If It's Any Consolation, Your Daughter Probably Died Almost Immediately Of Sheer TerrorCommentary • Family • doctors • Opinion • death • children • ISSUE 41•22 • Jun 1, 2005 By Detective Frank Cosloy Detective Frank Cosloy Mr. and Mrs. Frauenfelder? Yes, hello. Thank you for coming down today. I'm Detective Cosloy, one of the eight men here in Tulsa who found the body. The three men in Fort Worth who found the balance of the remains have air-messaged them, so they should be here by this afternoon. I know how difficult this must be for you, and I want to assure you that the department will do all that it can to make this experience—I'm sorry, of course it's... Come this way, won't you? I don't want to draw this out, so if you'd care to identify the remains? Yes, I'm terribly sorry. The facial structure was lost some due to repeated maceration with a hot iron, and the facial tissue has been... we're interrogating a butterfly-pinner employed at the university. You're certain this is Nan Frauenfelder? I'm so sorry for your loss. If it is any consolation, you should know that your daughter almost certainly died of excruciating terror well before this happened. Mr. Frauenfelder, while nothing I can say could ever alleviate the grief that you and your wife must be experiencing, please know that we are reasonably sure the drugs your daughter's assailant administered intravenously would have numbed her to any pain the restraints might have caused. Try to take what comfort you can from that. Oh yes, the restraints were quite... See the ligature marks on your daughter's wrists and ankles, and the two holes punched though each cheek with a leatherworking awl? That's where the restraining wires ran. But please, notice how clean those punctures are, Mrs. Frauenfelder. If Nan were conscious and aware of what was being done to her, she certainly would have struggled, causing tearing of the epidermis at the site of her facial puncture wounds. I can assure you that her heart gave out from panic before these wounds were delivered. Here, Mr. Frauenfelder, my handkerchief. That's correct, the substance injected into your daughter's ocular ducts was a muscular paralytic as well as a powerful industrial solvent—see where she wept tears of rich arterial blood here?—but contrary to news reports, that wouldn't have kept her alive and cognizant. You see, sheer horror would have overridden the drug and sent her into a coma-like sleep long before rapid cardiac action sprayed her bloody tears 12 feet from the box spring on which she was bound. I assure you of that. You see, your daughter's pulse was well over 200 beats per minute when she began "weeping." I think it's important that you know that the person who did this to your daughter was a real talker. It fits the sense of stagecraft involved in such dramatic and systematic torture. The relentless, sadistic, hypersexual monologue that probably accompanied your daughter's last moments of life would almost certainly have had a trance-inducing effect, allowing her to escape into a sort of mental cul-de-sac of excruciating fear. After all, we have samples of Nan's blood, taken from her remaining buttock, as well as from the ceiling, the meat hooks, the mirror fragments, the shark darts, and the dentist tools at the scene. The amount of adrenaline in those samples was high enough to burst a human heart in about four minutes. Mr. and Mrs. Frauenfelder, I do not fib when I tell you that overwhelming, soul-destroying fear rendered your daughter unconscious long before those microwave-oven parts bolted to her skull simmered her brain in its own fat. Oh? Officer Mooney told you she must have been alive at least long enough to eat the half-pound of tissue we recovered from her stomach? Mrs. Frauenfelder, please believe me when I tell you that there was enough electricity coursing through your daughter's panic-riven body to cause a purely reflexive, biogalvanic chewing-and-swallowing action. Neither Nan, nor any 19-year-old girl, would ever have the wherewithal—no matter what the circumstance—to chew and swallow the flesh of her own fingers. Mr. Frauenfelder, Mrs. Frauenfelder, I have daughters of my own. I can only imagine what you must be feeling. I realize there is nothing I can say to you at this time that will alleviate your loss, but please, do understand that, even if there were any residual brain activity at the moment Nan realized she was strapped to a meat slicer equipped with a high-powered gasoline engine, her actual personality would long have evaporated through the large, ulcerated burns creasing her cerebral cortex. Try to believe that, and take heart.