The Anatomy of Deception - Lawrence Goldstone [89]
“Now that you have the details you requested, Dr. Carroll,” Eakins interjected suddenly, “perhaps you can tell us what you have uncovered.”
I was jarred. So caught up had I been in hearing their tale, that I had completely forgotten that I would now be forced to reveal that their friend was quite possibly dead. I had no shortage of experience in bearing bad news to patients and relatives, of course, and it was always with genuine pain that I did so, but nothing in my experience had prepared me for this. After hearing how much Abigail blamed herself, seeing her blot away tears, I desperately did not want to be the bearer of such news to her. But what else could I do?
Calling on my professional demeanor as best I could, and treading delicately on the particulars, I described the incident thirteen days before in the Dead House. I selectively recounted my evening with Turk, and concluded the rendition with a bowdlerized version of my investigation, locating his rooms, his death in my presence, and then my dealings with Haggens.
When I had completed the tale, no one spoke. Eakins turned to Abigail and began once more to reach for her, but stopped himself. I too wanted to comfort her, but could scarcely take a woman in my arms in a public place. Seeing her grief, I knew with utter conviction that I loved her deeply. My jealousy about Eakins was based only in my shortcomings, not hers.
“Poor Rebecca,” Abigail said finally in a choked whisper, dropping her hands into her lap. Her face had become a blank, as if now even tears would have been inadequate. “I suppose I knew all the time, but refused to admit it.”
In that second, I knew I could not let my revelations be the source of her desolation. I had to prove to her that all was not lost. “Wait,” I interjected quickly. “I know this is dismaying news, but it is hardly the end. All I have said is conjecture. Conjecture, Abigail! I can be in no way certain that the corpse I saw for only a brief moment was Rebecca. Nor has any other evidence been brought forth to support that conclusion. It is certainly not impossible, in a city where so many die young, that the woman in the morgue merely bore a close resemblance to your friend.”
At that, Abigail straightened in her chair, her eyes alert and hopeful. Encouraged, I continued. “I am a scientist, Abigail. I don’t accept something as true simply because it is probably true, nor should you.”
“He’s right, Abby,” said Eakins, grasping eagerly at my words as well. “There’s no reason to give up now. Dr. Carroll will continue his inquiries, isn’t that true, Dr. Carroll?”
“Certainly,” I agreed.
“Is there no way to determine if Rebecca was the woman you saw?” Abigail asked me.
“At this juncture, there is no way to be certain without an exhumation.”
“An exhumation?” she exclaimed, horrified. “That would be barbaric.”
“I did not say that I would recommend such a course now,” I said, “merely that if Rebecca is not found, it might be the only eventual alternative.”
“Yes, Abby,” Eakins enjoined. “Not now. For now, we will keep looking. Dr. Carroll will tell us how to proceed. After all, he’s done a splendid job so far. I for one would not have believed that he could have found out as much as he has. And who knows that at any moment Rebecca won’t appear at your door?”
Abigail was frantic to maintain hope. “Will you, Ephraim? Will you keep looking?”
“Of course,” I assured her. She had not turned to Eakins in her moment of greatest anxiety; she had turned to me. I am embarrassed to confess that my spirit soared at the knowledge. Then, to complete my triumph, she said to the painter, “Thomas, I thank you for being here, but I would like to be alone with Ephraim.”
To my surprise, Eakins was more than amenable to the notion. He rose immediately, made his farewells, and strode to the door. I followed him with my eyes as he moved across the room in that coiled way he had. I was about to turn back to Abigail when, just as Eakins reached the exit, the man with the