Autopsy (Kay Scarpetta, #25)(16)

That’s a lot of maybes, and what I need is to be alone with my own thoughts and observations. I suggest to August that he find Marino. He should be sitting in his pickup truck waiting for my call. The two of them can confer, giving me a chance to make a high recon.

I want to observe and digest without prompting from anyone, and that won’t be easy with Fruge shadowing me. She watches in the doorway as I walk into the guest bedroom off the foyer directly to my left. There’s no furniture or overhead lighting, and I turn on my small flashlight, shining it around.

Picture hooks are still in the walls from artwork taken down. Wires dangle from the ceiling where light fixtures or fans once hung, and exposed jack wall plates and cable connectors are from missing phones and a television. I paint my light over the bare maple floor, the pale-yellow-painted walls.

The gold damask drapes are drawn, and I see nothing that might make me think a struggle went on. My booties make a slippery sound as I return to the sticky mats, making sure I don’t track anything from one room to the next. I head to the master suite on the other side of the entryway, making swishing sounds as I walk.

“I didn’t see anything in there, either,” Fruge informs me as she tags along. “The crime scene guys will do their thing once they’re let loose in here, and they’ll leave no stone unturned. But it appears to me the confrontation, the struggle went on between here and the sunporch. And then most importantly there’s the blood inside the garage.”

“I’ll save that for last,” I let her know as I walk into another dark bedroom.

There’s no overhead lighting in here either, just a lamp that’s not turned on. My flashlight finds more of the same bare flooring, pale-yellow-painted walls, exposed picture hooks and wall plates. The inflatable mattress Fruge mentioned could use some air, its sheets and two pillows slightly askew. I don’t see a blanket or cover anywhere.

A TV has been set up on a card table, and there’s a single folding chair with a warm-up suit draped over it, a pair of running shoes nearby. Opening the walk-in closet, I continue finding no sign that Gwen ever really moved into this place. It’s as if she fled from Boston with little more than the clothes on her back.

“Nothing’s making a lot of sense,” Fruge says as I direct my light at two pairs of running shoes still in their boxes and ankle-high boots neatly lined up on the floor. “Are we sure she was living here all the time? It sure doesn’t look like she planned to stay here long. Any possibility most of her stuff is somewhere else?”

“Your guess is as good as mine.” I illuminate two jackets and four blouses on hangers.

The rest of Gwen’s belongings are in four plastic storage containers despite plenty of built-ins for her few pairs of running tights, her T-shirts, hoodies, socks and undergarments. What I’m seeing isn’t consistent with a short-term rental. It’s more in keeping with someone on the lam who wanted to hide while staying light on her feet.

Had she decided to beat a hasty retreat, she could have packed up in no time and been gone. Or it’s possible she wasn’t staying here much, was back and forth to some unknown location. Living a secret life, in other words, and that’s what I’m picking up about the missing biomedical engineer. She had something to hide.

Ducking into the bathroom next, I shine my light around. Confronted by my own reflection in the mirror over the sink, I take off my fogged-up face shield because wearing it isn’t manageable. I feel overheated and clammy, and the reflection staring back at me looks like holy hell, my blue eyes slightly bloodshot above my double masks.

I open the medicine cabinet, empty except for a box of tampons, and I shut the mirrored door. The granite countertop around the sink is clean, nothing on it but a toothbrush, toothpaste, dental floss, facial soap, a hairbrush, a drinking glass. Some of it will be a good source of DNA. But the absence of other personal effects including cosmetics and jewelry is perplexing and disturbing.

“Something’s very wrong with this picture.” August’s voice sounds behind me.

It’s as if he’s reading my mind, standing outside the bathroom doorway with Fruge. He’s shining his light around, his eyes scanning behind clear plastic that’s fogging up.

“Where’s everything else?” he asks. “I’ve seen more crap than this in a flophouse hotel room that someone’s hired by the hour.”

“I agree it’s peculiar.” I hand him my face shield because I simply can’t wear it.

“I’m having the same problem,” he agrees, taking off his.

I open the shower door, the powerful beam of my tactical light flaring off the glass. Inside are shampoo, conditioner, a body cleanser, a razor, and that’s it.

Next, I check the cabinet under the sink, finding rolls of toilet paper and a toilet brush. The white towels on the racks look used, and I suggest those should go to the lab on the off chance a killer cleaned up in here, although I see no sign of it.

Sweat is running coolly down my back and chest as I investigate the wastepaper basket that doesn’t appear to have been emptied in a while. It’s filled with multiple empty toilet paper rolls and wadded tissues, and on top of them is some type of wrapper.

“Strange.” I shine my light on the cardboard backing and plastic. “From an ink pen.”

But not a normal one. The writing on the packaging is in English and Japanese, the pen actually a fabric marker that uses purple water-soluble ink.