Diablo Mesa(60)

“It was.” Corrie, to her horror, heard her voice cracking just a little.

“Hey,” said Watts, placing a hand on her shoulder. “Wow, it really did hit you hard. I’m so sorry I didn’t call you.”

Corrie shook her head, mortified. “Why? We’re colleagues. You don’t owe me anything.”

“You reached out to me…as a friend, I hope, not just a colleague,” said Watts.

Corrie brushed away a tear. This was getting ridiculous. In another moment, she’d be bawling. “I suppose I did. That came out wrong just now.”

“It’s okay. I understand.”

“I’m sorry for falling apart like this.” She made a mighty effort to pull herself together. “I have to go over the autopsy results this afternoon, and that means having to view Morwood’s body. I’m dreading it.”

“Don’t go, then. You can get all the information you need from the report.”

“No,” she said, “I have to. I have to do this.”

His hand remained on her shoulder, and he gave her a reassuring squeeze. “You know, I’m always here when you need me. As a colleague—and a friend.”

“Thank you. I appreciate it—I really do.”

She finally managed to get herself under control. “It’s more than Morwood’s death. The fire destroyed most of the crucial evidence in the case. I’d done a reconstruction of the victims’ faces, and those were burned up along with the remains. And…” She hesitated. “The pathology technician accused me of leaving a burner on.”

“What the— Like hell you did!”

“I didn’t. And I know the fire investigation will show that. But it’s been stressful.”

“I think it’s remarkable you’re handling it so well. Do you have anyone you can lean on in the FBI office?”

“I have a new mentor—Agent Lime. He’s been really supportive.”

“I’m glad to hear that.” He paused. “You’ll get through this, Corrie. You’ve got an inner toughness, and I think you know that.”

She nodded. She did know that. She was tough and she would get through it. “We’d better get going. Thanks for your help with Buford—I really appreciate it.”

Watts balled up their burrito foils, shoved them in the empty coffee cups, put it all in the bag, and started the Explorer. “I’ll let you know how the case develops, but as I said, it’s probably as banal as it seems—the guy just disappeared himself.”

Corrie nodded. “Thanks for showing me this special place.”

“Maybe we can get together for dinner sometime?”

This had tumbled out abruptly. And the uncharacteristic nervousness had returned. “You mean, like…as in a date?”

“Well, you know, just to catch up. I’ll fill you in on Buford’s work.”

Corrie felt, not for the first time, a strange mix of excitement and anxiety rising within her. “I’d like that,” she said. “But let’s make it lunch. Is that okay?”

He nodded, the relaxed smile returning. “No problem.” And he eased the vehicle around and back down the sandy road.





39



CORRIE HAD SEEN many autopsies before, and this would be no different—or so she kept telling herself.

Lime had assured her several times it wasn’t necessary for her to attend, that he could do it alone, and more than once she’d come close to canceling. But she felt it her duty to hear directly from the M.E. how Morwood had died.

Struggling to control her apprehension, she and Lime arrived at the door of the FBI medical examiner’s lab and were welcomed by the M.E. himself, a short, portly doctor named Boyd Mason.

He led them into the brightly lit room, where a corpse lay on a gurney under a plastic sheet. His bustling, talkative manner was somehow reassuring. This was, she thought, the way to treat death: matter-of-factly, with a professional outlook. They were just dead bodies, nothing more, as inert as a tree trunk or a rock.

Mason reached out and grasped the corner of the sheet, then glanced up. “You’ve both…seen autopsied cadavers before, of course?”

They nodded, and he drew back the sheet.

Instantly, the sight froze Corrie with horror. Her gorge rose. She struggled mightily to control herself, but almost immediately realized it was going to be a losing fight.

“If I might—sorry—excuse myself—”

She stumbled into the adjacent restroom—thank God it was nearby—and violently threw up her breakfast. Then again. God, how she hated herself as she knelt over the toilet bowl, nose filling with snot, tears streaming down her face. Shame, self-disgust, and humiliation washed over her in waves as she kept right on retching. Finally she rose, staggered to the washbasin, washed and dried her face with paper towels, rinsed out her mouth, and hazarded a glance in the mirror.

She looked like shit.

Pull yourself together, get back out there, and finish what you have to do.

Adjusting her hair, straightening her jacket, and putting on a fresh coat of lipstick, she emerged from the bathroom and walked stiffly back into the examiner’s suite.

“Agent Swanson,” said Lime, coming forward with a concerned look, “this isn’t necessary at all. In fact—”