I still have 17 pieces of shrapnel in my neck.

We carry secrets under our skin like shrapnel. Our surface wounds heal, but the damage festers underneath while we worry what tiny pieces will work their way to the surface for the world to see.

My baby was bruised from his neck to his forehead. He had two pieces of meat taken out of his face; this man left my baby there to die.

These big pieces and headdresses, I see them more as abstractions than as subjects.

We've picked up thousands of pieces so far, at hundreds of locations.

This is a high-profile case and some of the pieces of the puzzle are missing,