There is an old superstition that the eyes of a murdered woman hold the last thing she saw in life, and that her voice, if breath is moved through her lungs and mouth, will speak the name of her killer. Diana Hunter’s retinas hold no such imprint, and if her voice speaks when I depress her chest, it is too quietly for me to hear. Perhaps she has already whispered everything she knows to the coroner, or the assistant who washed the body.