Mary: Pop Quiz

I awoke early this morning mercifully unable to remember my dreams, the steady rain of the night before replaced by a cold, gray drizzle. After putting on one of my brand-new business suits, I began creeping downstairs before seeing a light from underneath Mrs. Howland's door and hearing voices from within. I knocked and entered, nearly tripping over a hard-bound volume of the Encyclopedia Britannica. Books were strewn all over the bedroom, most of them open. Jeff was sitting next to Mrs. Howland, holding a book open for her to view. They both looked absolutely exhausted.

If I had felt that my education was inadequate after previous meetings with Mrs. Howland and Jeff before, this morning's events were so emotionally grueling that I wanted to sue the University of Wisconsin for my money back. Mrs. Howland bade me sit down and immediately proceeded to essentially give me a pop-quiz on events in world history. After years out of college, it's amazing how much general knowledge slips through your fingers. As we went along, Mrs. Howland's mood became darker, her questions more terse. Knowing that I was letting her down (whatever the reason) was agonizing, and after fifteen minutes I was sweating and on the verge of tears. After what seemed like a lifetime, Jeff returned with a fresh pot of coffee and our usual breakfast of homemade waffles, and the test was finally done.

I never challenged why I was being made to answer questions that had nothing to do with the case I was working. I didn't ask myself why I felt so terrible at my lack of retention of dates and events that never interested me. The fact is, no matter the reason, there are simply some people you meet in life that you feel you cannot disappoint. If you have spent any time with Mrs. Howland (and I don't see how it's possible that you haven't, if you're reading this at all), then I'm sure you understand.

My hand shook as I reached out for my coffee cup. I picked it up, immediately spilled some and put it back down on the china saucer without taking a drink. "Mrs. Howland, I'm just so sorry I let you down. I wish I knew more-"

Mrs. Howland's severe expression shifted, the scowl softening to a look of concern I hadn't seen before. "Oh, my dear. No, you performed admirably. This... I believe I am struggling with my medication. Jeffrey has called the doctor, and he will be along presently. Please go about your business of the day and forget that this ever occurred."

Jeff walked me out and escorted me to the kitchen, where he poured some of the fresh coffee into a thermos. Handing it to me he said softly, "In cases such as these, where a loved one is suddenly killed and you are permanently, seriously disabled, there are consequences beyond the physical. Mrs. Howland would like to believe that she is beyond such things, but..." he trailed off, giving a wan smile. "She needs time. That's all. Don't be overly concerned." As we walked together to the front door, he added with a chuckle, "And don't worry about not knowing the precise year Genghis Khan began his conquest of Asia. I doubt very much it will come up in today's investigation." (The Khan, at right)

It was meant to soothe me, but it just made me more exasperated with myself. "But she knows it. For God's sake, you know it, and you're-"

"-I clean adult diapers for a living," he finished, and my cheeks flushed. That wasn't what I meant to say, but I'm ashamed to say that it was probably what I meant, whether I knew it or not. Thankfully, he didn't take it personally, his smile never wavering. He put a gentle hand on my shoulder and said, "She went through a dozen interviews or more before she found me. She chose me because she wanted something more than just a surrogate of her own body, she needed someone who could be a companion for her mind." Jeff helped me on with my coat and added, "What you went through this morning probably wasn't fair. It isn't what you were hired for." He laughed, "It would be like asking me to dust for a print." He wished me good luck, and I shuffled out into the mist, clutching my thermos, emotionally drained before my day had even really begun.

I slipped into my luxurious rental car and ran some errands, mainly killing time before I went back into the St. Francis police department to see Detective Ward. I was hoping the coroner would have more information, but so little time had passed that I knew it wasn't likely. While shopping for sundries I called Detective Ward twice before he assured me that he would call me as soon as he knew anything else. By 4:00PM I got the call, and rushed to St. Francis.

The front desk officer was getting to know me and waved me past toward Detective Ward's cubicle with a grunt. Ward remained seated, ran a hand through his gray hair and said, "Just got some blood work back. Not sure if it's important, but it is unusual."

"Did they find drugs in her system? Was something wrong with her?"

He shook his head. "Not her. The rabbit." He opened one of the ubiquitous Manila file folders and handed me a sheet. It was filled with medical jargon and utterly incomprehensible to me, but Ward gave me the highlights. "They found evidence of rabbit hemorrhagic disease virus, or RHDV. It's a virus that's deadly to rabbits, and though there have been a few minor outbreaks in the U.S., it's since been totally eradicated."

It was more than a little odd to be essentially doing an autopsy on a bunny, but every piece of information might help, so I went with it. "So the rabbit isn't native? Where is it from?"

Ward shrugged. "I talked with a zoology professor at the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee this afternoon, and he didn't exactly pinpoint it. Apparently this virus began in China back in 1984. It spread pretty fast to Europe. He said Australia had a massive outbreak of the virus in the mid-nineties and it wiped out something like 95% of their rabbit population." He shook his head and chuckled, "So we've narrowed it down to more than half the world. Wish I had more for you."

I thanked him and rose to go, then remembered Josh's questions about the blood on the floor and the order of events. Ward told me that based on the blood spatter, the rabbit's foot was cut off first, then the killer went to work on Mrs. Walentowicz. He also said that the rabbit's foot was pushed into her brain before the incision was made in her abdomen.

Also remembering Mrs. Howland's wishes to potentially include him in our little cabal, I asked if he would be open to coming by the house for a visit. He agreed and said he would be by before 11:00 tomorrow morning.

Mary: Autopsy, Part II

I'm back at the Howland residence now with a thick, down comforter pulled up and a large mug of lemon tea steeping on the nightstand next to me. The rain still has not let up, and I can hear the wind whipping what's left of the leaves on the trees outside. I've been poring over photocopied notes from the autopsy, and while it hasn't made for the most comforting bedtime reading, there are a few more details I feel should be committed to the journal.

(Should I be writing these in present or past tense? Josh seems to do more present, but I lean toward the past for whatever reason. I'll just have to do what's appropriate at the time, I suppose.)

First, a few words about Mrs. Howland's home, while I think of it. The walls and staircases are dominated by dark mahogany, giving the home a stately yet warm feeling that I imagine will be even more welcome once winter fully arrives. When I asked, Jeff informed me that the artwork is dominated by early nineteenth century paintings, including a picture of a beautiful girl sitting in the mountains ("The Spanish Girl In Reverie", again, obviously according to Jeff), a huge war scene ("Battle of Grochow") and "Caligula's Palace And Bridge", which wasn't nearly as shocking or perverse as you might think, based on the title. I was going to ask whether they were the originals or reproductions, but I had already exceeded my allotment of educational inadequacy for the day.

Interspersed with the more classical artwork are framed prints of what appears to be comic-book art. Jeff tells me that they are originally from French and Spanish graphic novels, and that they belonged to the late Mr. Howland. You would think that they would look horribly out of place, given the rest of the decor, but they actually help to give the house a more modern, lived-in look.

As you may imagine, everything is absolutely spotless and impeccably well-kept, and even with my newly purchased suit, every time I walk around the house I feel like a member of a museum tour who has hurdled the velvet ropes and invaded places not meant to be disturbed.

Now, the autopsy report. I'm not sure if my previous description of the murder scene adequately depicted the state of poor Mrs. Walentowicz's corpse. Again, she was lying on her back on the kitchen table, her abdomen cut open vertically and her head sticking out of her belly (as Josh later delicately remarked, "It was like a 'Whack-A-Mole' game from Hell.").

The question was, how did the killer manipulate the head into this position? Even in something as clinical and professional as medical notes, the coroner's bafflement is evident. As far as he could tell, the killer first made the incision in the belly, reached down and through the internal organs, shoving them aside, and literally pulled her head straight down into the neck and through the chest cavity from the inside. The skin by the shoulders is torn; there are no signs of incisions other than the one in her midriff.

The good news is, because the killer physically manipulated the muscles, there are finger indentations embedded in the soft tissue that would seem to indicate that the perpetrator is a male. We were leaning that direction anyway, but it's good to know.

The bad news is that the murder is impossible. The coroner is in frank disbelief that anyone could reach down and manipulate the body in this fashion by hand. Also, early toxicology screens are negative, so how he got her to smile during this process is yet another disturbing mystery.

The other noteworthy item from the report is (obviously) the rabbit's foot lodged in Mrs. Walentowicz's brain. Again, the coroner could find no evidence of the use of tools; it simply appears that the foot was pushed claw-first up through the back of the throat and then straight up into the hippocampus. The tissue is soft in that area, so the coroner at least does find it conceivable that this was performed by hand.

The rabbit's foot itself isn't the kind we typically associate with the term, i.e., some cheap little charm (at right) won from some coin-operated game, but instead it was freshly-cut from a rabbit, the incision probably made with the same sharp-edged blade that was used on Mrs. Walentowicz. Furthermore, in addition to the human blood found at the scene, they also found rabbit's blood, leading them to believe that the killer entered the house with a live rabbit and amputated its foot right there in the kitchen.

It just gets odder and odder. I'm going to pray for good dreams tonight, but I'm doubtful they'll come.

Mary: Autopsy

The rain intensified as I drove down I-94 West to Mayfair Mall, my rental car's wiper blades whipping back and forth at high speed, clearing the droplets out of my sight almost before I registered they were there. I'm sure it's never a good sign in your life when your rental car is far, far superior to the car you own. Living in a gorgeous mansion by the lake, driving a Lexus, eating waffles every morning with Jeff and Cynthia and trying (and failing) to keep up with them as they discuss philosophy, psychology and history has been an incredible experience, but it isn't truly real to me. While living this life-at least for a short time-is making me feel totally out of my depth, it is still growing more comfortable by the hour. I have to steel myself for the inevitable return to my home in Madison, and the dirty dishes, unpaid bills and piles of laundry that are my reality.

Mrs. Howland insisted that I purchase some new business suits and charge them to her as expenses. The clear statement here is that she found all of the clothes I wear to be lacking, and I have never been so simultaneously humiliated and thrilled at the same time. Once at the mall I took my time to make sure that the money would be spent wisely, and that I was purchasing ensembles that not only would meet Mrs. Howland's approval but that also expressed what I enjoy. Four hours later (a bit longer than I had anticipated) I left the mall with my new suits, a Cinnabon and an embarrassingly bloated expense ledger.

Upon exiting the Mayfair Mall parking lot it was well after seven in the evening, and though it was a long shot that I would receive any information of value from Detective Ward about the case at this time of night, my sense of duty (or, more to the point, guilt about the bill for the clothes) impelled me to drive down to the St. Francis police department and at least try. I am pleased to say that my journey was certainly not in vain.

After shaking off my umbrella in the foyer, I entered the station and almost literally bumped into Detective Ward, who was on his way out. He looked even more gaunt and haggard than he had that morning, but he worked up enough energy to give me a polite smile. "Miss Stroud. I was just knocking off, but come back to my office, I've got something you are absolutely going to want to see."

Once ensconced in his small cubicle, Ward opened his lower desk drawer and pulled a Manila file folder out, laying it gently on his desk. He stared at it for a long moment, then looked up at me. "Off the record and unofficially, Randazzo is an utter f*ck-up. I never believed for a moment that what happened to your client was a simple hit-and-run. The traffic pattern, the rate of speed, the fact that he had to make a pretty tricky swerve past some parked cars to hit her car at all... everything added up to intent, at least as far as I was concerned, but it wasn't my case." He spared a glance back down at the folder sitting on his desk, his fingers tapping gently on the cover. "Your client made a phone call today, and apparently she can be damn persuasive. Randazzo is off, I'm on. I'm treating today's murder and the attack on your client as a single investigation." Ward smiled disarmingly then, his grin hinting at the handsome man he would have been twenty years before. "There are a lot of cops that wouldn't be too thrilled about a private investigator running alongside their case, but I'm fine with it. We've got plenty to do as it is, and if there's a victim out there who's willing to funnel resources into a case, I'm going to use them, not fight them. Just keep what I tell you out of the press and tell me what you know when you know it, that's all I ask."

This was about the best news we could have received. With Ward now running the investigation, we had a competent, sympathetic police liaison. As his fingers absently rapped on the folder, he continued, his voice softening to a whisper. At this time of the night there was only one other officer in the station working the front desk, but I instinctively leaned closer conspiratorially.

"I thought the scene of the murder was the weirdest and worst-I mean... they're still working out how the hell the murderer got a goddamn smile on her face. They're thinking he drugged her with something that would produce the effect, but we're waiting on toxicology." Detective Ward shrugged helplessly, then sighed and deliberately flipped open the file folder, sliding it over the desk to me.

Without waiting for me to read it, he said, "They didn't find it at the scene, but as soon as they began the autopsy proper they couldn't miss it. Something had been... they're not sure, probably pushed in somehow-into her brain. Coroner says he thinks the killer went up through the back of the throat and into the skull, though he doesn't know how it was done without major drilling, and they can't find any sign of that."

I looked up from the file. "There are so many questions I have regarding how the body was manipulated, actually. How did he pull the head down through the body cavity-"

He put up a hand. "You've got the same questions the experts do, and there's no answer in sight, at least not yet. I like to think we're a pretty capable bunch, but as of now I'd be shocked if the F.B.I. didn't step in on this one. There's just so much unanswered, and this last find... in her brain... it's just so far over the top." Ward slumped back in his chair, gesturing for me to read the coroner's preliminary report. As he had said, a foreign object had been found lodged next to Mrs. Walentowicz's hippocampus. The coroner was waiting for further tests to be conducted, but he was almost entirely certain as to the object's nature: it was a rabbit's foot.