callers seriously. Tips could be submitted anonymously, although police promised better service if callers identified themselves. But either way, citizen tips were aggressively investigated.
As with the hundreds that had poured in with the murder of Terry Farina seven weeks ago, each one had been investigated. And most turned out to be duds. As the weeks passed, the calls became infrequent.
In the meantime, Steve worked on other cases but kept the case alive by occasionally sending out alerts to state and local police departments throughout southern New England, requesting any information on cold cases that might assist in the investigation of the serial stocking murders. For weeks nothing had come in until that afternoon.
The message that afternoon was forwarded to Steve. It came from a forensic anthropologist at Harvard named James Bowers. He was leaving for a conference that afternoon but would be back in his office on Monday to speak to him in person.
He had called to say that ten years ago the Massachusetts State Police had asked him to help identify a woman whose skeletal remains had been discovered off Hogg Island at the mouth of the Essex River. Divers looking for lobsters had discovered her skull, vertebrae, and partial rib cage entangled in an abandoned lobster pot. Despite the fact that the remains had yielded DNA markers, no identity had been made with any known missing person on record. Yet it was determined that the remains were those of a Caucasian female in her thirties or forties. Nothing else of the woman had been found—no clothing, affects, boat, or life jacket—except for scraps of material enmeshed with the bones and chemically identified as containing 87 percent nylon and 13 percent Lycra. Her death had been ruled suspicious.
Steve called the return number and left a message that he would like to talk with Bowers when he returned on Monday. Perhaps it was the credentials of the caller. Perhaps it was his sixth sense kicking up. But Steve felt a flicker of promise that took him through the weekend.
78
Aaron Monks seemed particularly animated that night.
It was their fourth date since her operation. The swelling was gone, and her nose had taken on the definition it would have permanently. And Dana loved it.
Even after so many weeks, she could still not get used to the transformation. For more than three decades she had looked at her face, known every angle, every possible expression, each nuance of emotional projection. Each wrinkle, blemish, and displeasing slant. There were no surprises. But the postop change had been so marked, so jarring, that she still saw someone else looking back at her from the mirror.
Lanie carried on as if she were a magazine model, and that she should start seeing herself as such and get out there and date. Because he wanted to keep their relationship discreet, Dana had said nothing about seeing Aaron Monks.
Since her yacht date on the Fourth of July, she had seen him on two follow-up visits at his office. Again he had apologized for getting carried away in the limo, blaming it on the champagne and the craziness of the moment. She understood and forgave him. Then he had called last week to ask if she wanted to join him for dinner tonight. He was leaving soon for a month in the Caribbean and wanted to see her one more time before he left. Because he was publicity-shy, he took her to a restaurant in Portsmouth, New Hampshire, to be away from any local newspeople. Again he asked that she not mention it to anyone. And she respected that.
They drove to a waterfront restaurant whose decor boasted an elegant nautical theme. They were led to a table by a corner window with a view of the harbor. Aaron ordered a bottle of champagne. “You’re so beautiful that I feel invisible next to you.”
“You’re too kind.”
“Really, your skin is perfectly smooth and bilaterally symmetrical. In fact, you’re one of the few women I’ve known whose face is a perfect phi.”
“A perfect phi?”
“The so-called golden ratio or divine proportion—the mathematical proportions found to recur in all things deemed beautiful like flowers and seashells, also music, paintings, and architecture. In the human face, it’s the various ratios between the width of the cheeks and the length of the face, the width of the nose and the width of the mouth, the width of the nose and the width of the cheek, et cetera. But it’s a constant: out to one to one point six one eight. Philosophers say it’s the ideal that beauty aspires to. The closer a face fits that ratio, the more attractive the face. And you’ve got it.”
“Well, if that’s so, you’re the one who deserves the credit.”
When the champagne came, he raised his glass to hers. “To the new Dana.”
“Thank you.”
“So, are you enjoying the change?”
“I’m still getting used to it.”
“But no conflict between the physical transformation and your inner self?”
“No, but it still feels like a stranger’s face.”
He nodded. “In time you’ll grow into it.”
Their meals came and they chatted pleasantly while Dana worked up the nerve to ask a question that had been with her since the first day. “I have a personal question, if you don’t mind.”
He smiled in anticipation.
“For a lack of a better term, most of your professional life is dedicated to human vanity—to people dissatisfied with their physical appearance.”
“You mean,” he interjected, “how come I haven’t had plastic surgery myself. Right? The rough skin, the mole, the crow’s-feet, the scar, et cetera, et cetera.”
Her face flushed and she started to formulate an apology, but he made a wave of dismissal.
“A perfectly natural question and one I’ve heard before. I’ll give you the answer I give to all patients conflicted about aesthetic enhancement.” He tapped the side of his head with his finger. “The need is more on the inside than it is on the outside. Frankly, I’m not at a place where I feel ready for cosmetic surgery. Yes, I have all the signs of aging. My own eyelids droop and the chin is beginning to sag. And there’s the pocked skin and the mole. But I’ve not felt the compulsion. And should I reach that point someday, then I’ll have something done.” He picked up a spoon and examined his reflection. “And probably sooner than later.” He chuckled.
“Hardly.”
Back in the spring he had received a humanitarian award for helping develop new procedures for attaching a new facial “flap” to recipients’ nerves and blood vessels, as well as pharmaceutical strategies for reducing the risks of rejection and infection and, thus, a lifetime of immunosuppressant drugs to fight rejection. According to the media, the success rate was so high that candidates with serious disfigurements had lined up as recipients of new faces from cadavers at his clinic and others where his procedures had been instituted. “You must get great satisfaction from your humanitarian work.”
“Yes, very. And it wasn’t simply the medical issues we had to surmount but ethical ones. Some people had argued, perhaps rightfully so, that a facial disfigurement was not life-threatening and therefore wasn’t worth a lifetime on immunosuppressant drugs. For organ transplants—liver, heart, kidneys—yes, but not for faces. But, of course, disfigured patients are tormented by depression and shame. And that’s the justification. We’re seeing people returning to their normal lives, being able to smile again, raise their eyebrows, move their facial muscles, and regain full mobility and sensation. Yes, it’s very satisfying.”
“Do you ever get patients worrying that they may look like the faces of the donors?”
“You mean like in that movie
“Like the Elvis impersonator.”
“Yes, but we still had to make fat injections to get the chin right. But he did come out looking like a double. The important thing is that the procedure touches upon fundamental human aspects of identity. People identify with their appearance. They become how they look.”
