Media coverage of the Jasmine Fiore murder - specifically, that her teeth were ripped out and fingers cut off, so that all that was left to identify her were the serial numbers on her breast implants – reminds me of another case from 2003.

On April 13, 2003, Maria Cruz left her midtown Manhattan apartment, shopped at a department store near West 16th Street, and vanished without a trace until February of the following year, when her body was finally recovered.  She had been stuffed inside a suitcase and sealed inside cement: baggage never meant to be claimed. Serial numbers on her breast implants were all that was left to reveal her identity. 

Later, detectives discovered that on the morning she disappeared, she had an appointment with a Dr. Faiello.  Little did Maria know: In 2002, Dr. Faiello was arrested for practicing medicine without a license.  He pleaded guilty, but he served no time. Shortly thereafter, he opened a medical office in an apartment on West 16th Street in New York – the same street where Maria was last seen. The rest of the story tells itself: a panicked “doctor” who accidentally kills a patient and tries to clean up his mess by hiding the body. 

When I first learned about Maria six years ago, I could not help but think about how her breast implants – stamped with individual serial numbers – were more identifiable than her own skin and bones.  Reporters seemed to find it almost funny, repeating the detail over and over:  “You will not believe how detectives identified this woman.” 

It started to sound like a warning, a cautionary tale for women everywhere. But what was the message?Dare to make your body meet our standards, and this could be you – your implants the big joke on CNN. Dare not to make your body meet our standards, and your body – and there will be a body someday – will never be identified. Your choice. 

After all, the very implants Maria Cruz had purchased to make her body more ideal – which by definition, means less distinct, less individual – had ended up identifying her in the end. They were more individual than her own remains.  

In the case of Jasmine Fiore, I notice a similar obsession with the method of identification, and I find it fascinating, especially in light of recent controversies over the reliability and accuracy of forensic evidence. It would be easy to assume people have mostly a prurient interest in the breast implant details, but six years after the discovery of Maria Cruz, things seem a little different this time.  I cannot help but wonder if something else is going on here, some collective expression of doubt about the meaning of identity when even our fingerprints can be mistaken, and even DNA can be fabricated in a lab. Maybe, just maybe, we realize the cautionary tale is bigger this time, something more than another horror story about – and for – women.