“Can you please describe what you saw?”
Monica flinched. “Well…she was on the ground…flopping around. I thought she was having a seizure. But there was blood everywhere.”
“What did you do?” Sonia asked.
“We wanted to help. Kami knows first aid. We put pressure on the wounds, tried to stop the bleeding.”
“Did she say anything to you?”
Monica shook her head. “I think…she couldn’t breathe.”
“Then what happened?”
“We were calling for help. An old lady came. She held her hand and talked to her. Then the girl stopped breathing…stopped moving.”
“Did you try to resuscitate her?”
Monica’s gaze tracked up to the ceiling. She grimaced, then squeezed her eyes shut.
“I don’t know CPR,” she said, “and Kami was—well, she was just freaking out. We both were. There was so much blood. I don’t think…well, I don’t think CPR would have helped.”
“Then what happened?”
“Then there were a lot of people. Screaming. A priest came. He said a prayer. They called the police…and then they came. That’s it.” She exhaled shakily.
“When you arrived in the chapel where the woman was stabbed,” Sonia said, “did you see anyone else?”
She shook her head, face turning pink again. “No.”
“We didn’t find any identification,” Sonia pressed. “No wallet or purse. No phone. Did you happen to notice a phone on or around the woman?”
“No…nothing like that.”
“Did you recognize the victim?”
Monica shook her head. “No.”
Sonia said, “Is it alright if I show you a picture?”
She opened an electronic tablet and flicked through the photographs before setting it on the table between them.
Nikki hesitated.
She disliked seeing accidents or violent crime scenes. Death stripped away a person’s depths and nuances. Relationships, experiences, desires—all reduced to the crudest dimensions: meat, bone, blood. In death, a person was at their most vulnerable; to witness it an intimate invasion.
At last, she turned to the image.
The woman was young—brown cheeks full, soft lips parted as if in surprise. There was blood on her face, and small soft white feathers, like a wounded bird.
“Do you recognize this woman?” Sonia asked.
Monica’s already pink face reddened.
“No,” she said, and squeezed her eyes shut.
Sonia nodded and leaned forward on the table. “The knife,” she said. “Did you happen to see the knife?”
“I don’t know,” said Monica. She passed a hand across her face.
