Bones Never Lie (Temperance Brennan, #17)(24)

Ryan was in the kitchen, pouring Raisin Bran into bowls. The cat was asleep on top of the fridge.

“Jesus, Ryan. Why didn’t you ring me? Or holler up?”

“I figured you were tired.” Adding milk to the cereal. “Eat.”

“We need to go.”

“Eat.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“You have to eat.”

“No. I don’t.”

“I do.”

Ryan filled two travel mugs with coffee, added cream to mine. Then he sat and began spooning flakes into his mouth.

Eyes rolling, I sat and emptied my bowl. “Can we leave now?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Salute to the brim of his cap. Which was purple and said This is not your father’s hat in Spanish.

The drive took only minutes. An advantage to crossing uptown on a Saturday morning.

I swiped us in at the MCME. We passed through the lobby and biovestibule, then followed the sound of muted voices to autopsy room one.

The wave hit as soon as I pushed through the door. Sulfur-saturated gas produced by bacterial action and the breakdown of red blood cells. The stench of putrefaction.

Larabee was viewing X-rays on wall-mounted illuminators. He wore scrubs and had a mask hanging below his jaw. A half-dozen crime scene photos lay on the counter.

Slidell was beside Larabee, looking like hell. Dark stubble, baggy eyes, skin the color of old grout. I wondered if he’d been up all night. Or if it was the odor. Or the grim show he was about to witness.

An autopsy assaults not just the nose but all senses. The sight of the fast-slash Y incision. The sound of pruning shears crunching through ribs. The schlop of organs hitting the scale. The acrid scorch of the saw buzzing through bone. The pop of the skullcap snapping free. The frrpp of the scalp and face stripping off.

Pathologists aren’t surgeons. They’re not concerned with vital signs, bleeding, or pain. They don’t repair or overhaul. They search for clues. They need to be objective and observant. They don’t need to be gentle.

The autopsy of a child always seems more brutal. Children look so innocent. So soft and freckled and pink. Brand-new and ready for all life has to offer.

Such was not the case with Shelly Leal.

Leal lay naked on a stainless steel table in the center of the room, chest and abdomen bloated and green. Her skin was sloughing, pale and translucent as rice paper, from her fingers and toes. Her eyes, half open, were dull and darkened by opaque films.

I steeled myself. Kicked into scientist mode.

It was November. The weather had been cool. Insect activity would have been minimal. The changes were consistent with a postmortem interval of one week or less.

I crossed to the counter and glanced at the scene photos. Saw the familiar faceup straight-armed body position.

We watched as Larabee did his external exam, checking the contours of the belly and buttocks, the limbs, the fingers and toes, the scalp, the orifices. At one point he tweezed several long hairs from far back in the child’s mouth.

“They look a little blond to be hers?” Slidell asked.

“Not necessarily. Decomp and stomach fluids can cause bleaching.” Larabee dropped the hairs into a vial, sealed and marked the lid.

Finally, the Y-cut.

There was no chatter throughout the slicing and weighing and measuring and sketching. None of the dark humor used to lessen morgue tension.

Slidell mostly kept his gaze fixed on things other than the table. Now and then he’d give me a long stare. Shift his feet. Reclasp his hands.

Ryan observed in grim silence.

Ninety minutes after starting, Larabee straightened. There was no need to recap his findings. We’d heard him dictate every detail into a hanging mike.

The victim was a healthy thirteen-year-old female of average height and weight. She had no congenital malformations, abnormalities, or signs of disease. She’d eaten a hot dog and an apple less than six hours before her death.

The child’s body had no healed or healing fractures, scars, or cigarette burns. No bruising or abrasion in the area of the anus or genitalia. None of the hideous indicators of physical or sexual abuse.

Shelly Leal had been nurtured and loved until a maniac decided it was time she should die. And there was nothing to verify how that had happened.

“No petechiae?” I was asking about tiny red spots that appear in the eyes due to the bursting of blood vessels.

“No. Though the sclera is toast.”

“What’s that?” Slidell.

“Petechial hemorrhage is suggestive of asphyxiation,” I said.

“The lips are badly swollen and discolored, but I saw no surface or subdermal hemorrhage. No cuts or tooth impressions.”

“So, what? You thinking smothering? Strangulation?” Slidell said.

“I’m thinking I can’t determine cause of death, Detective.” Larabee’s voice carried a slight edge. He’d just dictated that conclusion.

Slidell’s cheeks reddened through the pallor. “We done here, then?”

“I’ll go over her with an ALS. Recheck the clothes. Not sure there’s much point, given the decomp, but I’ll try to get samples to send off for tox screening.”

Slidell nodded. Made a move toward the door.

“Ryan and I think we’ve found evidence of other victims.” No way I’d mention Mama.