Chapter Thirty-Seven Jenn
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Jenn
Sunday evening
Back in my temporary office, I slump down in my chair and spin around to look out the window.
Now that this case pretty much closed itself, I should be packing up my stuff, but I need a second to sort out my feelings.
I wanted so desperately to help this young woman—whoever she turned out to be.
And maybe I did, to some extent, but I don’t believe she has any clue how much support she’s going to need in the days to come.
I just wish . . . What? Do I wish she’d given me a chance to do more?
Yeah, that’s just my ego talking right there. Lita used to say, “People do to you what you let them do to you.” And she was right. But there’s a flip side of that: You do for people what they let you do for them.
Samantha Kinski let me do only so much before she slipped out of this hospital and out of my life.
And then there’s Shannon.
It’s all I can do not to fly downstairs and storm into Julian’s office. The only thing stopping me is the certainty that Julian will retaliate against the nurse if he knows what she told me.
I’m just starting to sort through my email when my cell phone rings, my husband’s handsome face on the screen. I pick it up before the first ring has even finished.
“Hello, my beautiful, brilliant wife,” he says in his best sexy-times voice.
I wish.
“Hello, my handsome, heroic husband,” I counter in my own seductive tone.
“How’s it going down there?”
I sigh the sigh of the defeated, the exhausted, the outraged, and the homesick all rolled into one. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. And I can’t tell you—not all of it anyway. Which really sucks because God knows I’d give just about anything to get your opinion on all of it.”
“Hmm, okay. Well, just keep it general, then. What’s the crux of the problem?”
“Hah! Where to begin? Um, so . . . a lot of things happened. Big things. Like game-changing things that have me wrapping up here early. I’m not sure, but I may try to get a flight out first thing in the morning.”
“You know I’m not gonna complain about that—but why am I getting the feeling that something’s not sitting right with you?”
“Because you know me better than anyone else.”
“Well, there is that.”
“Plus, we’ve got this really weird woo-woo psychic bond going on.”
“Yeah, I’m not so sure about that. I think it’s more likely the fact that we’re both psychiatrists. We read tone and body language and subtext all day long.”
“I suppose. But I kinda liked the idea of the woo-woo thing. It’s very romantic . . .” I say.
“You gonna tell me what’s got you so off kilter? Or are we going to dance around it for a while? Because I wouldn’t mind pouring myself a glass of wine.”
“Oh, God, you have no idea how much I’d love to join you.
Ugh. Right, anyway—so all these big things happened that brought everything to a head and have made my continued services unnecessary.
But here I am, feeling like it’s still just kind of .
. . I don’t know . . . unresolved, maybe?
I’ve got this nagging, niggling thing going on, and I’m beginning to think maybe you were right and I should have thought harder on this in the first place.
So I just need you to tell me to let it go and come home already. ”
When Gabe speaks again, there’s nothing sexy or playful in his voice. “Yeah, no. That’s not happening.”
I chuckle. “What, you don’t want me home?”
“Of course I want you home. Like yesterday. But I’m not going to try and talk you out of whatever it is that your gut is telling you, Jenn.”
“But it’s nothing concrete. It’s just this feeling of . . . I don’t know, unease, maybe?”
“I don’t care what it is,” he breaks in. “There’s a reason why it’s bugging you. Your subconscious sees something that you haven’t spotted yet—consciously—for whatever reason.”
Again—the whole “when psychiatrists marry” thing.
“You think?” I ask doubtfully.
“Honey, you have some of the best instincts I’ve ever seen, and I’m not just saying that because you float my boat, light my fire, and ring my bell.
” I chuckle, and he continues. “In all seriousness, it’s what makes you such a good doctor.
When you see your patients, you somehow know, intuitively, what they need from you and how to give it to them.
You don’t second-guess yourself in treatment, do you?
You don’t sit there and debate how to proceed, right?
I mean, tell me if I’m wrong about that . . .”
“No, you’re right,” I begin a little hesitantly. “I guess this just feels different.”
“Well, yeah. Because this is different. This isn’t the controlled environment of your office. You don’t have weeks, or months, or years to work with this patient. You have days. And there’s a lot riding on it. I think that’s why you’re having a little trouble trusting your gut.”
I sigh. “Yeah, you might be on to something there. But where do I even begin pinpointing what it is that’s not sitting right with me?”
“Pull the thread,” he says simply.
“Excuse me?”
“Pull. The. Thread. Honey, you’re not going to rest until whatever it is has been settled one way or the other. You’ve got your fingers around the thread; now start pulling at it. Everything will begin to unravel from there, and, eventually, you’ll come to the end.”
I’m about to make fun of his choice of analogies when my laptop dings with the arrival of a new email. I skim the contents in the preview pane. It’s from the medical examiner.
. . . Per Detective Rivera’s request, I’m forwarding the finalized autopsy report to you as part of the completion of the investigative file . . .
“Okay, well, I’m going to swing by Cuba Libre, have a few drinks, then maybe . . .” I say, double-clicking on the attachment and giving it a quick scroll even as I wrap up my phone call. The clinical descriptions, the medical jargon, the flat, lifeless photos.
Something makes me stop and loop back to something I’ve just passed. Something that grabbed my subconscious’s attention.
“Then maybe what?” Gabe asks when I leave the thought trailing.
“Umm . . . just hang with me for a sec, honey,” I murmur, tucking the phone between the crook of my neck and my shoulder so I can return to the image—a pale shoulder, inked.
The caption reads: Tattoo, right shoulder: constellation Gemini, twin stick figures.
My mouth goes dry.
“Wait—wait, wait . . .” I whisper, scrolling closer. “Oh my God.”
“Jenn? Everything okay?”
My hand goes to my mouth as I drop against the back of the chair.
“Jenn?” Gabe is starting to sound alarmed.
“Forget about pulling on the threads,” I breathe, still staring at the screen. “I think the universe just handed me a seam ripper.”
“A what?”
“You use it to pull out the threads of a seam,” I say distractedly. “To take something apart. To see how it was really made.”
“Huh. I’m not sure I’m picturing that.”
“Google it, sweetheart,” I tell him faintly. “Because I’ve got some threads to pull apart.”
I reread the medical examiner’s notes, this time actually seeing the words.
A puncture wound is present on the right forearm . . .
Snakebite. Diamondback. Routine, expected.
But then:
Tattoos: The decedent has a tattoo on the right shoulder depicting the constellation Gemini in the form of twin stick figures . . . older ink, well-healed.
There’s the photo—harsh light, pale skin, twin stick figures hand in hand.
The same design Sam showed us this afternoon.
Except this shoulder isn’t Sam’s.
It’s Mary’s.
Huh. I’ll be damned.
Why didn’t Sam point that out when Terry was shrieking at her this morning? She could have easily said that she, “Mary,” had gotten a matching tattoo? It was easy enough to prove . . .
I sink back again with a sigh. Surely I’m overthinking this.
I mean, does any of this really mean anything?
Well, if my screeching, screaming, red-flag-waving gut has anything to say about it, then yes. I’m just not sure what. So, as my husband suggests, I keep pulling at threads.
I lean forward again, scanning the rest of the report, but there’s nothing else that’s notable until I reach the section titled Internal Examination. Skipping past the head, brain, neck, and thorax, I reach the abdominal cavity—specifically the stomach and its contents.
Gastrointestinal Tract Examination: The stomach contains approximately 300 mL of partially digested food material, consistent with recent consumption of a beef stew.
The contents include identifiable fragments of beef, potatoes, and carrots, along with a broth-like substance.
The degree of digestion suggests ingestion occurred within 2–4 hours prior to death.
I fall back against the chair on a sharp exhalation, folding my arms as if considering the report from three feet away will give me more perspective. And maybe it will. I think about what I know.
Sam Kinski, a known meat eater, was here in this hospital for three days, during which time she ordered meat—but didn’t eat any of it.
Sam Kinski had a Gemini tattoo.
Mary Langston got a matching Gemini tattoo at some point.
That’s the first strange thing.
Mary Langston, lifelong vegan, is there in the morgue, where they have determined that she ingested beef stew shortly before her death.
That’s the second strange thing.
But one tattoo and a stomach full of beef stew aren’t enough—not yet.
So I read further and find what I’m looking for three paragraphs down in the musculoskeletal report:
Upon examination of the pelvic region, evidence of old rib and pelvic fractures are observed, characterized by slight deformity and remodeling of the bone at the fracture site.
The fractures appear fully healed with no signs of recent trauma or complications.
No other skeletal abnormalities are detected at this time.
However, a full-body CT scan is pending to further evaluate the skeletal structure for any additional findings.
Suddenly I’m hearing Mary telling me about Sam’s accident—when she fell out of the car while it was moving.
Yeah, she broke some ribs, I think—and her pelvis . . .
And there, at last, is the unraveling of the thread I’ve been pulling on.
One thing is chance.
Two things are a coincidence.
Three things are a conspiracy.