The truth did not come gently.
By the time the medical examiner finished, the room felt colder than the steel on the table. Multiple sharp force injuries.
Not one cut, not one mistake—over and over again, until two lives were erased in a spray of silent violence.
Neighbors heard nothing. Friends saw nothing.
But the bodies told everyth
Rob and Michele’s final moments were written into their skin with a blade.
“Multiple sharp force injuries” is the clinical phrase,
but it fails to capture the terror: the repeated strikes, the desperate
attempts to shield vital organs, the chaos of a struggle no one came to stop. Each wound becomes a data point,
each angle and depth a clue to rage, fear, and intent.
For investigators, the autopsy is not just about how they died, but what kind of person made them die that way.
Overkill can suggest personal hatred; defensive wounds can prove they fought for their lives. In the end,
the sterile language of the report is a thin veil over a brutal truth:
someone stood close enough to feel their breath, and chose, again and again, not to let them live.
