I have dug.
I have bored.
I have burrowed and mined, excavated and quarried through every messy scrap of the car accident searching for meaty bits to attach to my Cozy.
I have found one.
A juicy emotional appendage to lop onto my sleuth.
How morbid of me.
Bottom line: Sometimes you must be to your story what Dr. Frankenstein was to his monster. Writing, alas, is not for the squeamish.