, the part where Jack brings her killer to justice, was still being written.