Autopsy (Kay Scarpetta, #25)(87)

“God forbid it ends up everywhere,” she adds.

“Possibly making its way to Virginia or maybe it already has.” I explain we had three possible overdoses today that have evaded standard toxicology screens. “Given the appropriate assay, we can check for iso metabolites present in postmortem samples. But I’m wondering how we’re supposed to do that for any variants.”

As luck would have it, that’s exactly what Greta Fruge is working on these days at her Richmond-based private laboratory. The project is a huge one that in part is funded by the National Institute of Drug Abuse (NIDA).

“We’re developing assays that can be commercially available to hospitals, research and forensic labs,” she explains. “Developing them quickly, trying to stay ahead of the curve in a way that government can’t begin to compete with without the assistance of private companies.”

“I appreciate anything you can do,” I reply. “Maybe you wouldn’t mind talking to my chief toxicologist Rex Bonetta.”

“Happy to, since I taught him everything he knows,” she fairly chortles, and there’s the peacock I remember. “By the way, I’m starting a podcast, Tox Doc, and you’d be such a fun guest, Kay,” she adds, and I can’t imagine anything more boring than listening to the two of us discussing chemistry.

“Tox Doc? That sounds like a real snoozer. Either that or she gives ideas to the wrong people,” Marino says after I end the call, and we’re making good time, my office minutes out. “Imagine having her for your mother, being overshadowed like that when you were coming along. That couldn’t be fun.”

“I agree, and it’s nagging at me that Blaise Fruge feels she has much to prove.”

“No kidding.”

“She doesn’t always look before she leaps, that’s for sure.” I envision her bobbing light floating along the railroad tracks. “And she doesn’t know when to quit.”

“Well, she’s going to get hurt if she’s not careful,” Marino predicts. “And I hope she’s not a snitch for Maggie.”

We’ve reached my parking lot, the only vehicles the office vans and the truck that I believe belongs to Wyatt. I hand Marino my electronic swipe so he can open the gate from his window.

“Fruge needs to be careful or she’s going to piss off people like August,” he says. “Maybe some of the investigators in her own department too, assuming she hasn’t already.”

“Sounds familiar,” I reply. “Reminds me of you when we were getting started. You didn’t exactly win popularity contests with your comrades, and definitely not with the brass. So, maybe there’s hope for her.”

MOMENTS LATER, WE’RE WALKING through the empty vehicle bay, and I’m mindful of the cameras, hoping Wyatt’s doing his job and paying attention. I unlock the door leading inside as he walks off the elevator, not exactly happy to see us.

“What’s going on that you’re back here at this hour?” He uneasily looks at Marino and me. “I hope they haven’t found more pieces and parts.”

“Nothing else that we know of.” I head to the morgue log, finding one new entry since Marino picked me up a few hours ago.

Human remains in dumpster, Fruge wrote and initialed, adding the address of the grocery store in question.

“Wait here for a minute,” I tell Marino as I open the cooler’s heavy door.

A foul-smelling condensation drifts like mist, the frigid air blowing loudly. The body parts are zipped inside a folded black vinyl pouch that I carry out, and the next stop is the autopsy suite.

“We’ll take a look. Then I want to get this back into the cooler as quickly as possible,” I explain. “Otherwise the decomposition will get only more advanced.”

We put on masks and gloves, and I cover a stainless-steel table with a disposable sheet, placing a blue towel on it, also a plastic ruler and a camera. Turning on a surgical lamp, I open the pouch, and the severed hands are pale and wrinkled, the outer layer of skin slipping off.

“They’re small enough to be hers,” Marino says.

I set them down palm up and side by side on the blue towel, and he begins taking pictures.

“Like a woman’s, like Gwen’s would be,” he adds, and each hand was raggedly amputated at the wrist joint.

The dark red wounds are dry, and adhering to them are bits of grass and other debris. The fingernails are unpainted and moderately long. Two of them are broken, one down to the quick, and it will be easy enough matching the hands to Gwen Hainey’s body.

“Through a number of means,” I explain, finding my magnifier glasses, putting them on.

“It looks to me like she’s got good enough ridge detail left for prints,” Marino observes. “And DNA should work okay.”

“Yes, and also whatever cutting instrument was used will have left tool marks on bone that can be fracture-matched,” I reply.

“She fought like hell.”

“Does Cliff Sallow have any injuries on his arms, hands, neck or face? Scratches, bruises?” I find a pair of nail clippers.

“Nothing I could see,” Marino says. “But he had on long pants, long sleeves when I talked to him.”

“I’ll clip what’s left of her nails.” I start doing it. “But I’m not hopeful about any DNA her assailant might have transferred to her body, her clothing or anything else. I doubt it would have survived five days in a dumpster. But it’s not impossible.”