Autopsy (Kay Scarpetta, #25)(6)

The contused and lacerated area of her scalp is approximately four inches in diameter, the round shape of it consistent with the possible weapon. Whatever was used, the blow to her head would have been immediately incapacitating.

She wasn’t walking around or talking afterward. It’s not the cause of death although it might have been eventually. Surviving long enough for swelling and internal bleeding, she died after her throat was sliced ear to ear with some type of nonserrated cutting instrument.

After death, her hands were cut off, and that means no fingerprints. Maybe that was the reason. But there are other ways to identify someone, and we’re not having any success so far. She’s not in the FBI’s Combined DNA Identification System database better known as CODIS. Maybe we’ll get lucky with a genealogical profile.

We might learn something important from other evidence I began collecting at the scene, mostly microscopic particles of rust, wood, and various minerals consistent with the rocky railroad bed. But I also found fibers all over her body including in her hair, and suspect the source of them might be whatever the killer wrapped around her during transport.

Something like a multicolored blanket made of a synthetic fabric, and I suspect she was first attacked indoors. I envision her panicking, trying to get away from her assailant, bumping into things as he grabs at her before knocking her unconscious.

Then transporting her somewhere, he finished her off, possibly near the railroad tracks where he left her. We found no evidence of such a thing when we searched the area Friday night. But it was raining hard enough that any blood would have washed away or been next to impossible to find as big and densely wooded as the park is.

Taking several more photographs, I zip up the body bag, pulling off my gloves. I step around gurneys bearing other patients in this sad clinic. Outside the cooler, I remove my personal protective equipment (PPE). Into the red biohazard trash bag everything goes, and I help myself to a big dollop of hand sanitizer before collecting my belongings.

I walk past the security office, and there’s no sign of Wyatt behind the bulletproof glass window. No doubt he’s holed up in the breakroom, monitoring the security cameras on the flat screen in there. He doesn’t like the morgue, especially after hours. A lot of people don’t, and it’s always struck me as silly, because it’s not the dead who will hurt you.

I exit the building through the vehicle bay where bodies are delivered and driven away. The size of a small hangar, it’s empty now, just our mobile emergency response truck. Near it is a zodiac boat and pallets of heavy-duty water-recovery body bags, disposable sheets, gallons of disinfectant and other necessities.

The beige epoxy-painted floor is still wet from being hosed down, my boots making a quiet sticky sound. Zipping up my coat and pulling up my hood, I open the pedestrian door leading outside, startled by the guttural rumble of a turbocharged engine idling in the volatile dark.





CHAPTER 3


PETE MARINO CREEPS UP in his blacked-out Ford Raptor pickup truck as I wait in the downpour next to the morgue’s shut bay door. His headlights illuminate my take-home Subaru in its parking spot reserved for the chief M.E., perhaps the only perk of the job as it’s turning out.

“Get in, Doc. No way you’re driving yourself anywhere right now,” he booms through his rolling-down window, and it’s been a while since I’ve seen him this keyed up, maybe not since his wedding day.

A knit cap covers his bald head, and he has on a ballistic vest under his camouflage hunting jacket, his demeanor as serious as a heart attack, to borrow one of his expressions. Obviously, Maggie must have gotten hold of him, passing along that I’ve been detained and need to postpone Lucy’s birthday celebration.

But that doesn’t explain why he’s picking me up unannounced while commandeering and ordering me about. I know that look on his sun-weathered face. Something has pushed his panic button, and I set my scene case on the floor in back near his Heckler & Koch MP5 and an Army surplus ammo box.

“What’s happened?” The rain is blowing like mad, soaking my cargo pants and streaming into my eyes as I climb up into the passenger seat.

“This couldn’t be much worse, Doc.” He hands me a dingy microfiber towel to dry off. “Best I can do, sorry. But better than nothing. I thought I had a roll of paper towels in here, dammit! I can’t believe it!”

“Am I in some sort of danger that no one’s told me about?” I wipe myself down, getting a whiff of Armor All. “Is my sister all right? Is Lucy okay? What’s got you in such an uproar?”

“I can’t believe this is happening.” He’s not talking about the storm or my dripping all over his immaculate cockpit that still smells new.

I place my briefcase in my lap, mindful of the 10mm pistol on the console, his matte-gray Guncrafter Industries 1911 built from billet with Trijicon optic sights and custom grips. Cocked and locked with the thumb safety on, it’s loaded with two-hundred-grain Buffalo Bore rounds that could take out a grizzly, I have a feeling.

If that’s not enough firepower, he has his submachine gun and plenty of highly destructive ammunition within reach on the backseat. I suppose if we end up in a shootout I could pitch in with the Sig Sauer P226 in my briefcase, I think sardonically, halfway wondering if he’s losing his marbles.

“Are you expecting a gunfight, a riot, an insurrection?” I put on my shoulder harness, and I’m not being funny. “What’s got you in such a state? You’re scaring me.” I keep thinking of the victim in my cooler, and his missing neighbor, Gwen Hainey.