The Butterfly Forest

FIFTY-EIGHT

In the secure evidence room, Sandberg had Luke Palmer’s backpack delivered to a metal table. A portly deputy left the knapsack with us and said, “Clothes are still in the lab. You need them, too?”

“No,” Sandberg said. The deputy nodded and walked away. The backpack had been tagged. Date in. Contents. Owner. Slipping on gloves, Sandberg opened it, felt along the lining near one of the straps. “Think I’ve got something.” He turned the backpack over, shook it, and used gravity to help dislodge the small object. It rolled out on the table. Metal against metal. Sandberg used a pair of tweezers to lift the bullet.

“Looks like a.30-.30,” I said. “Very little fragmentation. Must have missed most of the deer’s bones. Tore through vital organs and lodged in muscle.”

“I’ll run ballistics on it and tell the sheriff what we found.”

“I’m betting it will match the bullet lodged in the tree near Molly and Mark’s grave. And traces of blood on it will match the deer’s.”

Sandberg set the bullet on the table. “It’d be nice to find the weapon.”

I held up one of the sketches. “If you find this guy, you might find that rifle.”

“We’ll do what we can to locate him. In the meantime, Palmer’s going to face a large bond, no doubt. He’s not going anywhere.”

“But, right now, I am.”

“Where’s that, O’Brien?”

“Sadly, a funeral.”

College students, friends and family streamed into the small church as the funeral service for Molly Monroe began. I walked past the TV news satellite trucks where fervent reporters prepped for their live shots in contrast to somber mourners who came to pay tribute to the dead. Mark’s funeral was scheduled for the following day.

Elizabeth stood just inside the front door area, people hugging her and offering condolences. Through swollen eyes, she persevered. Her body and mind drained of everything but the command that kept her heart beating. When she turned and saw me, she attempted to smile. She fought back tears. “Thank you for coming, Sean… I’m in a place in my life I never thought I’d be, and I don’t know what to do or say. I’m numb. No one can ever prepare a mother for the burial of her only child.”

She reached for my hand and then hooked her arm around mine as we began walking down the aisle to the front pew. I thought of the small church I’d just visited. Preacher Paul’s smiling eyes, the blackbird on the tombstone.

Elizabeth almost stumbled. I didn’t know if she would make it all the way down the aisle. I reached over and gripped her shoulder to give her more support, ready to catch her if she fell. She sucked in a deep breath and held her head higher.

Molly’s body was in a closed casket. A large picture of her stood on an easel to the right of her coffin. Flowers lined the immediate area. I could smell hibiscus, lilies and roses as people listened to Molly’s favorite song, We Are the World.

The minister thanked everyone for coming, talked about the nobility of a good life and how we can’t ever make sense of a senseless murder. He was followed by some of Molly’s friends. Most spoke through broken sentences, tears flowing as the words about Molly reinforced what everyone who knew her must have been feeling.

A senior at the University of Florida, a petite woman who’d roomed with Molly said, “She had a way about her that was magical. All who knew Molly know what I’m talking about.” There was a murmur in the crowd. “Molly was one of the most unselfish people I’ve ever met. I remember one time a mosquito got trapped in my car. Molly lowered her window to make sure it flew away safely. She said everything has a purpose in life. Molly’s life ended too soon for us to ever see all the things her purpose-driven life would produce. We can only imagine.”

Elizabeth gently cried, her body radiating heat while she tried to hold in the emotion.

The girl looked across the congregation and said, “Molly was more than my friend. In all the ways that mattered, she was there. Molly had a way with people and animals that made you feel better about yourself just by being around her. She loved horses, birds and butterflies. She said the butterflies were little winged angels darting around the flowers.” The girl looked at the casket, picked up long-stemmed red rose and said, “Molly, here’s a flower from all of us to you. When we see fields of flowers, when we see birds and butterflies in the summer, we’ll always think of you, because you always thought of us.”

Elizabeth rested her head on my shoulder as the girl stepped to the casket and set the rose on top of it. I could feel the heat, the dampness from Elizabeth’s silent tears, seep into my shirt. Even from the back pews, the sobbing and soft sounds of people weeping carried like distant church bells on an abandoned Sunday morning.