Page 27 of Snow Creek

“Doctor, there’s a discrepancy in your report. There’s no notation—that I could find—that indicated the woman had a missing toe.”

I hear him tapping away on his keyboard. A pause. Maybe even a sigh. Hard to tell over the phone.

“Missing baby toe on the right foot, yes, yes,” he says.

“It’s not in the report, Doctor.”

“My bad,” he says with obvious regret, before throwing an employee under the bus. “I have a new transcriptionist and he has missed a few things. Not terrible, but not great either.”

I wonder why people don’t just admit their mistakes.

People like me.

“Post mortem?” I ask.

“No,” he says. “Not at all. There was scar tissue where the toe should be. Jane Doe lost her toe probably as a child.”

“What else did he miss?”

“The back of her heels collected some soil. It’s on the photographs, but not in the report.”

“She was dragged?”

“Likely.”

“She was only 122 pounds. Not that heavy.”

“Dead weight though. It’s not easy.”

I’m exasperated yet also intrigued.

“Will you amend your report?” I ask.

Long pause. Everyone in three counties knows he hates amending anything. He’s right. Always. Never, ever wrong.

“All right, Detective. I’ll do it. Just for you.” His tone carries a hint of sarcasm.

Do it for the victim, I want to say. But I don’t. Instead, I thank him and hang up.

Later as I head for home, I stop in to brief the sheriff.

He’s up to his neck with paperwork. He looks up with those kind eyes and gives me a nod.

“How’s the carpet case moving along?”

“Not much to report. Ms. Wheaton never had a driver’s license. Nothing from the DMV to help figure if the victim is her. Maybe one thing: She was missing a toe on her right foot. Kids didn’t mention that. I’ll round them up tomorrow.”

“Sounds good,” he says, lowering his wire frames. “How are you doing, Megan? You stressed?”

Tony Gray does know me. What Iallowhim to know. He’s seen something on my face that I didn’t hide from him. Or maybe couldn’t. It’s true I’m stressed. I guess, with the Wheaton case, things that I’d forgotten, suppressed, have come at me with a vengeance.

“I’m fine,” I tell him. “Just need to confirm our vic and find her husband.”

Twelve

Back in my kitchen I rifle through my completely subpar pantry for something to eat, though I’m not really that hungry. The photos of Jane Doe have worked as an appetite suppressant which would be some kind of benefit if I were overweight. But I’m not. The indignity of murder doesn’t stop at the point where life ceases to exist. It’s a continuum. The victim from Snow Creek was treated like trash. Disposed of. Like she was nothing. Killers like hers invite others to enjoy the impact of the crime. The kids who found her. The team that investigates the crime and goes home to their wives or sisters with the picture of what happened to Jane forever in their consciousness.

And then the line becomes a circle when the loved ones learn what happened.

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