It was wide and circular.
Definitely female.
Narlow worked for as long as she could before concluding that cause of death was likely due to catastrophic force of the truck’s rear axle assembly causing body separation followed by incineration from the ensuing fire.
The deceased was an adult female, approximate age ranging from thirty-five to forty-five, approximate height estimated to be between five feet two inches to five feet five inches.
Other than that, Narlow concluded that identification of the deceased was not achieved at this stage.
So she moved to the next step in the process, a Hail Mary effort.
Narlow set out to collect DNA.
As she worked on swabs, she reflected on proper sourcing and how samples from crime scenes could be degraded, depending on the environment from which the swabs were collected. So it may be difficult for DNA analysts to interpret results for a profile.
But we live in hope.
Narlow prepared the DNA collection kit to submit to the state’s Bureau of Criminal Investigation’s laboratory. The lab would create a profile for comparison with profiles existing in the state’s DNA database.
Analysts there would also check it against the Combined DNA Index System, known as CODIS, the national database managed by the FBI, which would also compare it with offenders and missing persons from across the country.
Then we wait. But this is our best shot, Narlow thought, looking at the remains on her table as she concluded her work.
Blinking, her heart broke as she imagined the woman in life.
Someone knows you. Someone loves you. They deserve to know why you came to this end.
Fifty
Buffalo, New York, Trailside Grove
Later that day, two hundred miles east of Cleveland, Greg Griffin finished placing apples, mayo, and butterscotch ice cream, the last of his groceries, on the belt of the checkout at Saving Shelf Grocery.
He was unshaven; his hair needed trimming.
While the cashier scanned his items, he stood at his cart in his T-shirt and torn jeans, drained from little sleep, of once more driving in the night, searching for Jenn, like he was trying to catch the wind.
It had been over a month since she had vanished, a month of going through the motions of life without her, of not knowing what happened.
“Sir? That’s ninety ninety-two,” the cashier said.
As if waking, Greg looked at the cashier. “Mandy,” her name tag said. He caught her side-glance to the couple next in line, a woman in her sixties with stylish glasses and a man in a plaid shirt and ball cap with the word America on it. Keeping her eyes on Greg, the woman whispered to the man: “That’s him, the husband.”
Behind the couple, Greg saw that other shoppers were holding up their phones, aiming them at him and recording. Their accusatory expressions, murmurings, and finger-pointing burned into him.
He paid and left the store.
The sun was setting when he pushed his cart through the lot to his pickup.
Jenn’s disappearance was an amputation, as if part of him had been severed. In the time since she vanished, the searches had all but stopped. Her story had faded from the news and social media.
There were other, newer tragedies.
Police had few updates for him.
Kat came by when she could but was unable to be with him and Jake all the time. She had to return to her job. Vince continued helping where he could. Jake resumed school and Greg went back to work. At home, Greg battled to keep a semblance of their normal lives, struggling with the daily things that Jenn had taken care of, the laundry, groceries, and cleaning.
As time went by, even though police had long since searched the house, it felt like Jenn was not gone. Greg came upon reminders; her makeup and perfume on the bathroom counter, her clothes in the closet, her favorite brands of yogurt that had expired in the back of the fridge, the books she’d read, and new ones she’d planned to read, waiting on her night table. A couple of new ones that she’d ordered online had arrived.
And there was the empty space in the garage for her Corolla.
The investigators were still keeping her car.
But each passing minute created a new layer of time and distance from Jenn, terrifying Greg, eating at him, because for him to go on every day felt like a betrayal.
But I have to do it, for Jake.
Greg reached his pickup, started loading his bags when out of nowhere an unseen voice called: “What did you do to your wife, asshole?”
Greg climbed behind the wheel and drove home.
He cleared the parking lot, absorbing the taunt, relieved that Jake was not with him. Still, Jake couldn’t escape being ridiculed either. The previous morning, Greg had made one of Jake’s favorite breakfasts, waffles. He’d stacked three on a plate, set it before him.
Jake only stared at them.
“That’s not the way Mom makes them,” Jake said. “There’s no whipped cream.”
“Sorry, buddy.”
Greg got the can from the fridge. It hissed as he squirted a swirl on the waffles. But Jake continued staring at them without moving, tears rolling down his face.
“Did I forget something else?” Greg said.
Jake shook his head.
“But you wanted waffles. Are you not hungry anymore?”
Jake shook his head.
Greg lowered himself and put his hand on Jake’s lap.
“What is it?”
“The kids at school say things.”
Greg froze for a moment.
“What kind of things?”
“That you and Mom had a big fight, that you hurt her because you have a girlfriend.”
Greg cursed to himself.
“It’s not true, son. How many times have we talked about this? You have to believe me, it’s just not true.”
Jake said nothing.
“Those kids don’t know anything,” Greg said. “We have to be strong and wait until Mom comes home.”
“But when, Dad? I miss her so much!”
Jake cried and Greg held him tight.
Now, driving home, Greg bit back on his anger at the memory of Jake’s agony, and that he was helpless to do anything, and because an unreal fog of torment had enveloped them, refusing to lift from their lives.
* * *
When Greg got home, Vince was in the living room watching news.
“Need some help?” Vince turned from the TV.
“I got it, thanks.”