“I don’t think she shared all of Griffin’s passions,” Miranda said.
“What about the ice sword? Where did that come from? You said ‘prepared for the purpose.’ How so?”
“Remember the vase with the long-stemmed roses?”
“The dying flowers, yeah, in Waterford crystal.”
“After we found her, when we went down to the den, the flowers had been thrown out. She used the vase. Dumped the flowers — they were dead, anyway — filled it with water, and popped it into the freezer alongside the shrimp. It’s the right shape — tall and slender, tapered toward the base. In a matter of hours she had her weapon. She could have made it while we were still there, Morgan. Between talking to you and talking to me, she began the procedures of her own demise. Chilling, isn’t it?”
He decided not to pick up on the ice motif.
“Why the need to inflict such terrible pain on herself?” Miranda asked rhetorically. “Why ritual suicide? It had to be more than simply an attempt to mislead. Surely, it wasn’t for honour or for ritual obligation. How far can we push the Japanese connection?”
“Maybe it all has something to do with the koi,” Morgan suggested.
“I don’t know Mazda from Toyota, Hyundai from seppuku,” said Ellen.
“Subaru,” said Miranda, then conceded, “yeah, seppuku.”
“Hyundai is Korean,” added Morgan.
They both stared self-consciously at the medical examiner. This was her realm, the kingdom of the dead, and morbid good humour was an affirmation of primacy. She was neither stupid nor malicious, just territorial, they decided. And Miranda, while not threatening, was the one in control.
Miranda continued her rhetorical inquiry. “Could anyone need to suffer so much? How terrible or beatific to embrace absolute pain.” Caught up in her own words, she lapsed into silence for a moment, then said, “Martyrs welcome arrows and flames. Yearning for release, purification, absolution, redemption, yearning for heaven? If what she was trying to resolve was bad enough — yearning for hell.”
“Or oblivion,” Morgan suggested.
Miranda frowned. “Oblivion? There would be easier ways, don’t you think? It may have to do with koi, or maybe not.”
“It does make sense,” said the medical examiner. “The deliberate pattern of violence inside her gut, the bruising, the lack of resistance, no weapon, the focused brutality. I think you’re absolutely on, love. Absolutely on. I still don’t know about controlling the pain, though.”
“I was reading a while back about operations in the early nineteenth century,” said Morgan. “A witness in London described a woman being led out into an operating theatre and curtsying to the medical observers before climbing onto the surgical table and lying back while aides held her arms and legs. She had a large tumor excised from her breast without anaesthetic. According to the diarist, she didn’t cry out. When her breast was sewn back up, she was helped from the table. As soon as she got on her feet, she turned and curtseyed again to the audience before being led back to the ward.”
“The point being?” prompted Miranda.
“The point being, since there were no alternatives available, she controlled her nervous response. It surely isn’t that she didn’t feel pain. Her mind and her body conspired to deal with it by wilful quiescence, just as another person might by screaming bloody murder.”
“And you agree that Eleanor Drummond could have had that kind of will?” asked Miranda.
By way of confirmation, the ME observed that she had seen women in childbirth go through absolute misery, their bodies tearing open and wracked with agony, yet they barely cried out beyond an involuntary whimper, while others, through easy births, had howled enough to wake the dead. After she told them that, she surveyed the crypt, the wall of stainless-steel drawers marked with ID labels, and the tables with sheets pulled up over their occupants. Then she looked at the body of Eleanor Drummond. “Well, maybe not wake them up, but to scare hell out of them, anyway. And look at those fakirs in India. We don’t know how they control blood flow to self-inflicted wounds, but they do. And apparently pain, as well.”
“There was a woman in Mexico,” Morgan said, “who went into labour and was alone. When the baby wouldn’t come, she knew something was wrong. She took a carving knife and delivered the baby by Caesarean. Both mother and baby survived.”
“So we’re agreed?” asked Miranda. “She was a very determined woman whose options had narrowed to zero. That leaves us with a bigger mystery than ever, I suppose. The big question is why? And how does all this connect with the death of Robert Griffin?” She took a deep breath. “Is her suicide an implicit confession that she killed the old boy? Or that she couldn’t live without him? I mean, it’s got to connect, but I’m at a loss.” She smiled. “I’ve had enough for one night. Triumph is tiring. I’m going home.”
“You’d better talk to the girl out there,” Ellen reminded.
“Sure, on my way. Good night, Ellen. Night, Morgan.” Miranda slipped out into the brightly lit corridor. The lights were kept high, she observed, even in the dead of night.
The girl was sitting on a bench by the soft drink machine, legs outstretched, staring at the floor.
“Hi,” said Miranda. “Are you here with someone?” She noticed the girl was playing with a lighter, but there were no butts on the floor and her fingers weren’t stained.
“My mom said to wait for her.”
“Here?”
“She left a note.”
“What’s your mom’s name?”
“Molly Bray.”
“There’s no Molly Bray here.”
“Maybe there is,” said the girl.
“What’s your name?”
“Jill.”
“Well, Jill, this is no place for you. You’d better go home. I’ll give you a lift. I’m a police detective.”
A tremor of apprehension passed over the girl’s face, which resolved into a mask of studied composure. “No, thank you. I’ll wait. She said I should come here.”
“To the morgue? Jill, do you know what this place is?”
“Yeah, I think so. It’s for dead people.”
“Do you think your mother’s dead?”
There was a long pause.
“Yes.”
The girl regarded her with astonishing self-possession. At the same time there was vulnerability in her eyes, as if she might suddenly collapse but didn’t know quite how to do it. This girl was used to self-restraint — and self-reliance. But she was so young, and underneath the bravado she must be incredibly frightened.
“Is there anyone I can call?” Miranda asked.
“No. Thank you.”
“What’s that pin you’re wearing? It’s very beautiful.”
“A fish.”
“Is it silver?”
“It’s black and white. The silver’s where the white parts are and the black is empty. So it’s whatever colour you’re wearing. I mostly wear black. My mother gave it to me.”
“Do