AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“She never expected anyone else to come looking, either.” Moving closer to the nearest neat stack, I read the labels on the side of each box. “They’re in year groups,” I murmur. “Most recent, before they went digital, appears to be ‘91.”
“Well, considering we’re looking for ‘86, that can only be a good thing. Means we only have to go back five years.”
“How did she get away with this?” I set my phone down so the flashlight shines straight up, then I grab a box and shift it out of the way so I can see what’s behind it. “Did no one audit this place? Did Chant seriously have no one to answer to?”
“Her direct superior was Mayor Tribble.” Aubree grabs a box and starts her search for 1986. “He was even dirtier than she was. Together, they were useless. So no,” she hefts another box to the left. “She had no one to answer to. She had no reason to do better, because no one held her accountable.”
“Ihold me accountable.” Tugging a heavy cube away, I set it at my feet and look back to the gap I made. “I see 1988. We’re getting closer.”
“You hold yourself accountable because you actually give a shit.” Aubree deserts her post and comes closer to help me. “You care about the bodies that come through this building. You actually want to honor the dead and bring justice to those who were wronged.” She accepts a box when I pull it out and offer. “Chant wanted a fat paycheck and a country club membership. You’re not the same. There,” she points past me. “Eighty-six.”
“Help me move them all.” I hustle back to the heavy steel doors. Pushing them wide open and assuaging my fears we might’ve been locked in, I move onto concrete and use a box to prop the door open. Then, leaning back into the container, I accept a box Aubree offers, and set it on top of the first.
For several minutes, we repeat our steps and build a new wall of paper. My blood runs warmer from the constant movement. My arms and legs burn in the best way.
When Aubree declares our space clear, I step in again, wiping my hands on my pants, and scour the archives. “Every single case that rolls through this building should have enough paperwork affiliated to fill their own box. Atleast.” I glance to our mini stack. “Yet, she’s got an entire year in three boxes. And the year before only fills four.”
“If the detectives prove this case wasn’t as first reported,” Aubree takes the first box labeled1986and tugs off the lid, “that might mean reopening hundreds of old files. Could mean re-trying murder investigations.”
“Could mean a lot of things.” I agree. Taking the next, labeled1986, I go on my own expedition through it’s contents. “Could also mean an enquiry into this entire facility. Every case we’ve closed might be reopened. Every body we’ve given back to be laid at rest might be disturbed. Every child who deserved better might be violated a second time.”
“Almost makes me not want to dig into Chant’s files.” Shivering, Aubree flicks through stacks inside her box. “If we open one, we open them all. Is digging in to Holly’s in search of a different outcome really worth the risk of disturbing everyone else.”
“We’ve gotta do the job. Here.” My heart skips in my chest when I find her name halfway through my box.
Setting the folders I’ve already removed on top of a different box, I take out Holly’s lonely little file and frown at how thin it is.
I knew it would be. Chant didn’t care about these people when she left the George Stanley last year, and she didn’t care in the eighties when she was young and supposedly eager to perform well. But the proof, the actual physical paperwork in my hands, still makes me scowl.
Snagging my phone for the light it emits, I flip the folder open and read the information collected thirty-six years ago. “Holly Wade—who was Holly Trainor at birth—was twenty-three years old when she died.”
We knew that already.
“She was married, and taking multiple mood-stabilizer drugs, as prescribed by Doctor Hector Brown, for her mental health diagnoses.”
We knew that, too.
“Says medical examiner didn’t arrive on scene until fifty-eight minutesafterDetectives Thomas and Kavanagh.”
Pulling up a box and using it as a seat, Aubree drops down and tugs me to follow.
“A whole hour,” I continue. “If the detectives arrived on scene eleven minutes after the crash, that means that, by the time the M.E. arrived, Holly was at least one hour and nine minutes post.”
“At least,” Aubree agrees.
“There are no notes at all to say that Chant or anyone else estimated time of death using any medically recognized method. She merely wrote it down as the cops said: collision at one. Dead at one.”
“She stepped on scene at a little past two.” Aubree shines her light across the pages on my lap. “Left again by two-thirty, ordered the body be transported back here.”
I flip the page, then over again. To the back, then to the front once more. “She didn’t come with the body. She went home to sleep, and clocked in again at nine the next morning to continue her autopsy.”
“Autopsy was complete by noon.” Growling under her breath now, Aubree brings her nasty glare up to meet my eyes. “She didn’t even try, Minka. She called the entire thing in, decidedoh yup, she’s dead, and then she went to lunch.”
“But she made damn sure to follow up toxicology.”
Setting that sheet aside, I continue rifling through the file, only to breathe a sigh of relief when photographs shake free. I catch them in my lap and pick them up with careful fingers.
“Should probably be wearing gloves right now,” I mutter.
