Autopsy(Kay Scarpetta #25)(65)

I pull out the scene case I carried home last night, and his window rolls down as I walk by.

“Be careful, and I mean it,” he says with a smile. “Don’t forget I love you.”

“And don’t you forget,” I reply, and he drives off quietly as I enter the bay to the strong odor of exhaust, the loud noise of a diesel engine running.

A funeral home’s old white van is parked inside, its rear doors open wide. Fabian helps a smartly dressed attendant maneuver an unwieldly stretcher down the concrete ramp that leads into the intake area of the building. The rotund pouched body is covered with a blue velour quilt, the name of the funeral home, Rivers Rest, embroidered on it.

They’re careful not to let their heavy payload get away from them or topple over, the attendant hanging on for dear life while Fabian mutters a few choice words under his breath. He’s dressed in dark blue scrubs and rubber clogs instead of his usual investigative garb, his long jet-black hair tied back in a ponytail.

“What have we got here?” I announce myself, dropping the plastic takeout bags into the trash.

But not before Fabian notices the White House seals on them. He walks over to inspect.

“Yowzers.” He picks up one of the takeout bags. “Looks like you’ve had quite the outing.”

Ignoring his comment, I introduce myself to the attendant, an older man in a dark suit and a polka-dotted red bow tie.

“I’m the new chief,” I explain to him, and his van is gushing exhaust that’s filling the bay.

“Nice to meet you, I’m Howie Rivers.” He nods at me, then resumes ferrying his unwieldy cargo, one of the stretcher’s wheels sticking.

I push the big green button on the epoxy-sealed cinder block wall, and the motorized door begins to retract with a loud clanking and creaking. Cold air seeps in, and through the big square opening I can see more people headed to their cars. It’s getting to be the magic hour, employees egressing through the lobby, and nothing much has changed.

Most of the scientists and support staff avoid the scenic route through the morgue, the intake area and the vehicle bay. The same was true back in my Richmond days, not everybody interested in seeing the gory source of the evidence they examine. A lot of people don’t want to know a story they might not forget.

DNA scientists in particular don’t want to be told why there’s blood on a weapon, skin cells on a ski mask, seminal fluid on a rug or where the pubic hair came from. For many, all that matters is whose DNA it is or isn’t, and I have to remind myself regularly that what’s routine for me is aberrant to polite society.

“We don’t want to keep vehicle engines running while the door is down,” I remind Fabian and Howie. “Carbon monoxide can build up in a hurry.”

I shouldn’t have to tell them that. They’re well versed in what kills, knowing it up close and personal the same way I do, and I suppose that’s part of the problem. The abnormal becomes normal, and people get complacent if not careless.

“We took a little longer than planned getting her out of the cooler,” Fabian explains. “Not what I’d call a fun time.”

“She weighs over three hundred pounds.” Howie parks the stretcher by the van’s tailgate, and I examine the toe tag attached to the heavy-duty black body bag’s zipper.

The name penned on it isn’t one I recognize, the location simply listed as an alleyway several miles west of here, and it’s the case Rex was telling me about over the phone a few minutes ago. The death occurred late morning while I was inside the Situation Room, and Fabian responded to the scene.

“I was present for the autopsy,” he lets me know as I help them collapse the stretcher’s legs.

We slide the body into the back of the van, and Howie drives off in a wake of belching exhaust.

“You need some help carrying all that?” Fabian asks as I collect my belongings off the concrete floor.

“I’ve got it but thanks.” I walk up the ramp, and he hurries ahead of me to open the door.

“I’m ready and waiting if anything good comes in,” he adds, and nothing coming into this place is ever good.

He follows me inside, an empty gurney on the floor scale that he rolls past the cooler and freezer, in the direction of the autopsy suite. I head to the security office directly ahead, and Wyatt is sitting at his desk. On the ledge outside his window is the big black morgue log anchored by a thin chain, the ballpoint pen attached by a string so no one can walk off with them.

The Virginia medical examiner’s system has been keeping the logs since the early 1940s, and like the notebooks I carry, the records are initial impressions. They’re what first responders jotted down at the time, the entries made by those who bring the dead and carry them away.

For the most part, we’re talking about funeral home and removal service attendants. But it could be one of my investigators, especially if I’m worried about preserving evidence during transport. But also, when a body has no other secure means of conveyance, we take care of it, and that became common practice during the pandemic.

Commercial transporters were overwhelmed, and my former forensic center in Cambridge, Massachusetts, had no choice but to take care of all pickups and removals in our black windowless vans. That placed the drivers solidly in the chain of evidence, and what a huge responsibility, not to mention a liability. The log is an important legal guestbook that people shouldn’t want their names in for any reason.