“No idea,” Martin answered.
“No DNA?” I replied, because of course any kid knows that they can convict sex offenders nowadays using the DNA evidence they leave behind. You know, sperm and all that.
“There is also DNA evidence,” Martin lectured. “But it has not been evaluated yet.”
We didn’t say anything for a while again.
“There is pubic hair that did not originate from her. Dermal abrasions on her heels, which were presumably sustained while being carried to the vehicle. Further abrasions dorsally, presumably caused by the carpeting in the trunk. Some abrasions at sites where she was presumably touched by the perpetrator as she was packed into the vehicle. And a whole list of additional fibers and all kinds of marks that stem from the location where the body was discarded.”
“Where was that actually?” I asked. “Where did they find her?”
“At the sewage plant.”
I sensed Martin wondering whether it had mattered to her at all to have been in such a place. Right after these thoughts unintentionally whizzed through his brain came this next thought: That’s complete nonsense. The woman is dead; she couldn’t have been aware of where they discarded her. And then: But Pascha is aware of everything. Martin resisted these thoughts, but they could not be driven out; they came crashing in on him, pestering him, I could sense it exactly. He shook his head, but that didn’t help, of course. Good old Martin was well on his way toward an authentic, full-on breakdown.
“Have you, um, are you able to…sense anything with her?” he stammered.
“No, man, the woman’s dead as a doornail,” I said, hoping my clear language would make him feel better. It didn’t work. He winced as though someone had made an unseemly comment about a third party, only to find that person had overheard the whole thing.
“Have you ever given any thought to something like that before?” I asked.
“Of course not,” Martin replied.
“All right then,” I said. “So you should leave it at that. I’m just some kind of cosmic accident, and all the others are dead, all right?”
He nodded but didn’t seem convinced.
“I think I’ll head back home then,” he said.
I sighed. I had actually been hoping he would still come up with another couple of interesting findings today, but Martin was definitely in no position to be formulating even one more lucid thought or listening to me lay out my still-incomplete, although brilliant, theories.
“Do you think you could turn on the TV in Conference Room Two for me?” I asked. He nodded, grabbed his coat, turned on the TV, and drove home.
“A condom was not used. But lubricant was,” Martin reported the next morning.
A hooker. Holy hang-gliding whores, that woman was a pro! And, holy crowing cocks, Martin was like a new man this morning. He’d already taken his coat off and swung open the door to the conference room so vigorously it almost damaged the wall. I winced, as I sat in front of a morning talk show.
“Are you here?” he asked carefully. “You’re not saying anything.”
“I’m here and can tell you what the current national weather conditions are right now, what today’s forecast is, and how many calories a butter croissant without butter has.”
He didn’t seem to know what to do with that answer for a second. Then he stared at the screen. The repugnantly upbeat talking head with the artificially tousled hair and a smile paralyzed by too much cosmetic surgery was just explaining what should be part of a really healthy breakfast: muesli, minus the sugar, soaked in hot water and then rinsed down with a glass of freshly squeezed fruit juice. Personally, if I had still had the choice, I wouldn’t chase pap like that with a glass of juice; instead, I’d blast it down the pipes with a high-energy surge from the toilet tank, but on this point tastes do indeed diverge just a bit.
“Good. The report is complete; should we go through it once?” Martin suggested a bit abruptly.
The gentleman was offering me his cooperation on a silver tray? Yes; so what was the deal with him today? Had he resorted to taking drugs? Smoking, swallowing, shooting up? I resolved not to inquire further but just play along.
“I’d love to, Martin. Great.”
I sounded like a social worker reciting a standard de-escalation script in response to insults or death threats, as blasé as if I’d been asked what time it was. Outwardly casual and friendly, but artificial like a Christmas tree in Abu Dhabi.
“There is still no clue to her identity,” Martin lectured, “apart from the quality of the dental work, which presumably points to Eastern Europe.”
“I see,” I said.
They call that “active listening” when you keep mumbling things like “hmm” and “uh-huh” and “you don’t say” now and again. I learned that on TV, at five forty-five, when they run the “Be Your Own Ghostwriter” segment on effective communication in today’s world.
“Her overall health status was fairly good, but she was perhaps a bit underweight.”
“Uh-huh.”
An irreproachable effective-communication strategy: I swallowed my objection that she was unable to benefit from good health anymore as she now, unfortunately, and despite an excellent constitution, was dead, because Martin might have taken that as a provocation. So, I just said “uh-huh.”
“There were some fibers under her fingernails that could have come from an expensive wool carpet.”
“Hmm.”
At the next rhetorical pause I would have to start over with “I see” to keep applying my effective-communication skills, but it didn’t come to that.
“Overall we can say that the woman died a natural death, which the person who intended the body to disappear either did not realize or did realize, but nevertheless did not wish to follow the prescribed procedure for reporting a death, with the issuance of an official death certificate.”
“What conclusion can we draw from this?” I asked carefully, using the word “we” intentionally to solidify Martin’s sudden engagement and to clearly signal solidarity on my end.
“She was not murdered, so there is no murderer.”
“How does that help us?” I asked, since I couldn’t really follow Martin’s train of thought.
“Since there is no murderer who killed the young woman, there is also no reason to kill you, because you did not discover a murder when you saw the woman in the trunk.”
My standard rhetorical script stuck in my throat. So that’s why Martin was in such a good mood. He had discovered that the guy he thought was the woman’s murderer wasn’t a murderer at all, and so all was right with the world again. There was just one snag.
“But someone did kill me, Martin!”
The self-control I had laboriously drilled into myself was now down the tubes; my response to this unbelievably stupid finding by my only possible earthbound assistant was no longer informed by morning television for the rhetorically self-righteous but instead by the action flicks I had taken in between ten last night and two this morning.
“Somebody, whether it was the guy who stowed that chick in the trunk or somebody else, KILLED me! I couldn’t care less if some underweight babe kicked it because she ate some nut or a blue bean, for that matter.”
Martin gasped for air, but I wasn’t done yet.
“Maybe the guy who put her in the trunk didn’t kill her, but we still totally know for absolutely sure that he didn’t want to be connected to the dead Jane Doe. So he wanted to get rid of her. So he might not have been particularly happy that somebody, namely the guy who stole his car, suddenly found out that he had a dead woman in his trunk. So, it may have occurred to him to push the little car thief off the bridge.”