In the Name of Love

Sometime in the early hours of the new year, a small trailer was abandoned on the side of I-87-S. It was called in a week later by a man who drove that stretch regularly.

“Looks normal,” he said to his local PD's non-emergency line, over in Clintonville, “but it’s still there.” I asked Rudy to send me the recording, and he did, but listening to the audio didn’t give me anything new. The commuter’s voice was hesitant and full of a sorry-to-bother-you-ness. It wasn’t a clue. The only clues to be found were in the nondescript trailer with silver siding and New York plates, closed up.

But not locked.

The call went out to Chesterfield PD shortly after 9AM, then wound its way through various state and highway channels. By the time I got my call, it was closing in on noon. The clinic was crowded with all the usual suspects: RSV, pneumonia, a couple of concussions and sprained ankles off Whiteface. I turned my patients over to Shawndra and climbed into my van, double-checking the back for my vest and kit.

Soft powder fell over the highway, rushing against the windshield as I drove toward the scene. It looked like stars in a sci-fi movie when the spaceship reached warp speed. Drifts snaked and undulated across the roadway, lifting into furious eddies behind each car.

I felt the same old dread pooling in my stomach, winching up my shoulders into a tight bundle at the base of my neck. I wasn't afraid of the work ahead of me - the long hours I'd spend wrist-deep inside a corpse, the clues I'd have to pull from veins and organs and thermometers. I liked being part of the aftermath, actually. I enjoyed solving puzzles and testifying in court, facing evil and putting it away. I was always afraid of what I'd see first, the evidence of mortal interruption that every crime scene contained. The visceral reminder that a blade or a hand isn't just a tool for healing, but also one for ending.

I tried to focus on the beautiful things I could see. Snow gathered in all the nooks and crannies of the world. Everything seemed tucked in by a thick, white blanket. Flurries fell on the ski slopes to the west and shrouded the mountains in a creamy film. The trees on the horizon were stark and bare, creating a striking outline against the matte gray of the sky. Just above their empty, reaching branches hung the sun like a silver penny, dulled by a light caul of clouds. And though sunset was still a few hours away, there already seemed to be a pink tinge to the edges of the sky. I thought that night’s sunset would be red.

The telltale flashing lights and orange cones of a crime scene appeared just after the Willsboro exit. I put my hazards on and pulled to the shoulder, joining a cavalcade of cop cars. More than usual, I thought, and all different kinds. I saw a couple of local police vehicles from Chesterfield and Exeter, a highway patrol car, even some Staties in the scrum. Stepping out with my kit in hand, I cringed at the roar and hiss of passing cars. Even at looky-loo speed their passing sent out thick walls of chilly air that whipped through my down coat. The snow no longer looked white to my eye, the pristine blanket turned to crusty piles and dreary sludge up close.

Men clustered beyond the orange cones. From outside their circle, I couldn’t tell what they hovered over. The state sheriff, Rudy, ushered me in. I joined them and looked down at a corpse. It was a fisher cat. “Well, boys, I hope you didn’t drag me out here for this,” I said, eliciting a couple of wry chuckles from the more seasoned guys. The younger ones looked green around the gills, though, not ready to laugh at anything. Their first time, or something close, I thought.

“Ok, let’s get to it,” Rudy sighed. He pulled out a fresh pair of gloves from his pocket. I did the same. He held out a hand, gripping me on the shoulder. “Michelle,” he said, and hesitated. I was surprised. He had never touched me before, and rarely used my first name when we were on official business. “It’s not a good one.”

“They never are,” I said. I looked towards the trailer. Its back door was slightly ajar, held open by electrical cables running from a portable generator to standing lights set up inside.

“I’m sure you’ve seen more than I have,” he said almost reproachfully, as if I’d offended him. “But I’m telling you. This one isn’t sitting right with me, and you should prepare yourself.”

In the dream I still have, the little girl sits up from the nest of white linens she's been posed on. Her hands remain crossed over her chest and she looks straight into my eyes as I enter the trailer. The harsh fluorescence of the forensic lights is replaced by the gentle glow of lamplight.

“Have you found me yet?” she asks. I'm overcome with an urge to swoop down and tickle her, thinking here you are, you’re here and I found you.

But I can only stand woodenly, one hand outstretched. “No.”

The dream floats on. We stare into each other, and I feel sad.

I don’t want to think about the autopsy, the tug and squish of her earthly remains. Instead, I will summarize my discovery here:

• Victim was a preadolescent girl, approximately 10, deceased on or around January 1st
• Victim showed no evidence of sustained abuse or malnutrition, but was significantly dehydrated at time of death
• Victim showed no evidence of exposure to modern health or dental care
• Victim displayed damage to her brain, lungs, and kidneys, as well as multiple open sores scattered across her body
• Victim tested positive for syphilis
• Foreign DNA was found present, with analysis revealing it came from the victim's biological Mother's touch and her Father's beard
• Cause of death was determined to be multiple organ failure, by mode of tertiary syphilitic infection with no medical intervention

I submitted my findings. I rolled Jane Doe #16 into her locker, where she would stay until the investigation was complete, or she was claimed. I didn’t feel confident in either outcome. More likely she’d stay for as long as we had the room before being cremated and moved to a dusty basement in a cardboard box. Just another piece of evidence. It all left a sour taste in my mouth. I got what Rudy meant. Nothing about this felt clean, done and dusted, likely to get wrapped up. My job, I feared, was finished, but I already knew the unanswered questions would haunt me.

The sun, when it set, was indeed red.

A couple of weeks later, Rudy met me at the Willow for a whiskey. We sat in a quiet corner, far from the fire, and he caught me up on the investigation in a hushed tone.

"Honestly, we've got nothing. No matches in VICAP, for her or the DNA."

"What about the trailer?" I asked, swirling the ice in my glass.

"Stolen from a repo lot six years ago, and doesn't seem to have been driven much since. Tires were basically flat. Had a hell of a time getting it to impound. Best guess is some kind of off-grid creep made her and kept her. And killed her."

It was a dire picture he painted. My half-drunk whiskey curdled in my stomach.

"Well, he neglected her. They neglected her."

"That's not any different from what I said."

"Technically, it is. She was sick, not beat."

"You should know better than anyone that we treat medical neglect the same," he said with a quiet fury. My mouth dropped open, but I couldn't find any words. The only thing in my mind was the little handmade nightgown she wore, white cotton, running stitch. Love went into each dart of that needle, probably a mother's love. But it hadn't been enough to keep her alive.

Laughter swelled by the bar and the silence stretched between us. "I'm sorry," he finally said. "You'll get the formal writ to cremate her soon." He finished his drink and adjusted his belt. "Just thought I'd keep you in the loop on this one. Check in on you."

"Yeah, I'm ok," I said, answering the question he'd never asked. We left our glasses on the bar and walked into the cold together, snow crunching under our boots.

Winter dripped into spring, bringing floodwater off the mountains into town. There was a drowning, a young man swept away with his car, whose lungs told me his last breaths had been torturous. E. Coli coursed through the town after that, keeping me busy in the clinic administering IV fluids and antibiotics.

I was logging prescriptions when Shawndra knocked on my office door, walking in as she did.

"Let yourself in, why don't you?" I joked. She closed the door behind her, looking over her shoulder with a nervous air.

"I need you to take over in Exam Room Three." She handed me a clipboard.

"There's hardly anything on here."

"No ID, no insurance. She wouldn't even give me a name. I think she walked here? Her shoes were caked in mud."

"She look hurt?" I went to open the door, but Shawndra held it closed a moment longer.

"No, but she's got something neurological going on. I think... Well, you asked me to keep an eye out for syphilis." My spine stiffened.

"Thank you, Shawndra. Can you give the sheriff's office a call? Tell 'em to send Rudy. Don't take no for an answer."

"I'm Dr. Sheehan," I said, pulling a pair of latex gloves up over my wrists. "What's your name?"

"Do you nee' itta may me better?" The woman on the table slurred. Her eyes rolled towards me but wouldn't stay. They jerked and shimmied in her sockets. She shivered in her paper gown, hair lank and greasy. There was a smell in the room that spoke of woodsmoke and cold baths.

"I think my job is easier when I know my patients." She nodded.

"Nina."

"Thank you, Nina. Now, can you tell me what brought you in today?"

"Fever. 'N my words aren' right. Think issa stroke."

"I can hear that. I'm going to perform an exam. Just try to relax for me."

Her temperature was elevated. When I palpated her neck and armpits, I found swollen lymph nodes. Pustules clustered on the palms of her hands and the soles of her feet, flat and hard like stones in a riverbed. She cringed from the light of the ophthalmoscope. Under her paper gown, I noted that her underwear looked handmade. White cotton. Small running stitches. None of what I found surprised me.

"Nina, did you walk here?" She shrugged. "Is there anyone I can call to join you? A husband, maybe?"

She shook her head. "No. No!" She tucked her left hand behind her back, but I had already seen the thin silver ring she wore on her fourth finger.

"Ok, I understand. Now, I'm going to ask you another question, and I'd like you to be honest. Is there any family history of symptoms like yours?"

She cast her face down. "No."

"Are you sure? Your husband? Maybe your children?"

"No," she said again, with a shame so deep I thought I'd feel it, and know what it meant, even if I hadn't performed her daughter's autopsy.

My pager buzzed and I jumped. Shawndra's voice crackled over the intercom. "Dr. Sheehan to the front desk, please. Dr. Sheehan to the front desk." I knew that meant Rudy had arrived. I knew that meant it was time to invite him in and leave the room. Let him close the case of Jane Doe #16. But I didn't go to meet him. Instead, I rolled the room's chair beside the exam table and sat.

"Nina, before I leave this room, I'm going to tell you what I think is wrong with you. About a decade ago, maybe more, did you get sick? Perhaps you had a very high fever, some sores in your vagina or mouth?"

She looked at me with shock, nodding.

"That was the first stage of syphilis." She moaned in distress. "What you're suffering from now is neurosyphilis. That means the infection has damaged your brain, your eyes, and probably your other organs, too. Do you know how I know you were infected over a decade ago?" She shook her head. "Because it's what your daughter died of, and during her autopsy, I estimated her age to be ten."

Panic struck over her face. She twisted away from me, keening like a wounded animal.

"The sheriff is already here." She curled into fetal position, her cry evolving into shuddering sobs. "I can tell you loved her very much, Nina. I could tell from the nightgown you made her. But I don't get how you could leave her like that. In the cold. Did your husband do that?"

She turned back to me, gripping my gloved hands in her marred ones.

"Me," she insisted. "Couldn' leh her stay. Couldn' keep her where -"

A knock at the door interrupted her. She pulled her hands away, covering her face. "One second!" I called over my shoulder. "I understand. I have just one more question. What was her name?" She kept crying. "Come on, Nina, what was her name? I need to know." The knock came again, more insistent. "Give me a second, I said!" I shouted. But Rudy came in then, and after he read her her rights she didn't say much at all.

Nina stayed in the hospital a while longer, just until she cleared the infection. She died of complications in the infirmary of the Essex County Jail. I didn't perform her autopsy - there wasn't one - but I did attend the interment of her ashes. It was mid-July, and the sun was high and the grass was green, but the white marble of the columbarium seemed to hold winter's bite and keep it close. I left two bouquets of wildflowers behind. One for Nina, and one for her daughter, whose ashes now lay in the same small locker.

The case is closed. But still, I have that dream of the little girl I only know as Jane Doe #16. And sometimes, when a bearded man who smells like woodsmoke passes me in town, I wonder if he knows more than I do.

I wonder if he mourns her, too.