The Silence (Columbia River #2)(18)

Mason slipped on a gown, booties, and a face shield from the shelves near the door. If his eyes were shut, he’d know where he was by the smell alone. The constantly running air-filtering system did the best it could, but the autopsy suites always smelled like iron from blood, strong detergents, and refrigerated meat that was starting to go bad. Depending on the case, sometimes the odors were worse. Advanced decomposition and burned flesh were the two that Mason hated the most.

The room was chilly, and a popular song from the nineties played in the background. Mason couldn’t remember the band’s name, but he could picture them clearly in his head. A group of English guys with morose faces.

Working on the other autopsy, at the far end of the room, were Dr. Seth Rutledge and two gowned assistants. The doctor raised a hand to acknowledge Mason, who did the same as he went to join Dr. Trask.

Reuben’s body was stark white under the bright lights. Mason dragged his gaze away from the stubby, brutalized hands, remembering the fingers scattered on the bathroom floor. The head was worse.

“Good morning, Mason.” Lines appeared at the corners of Gianna’s eyes as she smiled. He couldn’t see the rest of her face behind her mask and face shield. The small woman was swamped in her personal protective equipment, and she had an organ in her hands that Mason couldn’t identify. She set it on a scale, and the assistant made a notation on his clipboard.

Mason hated being late, but his restless night’s sleep had caused him to accidentally turn off his alarm instead of hitting SNOOZE. Ava had had to shake him awake.

“Sorry about being late.”

“Don’t worry about it. I can catch you up to speed.” She straightened and arched her back. A pained look crossed her face. “Ouch. I’ve been in one position for too long.”

Mason’s gaze locked on the small bulge under her gown. “You’re pregnant,” he blurted. “Ah . . . I mean—Um.” His face heated. What if she’s not pregnant?

Dr. Trask met his stare but didn’t say anything.

Shit. She’s going to tell Ava I fucked up.

“Gianna,” her tall male assistant muttered, shaking his head. “Be nice.”

Her eyes crinkled, and she gave a muffled laugh behind her mask. “Yes, I’m pregnant. But jeez, Mason, you should be more careful.”

“Surprised me, is all.” He tried to calm his pounding heart.

How did I not notice her pregnancy at the crime scene yesterday?

Some detective he was—his job was to notice things that other people didn’t. The one bright spot was that Ray hadn’t noticed either.

“Congratulations to you and Chris,” Mason said. “What does Violet think?” he asked about Gianna’s teen daughter.

“She’s ecstatic.”

“That’s great.” He wondered if Ava knew about the pregnancy and hadn’t told him. His jaw tightened. They’d discussed having kids. It was still up in the air. Both hesitant to talk about it.

Mason had already done the family path. Jake was in college, and he couldn’t imagine becoming a father again at fifty. Or even later. But being twelve years younger than he, Ava felt different. Sometimes. She hadn’t said anything in months.

Focus on the case.

“What do you have on Mr. Braswell?” he asked.

“I never had a chance to tell you yesterday that I had estimated his death to be between midnight and four a.m.”

He’d forgotten to ask about the time of death.

Dr. Trask tipped her head, studying him. “You were very busy and preoccupied yesterday. And I assume most of the night. Don’t be so hard on yourself.”

She has a point.

“Keep going.”

“Manner of death is blunt force trauma to the skull. I can’t tell you specifically which blow . . . there are too many.”

He stole a glance at the head. One side of Reuben’s skull was sunk in, and his right cheekbone and eye socket were indistinguishable. The blood coating his face had been washed off, exposing ripped and split skin and what was left of his teeth and lower jaw.

Reuben Braswell looked like a horror-movie extra.

“External exam revealed numerous abrasions and bruising all over his body. Eight fingers had been removed. But I only have seven.” She gestured at a shallow silver bowl.

A bowl of horror-movie props.

“Where in the hell is the eighth finger?” Mason muttered.

“A keepsake?” suggested Dr. Trask.

“Probably.” What will he do with it? “What else have you found?”

The doctor gently prodded a spot on the sunken skull. It sank farther, and Mason looked away, bile burning his esophagus. “I don’t think I’ll be able to reassemble this skull. I’ll give it my best shot.”

Mason studied the destroyed face. Reuben’s would not be an open-casket funeral. “I don’t think you need to attempt to make it look better.”

“He’s somebody’s son.”

“His parents are dead. He never married . . . I haven’t checked to see if there might be some kids. He has a brother and sister, but they live in Nevada. I’ll try to contact them today.”

“Mason?” He turned and found a tall woman covered in protective gear. She’d been at the other autopsy table. He recognized her eyes.