Autopsy(Kay Scarpetta #25)(4)

“What else do we know about Gwen?” I’m taking off my shoes and pants.

“That’s another thing that’s unusual,” August says. “If you Google her, there’s nothing. It’s like she doesn’t exist.”

“Including on social media?” I hang up my suit.

“Nope. Not even Twitter. No news stories, either. Nothing.”

“What about photographs inside her condo, maybe framed ones placed about? A scrapbook? Any pictures that might be her?” Sitting down on the toilet lid, I pull on a pair of warm socks. “Do we know what Gwen looks like?”

I envision the murder victim’s face, her long brown hair and athletic build, and I suspect she was attractive. But it’s hard to tell.

“I asked Fruge the same thing, and no pictures so far. Her lab director describes her as around five-foot-five,” August says as I work my legs into a pair of black cargo pants. “Maybe a hundred-and-twenty-five pounds, brown eyes and shoulder-length brown hair.”

“Sounds about right but that could be a lot of people,” I reply, caught in my usual predicament.

I want the victim identified. But I wouldn’t wish what happened to her on Gwen Hainey or anyone.

“I’ve got an electronic copy of her driver’s license,” August says. “It’s an old picture, her hair really short and blond. D.O.B. is June fifth, nineteen eighty-eight. She’s five-foot-four, which is almost right. But thirty pounds heavier, and I can’t swear it’s the same person. Apparently, the town house she’s in is a short-term rental, and there are very few personal belongings.”

“Does she have a tattoo?” I’m putting on my boots.

“Her lab director wasn’t aware of any visible ones, and I didn’t volunteer what we know about the tattoo the murdered woman has.”

“And do we know why Gwen temporarily relocated to Old Town?” I’m tying my laces in double bows.

“From what I’ve been told, she was starting her new job at Thor. She didn’t want to make any long-term commitments until she was sure it would work out. It would seem it was urgent for her to get into the townhome right away.”

“Relocated from where?” I put on a long-sleeved black tactical shirt with the OCME crest on it, a caduceus and the scales of justice embroidered in blue, gold and red.

“Boston,” August says as I walk out of the bathroom, buttoning up. “I texted you a picture, what Fruge sent me. A ten-pound kettlebell weight that’s in the townhome’s entryway. A weird place for it unless it was being used as a doorstop, right?”

“I’m opening the photo now,” I tell him as I do it.

The kettlebell is round, flat-bottomed, bright blue with a shiny stainless-steel looped handle. It’s lying on its side to the left of the front door on the hardwood floor, and August wonders if an attacker might have used it to hit Gwen in the back of the head.

“Assuming she and the murdered woman from Friday night are one and the same,” he adds.

“Are we sure Officer Fruge didn’t move anything?” I enlarge the photo on my phone.

“She says she didn’t except for looking inside the knapsack. When she did her walk-through, she had on a mask and gloves, was being careful. That’s what she says.”

“And then what?”

“And then she waited until the crime scene unit got there. They’ve done their overall, taken video and photos. But they won’t come in and process anything until you and I take a look.”

“Except we don’t know if it’s really a crime scene, do we?” I ask the most glaring question.

I imagine the missing biomedical engineer returning home and finding cops inside her place, turning it upside down. Even worse if the medical examiner is there, and I don’t need that my first month on the job. I have enough trouble.

“Do you feel you have probable cause for a search warrant?” I ask August.

“We’ll have the warrant within the hour.”

“What makes you think something violent happened?” Opening a cabinet, I pull out the big black Pelican case I take to scenes. “What signs of a struggle are we talking about?”

“Apparently there’s blood inside the garage, and the furniture is disarranged in the living room. I think you’d better come,” he says, and we end the call.

Putting on my coat, I lock up for the night, following the windowless corridor of shut office doors, the walls and floor pale gray, the lighting low. Wyatt the security guard is walking off the elevator, headed toward me, carrying what I suspect is his bagged supper.

“Have a good night,” I say to him. “Hopefully, a quiet one.”

“It’s always quiet around here, ma’am. Too quiet.” He hangs a left into the breakroom where the on-call forensic investigator is making a pot of French press coffee.

Fabian is dressed in the same uniform of tactical field clothes that I have on, and my preference would have been not to run into him right now. It’s obvious that I’m headed to a scene, my big Pelican case in hand, and I don’t want him riding shotgun or even thinking about it.

“You shouldn’t show up by yourself,” he says, and obviously my secretary got to him. “I saw Maggie when she was leaving a few minutes ago, and she felt it was better if I went with you to the townhome. I’m ready and waiting, and the coffees can be to-go. Would you like one?”