Until last night, the number 97 meant nothing to me, nothing more than the number preceding 98 and following 96.
I live in a medium size city, compared to all the cities in the country. In the area, however, it's one of the largest cities around. It's large enough to have gang and drug problems, but not so large that the homicide rate exceeds double digits for any given month.
As in most cities, a police officer calls and interrupts you in the middle of something important, but nothing so important that you immediately forget about it, fearing the worst.
My kids? My wife? My parents?
Although it was barely forty degrees out, I sweated until my shirt was soaked through. I also ran a couple of stoplights; my mind was not on traffic.
I instantly knew whom I'd see lying on cold steel or porcelain by the way the coroner's secretary addressed me; "Mr. Stone," she asked, with an emphasis on the "mister." I didn't think it could be any worse, but my heart chilled yet another degree. Something has happened to my wife, MRS. Stone.
According to the thermometer on the wall, the room was 55 degrees. My breath misted as I watched the coroner's assistant open the little door and pull out the sheet-covered drawer. After the detective snapped on a pair of latex exam gloves, he motioned me over to the drawer; when I stood opposite him, he drew back the sheet.
Her blonde hair was a matted mess under her head, where the blood had dried and caked as her body lay on the tray. One eye was blackened and slightly yellowed; wide purple bruises formed streaks around her neck. I recognized her even after the tears washed out my vision.
"Mr. Stone. Mr. Stone, I know this is hard to do, but I need your affirmation on the record. Is this your wife, Jordan Stone? You can't just nod, sir, I need your voice on the tape for the record."
It wasn't my voice that answered. Some anguished, half whispered "Yes" croaked from my throat. "That's her. Jordan Stone."
In one of the chemistry experiments my students perform, they grow crystals from liquid by dropping a seed crystal into a chilled test tube full of liquid. I felt a coldness spread through me like those seed crystals growing in the test tubes, seeded by a spike of ice driven through my chest.
The next morning, I read the paper and found my self remembering all the details I listened to the night before, but never really heard.
She was jogging in the park when she was attacked, raped and strangled. She was found naked, bloody, and quite dead. The initial report of her death was due to loss of blood. An autopsy proved she was strangled. At least two different men had raped her, according to differing semen samples they found.
The police theorize that she most likely received the head wound while she was throttled by one of her assailants. The detective also believes that the rape began while she struggled, but continued long after she lost consciousness.
The newspaper article told me one thing the detective hadn't. It was the 97th homicide this year.
I'm not sure how I did it. I calmly turned to the next page, then the next, as if this particular morning was like every other morning. It was as if I had just read about another woman, the mother of someone else's children, another man's wife. Even the day-old coffee had no effect on my numb mind. My mouth tasted its bitterness, my lips felt its cold, but it made no difference.
"Mr. Stone. Mr. Stone, are you still there? Mr. Stone!"
"Sorry."
"We understand Mr. Stone. We are accustomed to lapses in concentration. Would it be better to call back later?"
"No. No, lets get it over with. What's next?"
"Okay, Mr. Stone. I was just explaining that the physical appearance of your wife can be designed to make her look completely natural, covering all signs of her death. However, so that we may be faithful to her memory, my people need a picture that depicts the hairstyle and skin tone she should be viewed under. We will also need the clothing and any jewelry you would like for her to be viewed in.
"If you bring a selection of pictures and outfits, our designers can make some of the more trivial choices for you, and we'll also return to you anything that want, prior to sealing the casket."
"Right. Do-able. Pictures, clothes and jewelry. I'll have them sent over this afternoon."
The kids were wonderful. Robert was a model of stoicism, wiping his tears away as if nothing was wrong. During the day, Vickie seemed okay, but her aunt said she woke up every night screaming for her mommy.
She was so beautiful. The face I fell in love with before we even met, those strong fingers that massaged the tension out of my neck and shoulders after a bad day at school. Her thin, flat stomach still denies the birth of two children. The mortician did a great job, I thought. I've seen that look of contented sleep on her face a thousand times, as I lay beside her in our bed.
But now the bed is huge, and sleep defies me again. After stumbling to the bathroom and taking a couple of sleeping pills, I notice my face in the mirror. That's not me, I think to myself.
I feel like half a person, something tangible and real torn from my body. Fourteen years ago, I said, "I can't live without you," as I proposed to her. Somehow, I must make that cliché statement turn out false.
For our kid's sake, I hope I can.