coroner, a trim Asian woman in her mid-forties with sharp eyes and hair cut at a sharp ninety-degree bob in line with her chin, was obliging enough. She showed them the professor’s body, and stood back respectfully while they made their examination.
Lying naked on the metal gurney, the man was reduced to nothing more than white meat. Take the sheet away, and it was hard for Zoe to connect and keep connected the lines between this hunk of dead flesh and the man it had been. Whoever he was had long gone. She could see it still, in the yellowed fingertips that spoke of a nicotine habit and the small inch-long impression over his left ear where he had spent years wearing ill-fitting glasses. But the essence, the being, whatever it was that had once filled this body and animated it, was nowhere to be found.
It was better that way. People distracted her. They hid their true selves behind words and gestures that she could not always understand. But bodies could not lie. They were as they were, no more and no less.
It didn’t hurt, of course, that his face was gone. Smashed inward. The nose had been reduced to an entirely flat plane of the face, all the bumps and curves pressed against the inside of his skull now. The right side of the head, too, was cracked and squashed, bearing clear lines of impact. No one could have survived that. Even one of his eyes was gone.
The equation was there on his torso, written out sideways from the top of his chest to just below his navel. It was all as it seemed in the photographs—the full piece had been captured faithfully. Wearing uncomfortable white disposable gloves, Zoe turned over each of his arms and legs, and even hefted him onto his side with Shelley’s assistance. Nowhere could they see any other trace of ink, or indeed any marking that could hint at being a missing part of the equation.
“They didn’t miss anything,” Shelley said out loud, confirming the growing frustration that was building in the center of Zoe’s forehead.
“The other one.” Zoe turned to look at the coroner. “We need to see the student as well.”
The coroner shrugged, making a gesture that seemed to suggest she thought it pointless, and walked over to open another tray of the metal filing cabinet that served as a temporary resting place. She tugged it open with a long scraping sound of well-oiled metal on metal, and stepped back to allow them access to the resident.
The college student looked even younger than he had in the photographs, lying on the cold metal tray with all the blood drained out of his cheeks and the color with it. The top of his head was a mess, open and crushed inward. He was covered with a respectful sheet, but respect was only an obstacle in this case. Zoe stepped closer and tugged it aside, noting Shelley’s reluctance to do so.
For a long second, Zoe stared, unable to comprehend what she was looking at. Then she briefly wondered if they had pulled out the wrong body, but she had recognized his face from the crime scene photos. Finally, disbelief reigned, and she turned on the coroner with a glower that had the other woman backing away.
“Where are the equations?” Zoe asked, her tone low and flat, menacing enough to tell anyone about the anger behind it.
“Well, we performed the autopsy,” the coroner stuttered, feeling for a metal table behind her to steady herself. “We always wash the bodies to perform the autopsy.”
“You scrubbed away the evidence.”
Shelley stepped closer to lay a gentle hand on Zoe’s arm, perhaps warning her to cool down. Zoe ignored it. She was seething, every muscle in her body wanting to explode in a burst of energy and throw something at the wall. Maybe at the coroner.
The only reason she didn’t was that it was very clearly against the professional code of conduct. How could they have allowed something like this to happen?
“Who authorized the cleaning?” Shelley asked, her tone quiet and calm. She stepped forward, slightly in front of Zoe, as if shielding her.
The coroner fumbled for paperwork, still stuttering, her face gone pale. Zoe couldn’t take any more. She stalked out of the room with a growl in the back of her throat, slamming the door behind her for good measure. It being a swing door, the movement lost some of its effect, but it released some of the tension in her body all the same.
Shelley joined her a couple minutes later, finding her pacing up and down at the end of the corridor.
“We should have them written up for tampering with evidence,” Zoe said, as soon as Shelley was close enough to hear.
“They were within the scope of their instructions,” Shelley sighed, shrugging her shoulders. “The photographer felt they had captured everything. We’re just going to have to take their word for it.”
“They should be punished anyway. Do they not have common sense? It was clearly evidence. And the lead investigators not having even seen the body yet!”
“Well, in fairness, this was a local case when they did the autopsy, not a federal one. What’s done is done. We just have to work with what we have.”
Shelley was being rational; too rational. Zoe didn’t like it. She wanted a justification for the frustration she felt, dammit, a common feeling between the two of them. She hated being made to feel like she was the freak with the problem. Things being done incorrectly was a problem. People were supposed to do the jobs they were paid for. That was how society worked.
“Something like that should have been obviously important,” Zoe said, trying one last attempt at lulling Shelley into her own rage.
It was not to be. “We’ve got to keep moving anyway,” Shelley said, stepping outside and looking back to make sure Zoe was following her. “Should we go talk to the professor’s wife next?”
Zoe nodded, giving up. Maybe she was overreacting. She had been told that she could do that, on occasion.
There was more to this case than the physical evidence on the bodies. Of course, the math was tantalizing, as was the target of a respected university. But there was always another story to be heard from the family of the victims, the people who knew them.
Perhaps Mrs. Henderson would be able to shed some light on her husband’s death—and get this frustrating case wrapped up sooner rather than later.
CHAPTER FIVE
Shelley took the driver’s seat, an uncommon occurrence when she was driving with her partner. Shelley knew that Zoe was normally carsick, but today she was so preoccupied with her equations that she hardly seemed to notice the roads flashing by. She wasn’t even clutching at her seatbelt, her usual tell for discomfort.
Shelley glanced over whenever she had a chance—waiting at intersections or paused in a line of traffic. What Zoe was scribbling down frantically across multiple pages of her notebook made no sense at all to her. They might as well have been hieroglyphics.
Zoe had a real gift when it came to numbers, but there were other sides to that too. A single-minded obsession could take over at times, like now. As much as Shelley wanted to help, she had no idea what was required—and Zoe wasn’t about to tell her. She was like that fairly often, too. Quiet, closed off. Shelley had heard the stories about her previous partners, and it wasn’t hard to extrapolate that she maybe had given up on trusting people with her thoughts a long time ago.
Zoe was used to working alone. If she had her way, Shelley was going to change that. It just might take her a long while to get there. In the meantime, she would have to keep prompting her and reminding her to share her thoughts.
Just
