Before You Knew My Name by Jacqueline Bublitz (most inspirational books of all time .TXT) 📗

on the other side of the room, heading, she assumes, to the bowels of the building, where the real work happens. Imagining coolers and plastic-wrapped bodies and the rows of carved up remains down there, frozen under her feet. Ruminating on ribs cracked open, on organs scooped out, the recordings of last meals and the weight of hearts, and in the case of the Jane and John Does, the blank spaces where their names should be. Thinking, of course, about me.

Standing awkwardly in this room, Ruby is nearly as close to me as she was that Tuesday morning exactly two weeks ago, when mere metres separated us. A longing to see me again has brought her down here, crazy as she thinks this might make her. Sometimes, she even finds herself thinking she would go back to that morning down by the river if she could. It feels sacred to her now, that time we had before those officers arrived, though she would not think to name it as such. Sacred is my word for it, when she still worries that I have become an obsession. Something she needs to resolve.

I know better.

Here at the morgue, Ruby wonders whether other people are getting closer to solving the mystery for her. Has Detective O’Byrne pored through enough files, looked over enough photographs and searched enough databases to have something click over in his mind, start spiralling toward my identity? And will that inevitably lead the detective to the man who did this? Ruby thinks about this more than she’d like to these days, too. Thinks about him. The fact that my murderer is out there somewhere, knowing what he did. Getting away with it and going about his life, which seems to Ruby so horribly, grossly unfair.

Feeling conspicuous in the small, sparsely decorated lobby, she focuses her attention on the Latin motto written across the wall behind the front desk. Mouthing the ancient words, getting lost in their rhythms, she doesn’t realise she’s speaking out loud again, until the impassive man behind the desk looks up, asks if there is anything that he can help her with.

Ruby’s cheeks colour.

I don’t think you can help me, she wants to answer, looking past him to the double doors, swinging. Not unless you know the girl down there.

There are people in this building who know my body as intimately as a lover might. They know of the tiny mole in the arch of my left foot. The faint scar on my left elbow from a childhood scab that got infected. They know my pubic area was waxed a few weeks before my death. Underarms and legs shaved, perhaps the day before. They know I am not a virgin, that my eyes are blue, and one or two of the male pathologists stop, as they examine my body, to think how pretty I must have been, without half of my face smashed in. Privately, they agree that the forensic artist’s sketches haven’t quite captured the fullness of my lips or the honey of my hair.

Some men get obsessed with the dead as much as the living.

And it’s not just these men, the ones who are required to look at me, either. Through Ruby’s ever-increasing time spent online, she has been introduced to a thriving underground network of amateur detectives who frequent forums and websites dedicated to their passion: solving murder mysteries. Anonymous people, strangers to me and to each other, these true crime enthusiasts spend much of their waking hours tapping out theories on everything from decades-old murders to brand new cases like mine, their hunches and what ifs glowing out from computer screens across the globe.

The first time Ruby found a discussion thread specifically focused on my murder investigation, she almost couldn’t believe it. But she is used to it now, because, with my identity still a mystery, the case has generated a lot of interest online. Initially, the less generous speculations about me made her mad, but she’s gotten used to that, too. There are people who insist I’m this druggie chick they used to know, and others who swear I’m a prostitute they met somewhere, sometime, but thankfully, most of the forum members she encounters are circumspect when discussing the possibilities and probabilities of my life.

I am not an unusual case to this true crime crowd, not by any means. But I am shiny and new, a fresh face on the list of lost and founds they pore over, all the Janes and Johns, and the people who got to keep their names when they met their mysterious, nefarious ends.

Some men get obsessed with the dead as much as the living.

To be fair, many people see their fascination with us as a kind of public service. An extra set of consolations, and more importantly, an extra set of eyes on the prize. These are the men and women who dedicate themselves to solving cold cases, who learn the names of the official investigators assigned to these cases, and don’t hesitate to share their theories with both the police and each other. These self-taught criminologists share concerns about under-resourced police departments and clues potentially missed; they are a small army advancing through the nation of the dead. Points are scored if they can pair a recently discovered Jane or John with a known missing person. A game of Snap is played out via the keyboard, even if the cards rarely seem to match.

I am now part of the game, flipped over, examined. Riverside Jane. The more famous amongst us, the ones who get whole message boards for themselves, are all given nicknames like this. Main Street Jane, and Pit Stop John. Clearwater Jane, Suitcase Jane, Laneway Jane, Bus Station Jane, Barrel Jane, Sunoco Jane, Rolling Stone Jane (the last, because of the T-shirt she was wearing when they found her severed torso). Does anyone else think that Walmart Jane could be NamUs case number—and so begins a flurry of conversation and keyboard clicks,