Envy

chapter 33

BIRDY WATERMAN, KITSAP COUNTY’S FORENSIC pathologist, had burned her tongue on coffee that she’d microwaved a minute too long. She looked out of the window of the green vinyl-floored kitchen on the main floor of the coroner’s office. The old house, which had been converted to the county morgue, probably had an impressive view of the Olympic Mountains to the west. Trees and the Kitsap County Courthouse now stood in the way. She was swishing cold water in her mouth when her annoying assistant Terry Morris told her that a woman was there to see her.

“She’s in a bad way,” he said, sculpting his short faux hawk. “Wants to talk.”

Dr. Waterman swallowed the water and pushed her disposable cup into the swinging lid of the kitchen garbage can. Without another word from Terry, she knew that it was the mother of a victim. Mothers can never let go. Fathers were different. Not all of them, of course, but most accepted scientific findings for what they were—clinical facts. Moms didn’t.

Dr. Waterman didn’t recognize the woman.

“I’m Birdy Waterman. Can I help you?” she asked.

Sandra Berkley was as she had been in the Jameses’ living room—a disaster. Her hair, disheveled. Her makeup, scrawled on, not applied carefully. She was thin where she should have had some fullness to her face. She was puffy where the contours should have been more sculpted. It was the face of a mother who’d lost her baby.

Dr. Waterman had seen that so many—too many—times before.

“Can I help you?” she repeated.

“I hope so,” Sandra said, anxiously looking for a place to sit. Her knees shook just then.

“Let’s go into my office,” Dr. Waterman suggested, gently placing a hand on Sandra’s bony shoulder as she led her to what had once been a bedroom but now functioned as her office. In addition to the louvered closet doors along the farthest wall, the ceiling light above her was the only other remnant of the office’s original purpose. It was a glass fixture etched with figures of cowboys and their spinning lariats. It had been a child’s room.

“I’m sorry,” Dr. Waterman said, moving things aside to clear more space across her desk, “I didn’t get your name.”

“Sandra Berkley. My daughter was Katelyn.”

Of course. Even though she’d only seen her laid out on her autopsy table, there was no mistaking the resemblance.

Dr. Waterman nodded. “I’m deeply sorry for your loss.”

Sandra started to cry. “Thank you.”

“Can I answer some questions for you?”

The words sounded flat, and not at all helpful, which was not the forensic pathologist’s intention. It was merely the fact that no words could ever seem right. There was not a damn thing she could do for that woman. No one could.

Finally, Sandra spoke. “Was my daughter pregnant?”

A little caught off guard by the question, Dr. Waterman shook her head. “No, I would have noted that. It would have been in my report. Our exams are very, very thorough.”

Sandra winced a little, squeezing tears from her eyes as she reached for a tissue from a box on the doctor’s desk. Then she dug into her purse and pulled out a Ziploc bag containing the pregnancy test stick.

“I found this in her room. I thought … maybe that’s why she might have killed herself … because she didn’t want to disappoint me …” Her words trailed off into more sobs.

Dr. Waterman gently pushed the tissues closer.

“Mrs. Berkley, that wasn’t it at all. I examined your daughter. As I recall it didn’t appear that she was sexually active. Your daughter was more than likely still a virgin.”

Sandra stopped her tears. “Then why would she have this?” she asked, waving the wand once more.

A somewhat startled Dr. Waterman shook her head. It was a very, very good question.

“No idea,” she said. “Maybe she and her boyfriend messed around and thought she might be pregnant. I don’t know. Kids are funny. When I was young, I almost believed you could get pregnant from a French kiss.”

“If she had a boyfriend, her father and I never met him.”

You wouldn’t be the first mother who had no idea what her daughter was doing when she was out of your sight, Dr. Waterman thought.

“I know that none of this is easy and there’s nothing I can do to make you feel better,” she said.

It was all she could say.

Sandra Berkley stood. She was sad, hurt, and mad at the same time.

“I will never feel better again,” she said.

“I understand, Mrs. Berkley. Really, to the best of my ability, I do.” Dr. Waterman reached for a tablet and a pencil. She jotted down a phone number. “I know an excellent grief counselor in Poulsbo. Maybe you could talk to her? It might help.”

“I don’t want to talk to anyone,” Sandra said, her voice louder than needed. “I want my daughter back. I want to watch her graduate from high school. Go to college. Get married.”

Birdy Waterman let her go on. Nothing short of an AK-47 could halt the mother of a dead teenager as she grieved for all that had been lost.