Meeting Place of the Dead. Richard Palmisano

      “From her body? Her head?”

      “It’s from … her face. I feel like it’s the face and she has a pain here.” Joan indicated her abdominal area then paused, pushing aside the shower curtains. “No, someone was abusing her. It’s her husband.”

      “The same one from downstairs?”

      “That guy, yeah. That’s the one. They had the daughter or son; I don’t know, yet. It’d get scared, go downstairs and go to the little place.”

      “Uh hm. Under the stairs?”

      “Yeah.”

      [The surveillance camera microphone captures a child saying, “Get back momma.”

      A male voice comes over the microphone: “Oh oh.”

      The child calls out, “Dad,” sobbing and sounding frightened.

      Then there was a very loud big bang.]

      “So it sounds like she is dying or died of complications from the abuse. Beatings, or something like that, finally killed her?” Peter summarized.

      “She kills herself, I think. It’s so complicated. I can see the pain and every time she comes here … washes … and changes her clothes and goes. I can hear crying and this door was closed and she’s sitting here.” Joan sits on the edge of the bathtub. “And she’s just crying. She has black hair. She’s so worried about the things, I don’t know. This is the place she used to come most of the time.”

      “Like a retreat? A safe haven?”

      “She closed that door and locked it.”

      “Do you think she eventually died in this room?” Peter inquired.

      “I can see a woman is lying down here” — indicating the bathtub — “and the head is here” — indicating opposite the taps — “but I don’t know. She doesn’t move, but I can see her; she’s sitting here, also. I can see she’s not moving at all … and it’s bleeding.”

      “Is there water in there too, with her, or is it just her?”

      “She was just with the blood.”

      “From her head?”

      Leaving the rest of the team, Paul and I went downstairs. I was whistling.

      [The microphone records a child humming along.]

      Paul turned the upstairs light on from the bottom of the stairs. [A child yells, “No.”]

      [An older male says, “Hell.” And then calls out, “Danny.”

      Kid hums again.]

      “She has a pain from her tummy. I don’t know what happened; I can feel it. And she’s bleeding here, also. I cannot see if she took her life or … if someone killed her.”

      “She has no energy left. She just want to … oh … send off.”

      Joan stood inside the bathtub, touching the fixtures and pushing back the curtains. “She used to cry here.”

      She lifted a small toy black cat figurine lodged in the soap/shampoo rack and said, “They had a daughter. Yeah, it was a daughter, not a son. I can feel her now.” Joan replaced the cat figurine then stepped out of the bathtub, looking up to the ceiling panel leading to the roof. “She used to hide something up there. She used to come up here like this … and put it on the right side … and put something there, in this area.”

      “Something she didn’t want her husband to know about, perhaps? That’s the only thing I can think of. I mean, if she’s abused and needs to retreat here … she’d … put something up there?” Peter said.