tracking down a killer who was unfortunately near genius in his crimes.
Willing to let bygones be bygones, David stuck out his hand. “Detective Weathers. I was sorry to hear about Pamela Comforti. My condolence on the loss of your co-worker.”
“You’re David Crawford, right?” As he shook hands, a realization dawned and his brown eyes narrowed. “The reporter.”
“That’s right.”
“Get out,” Weathers said. “I don’t want the press in here.”
“I’m not covering this case as a journalist,” David said. “It’s personal.”
“I don’t want you here.”
That was too damned bad. David straightened his shoulders. “I’m not leaving.”
It probably would’ve been smarter to talk his way around the detective’s objections, but David wasn’t inclined to be reasonable. At issue was his sister’s murder. If the cops had screwed up five years ago and arrested the wrong man…
Weathers beckoned to a uniformed cop who stood farther down the corridor near the metal detectors at the exit. “Escort this man from the building.”
Blair joined them. “Is there a problem?”
“Dr. Weston,” Weathers acknowledged her. “I appreciate your willingness to help out on this case.”
“I’m sure you do,” she said, “especially since I’m not on the clock as a county employee.”
The uniform approached with a rolling gait. His meaty fist rested on the gun clipped to his utility belt.
David braced himself. His adrenaline level surged; he was prepared to take on both the uniform and Weathers. Again, not the smartest plan.
Blair touched his arm. “Please come with me, David. They’re ready to get started.”
“Sorry, ma’am,” Weathers said. “This man is press. He’s not allowed to—”
“Then I’m leaving,” Blair said.
Dr. Reinholdt stepped up behind her. His brow furrowed as he glared at Weathers. “What’s going on? Detective, I need Dr. Weston’s opinion.”
Blair added, “And I won’t stay without David.”
“Right,” the detective snapped. He turned to David, “If I see one word about this autopsy in print, you’ll be sorry.”
Suppressing the urge to gloat, David gave a quick nod and followed Blair into the autopsy suite where the body of the deceased, covered by a sheet, lay on a wide metal gurney under bright lights.
As Blair slipped into a gown and put on a pair of latex gloves, she whispered, “What was that all about?”
“Not important.”
David had attended part of one autopsy and had seen the aftermath of another—enough to know he didn’t want to stand too close. Edging back, he leaned against a stainless steel counter and folded his arms across his chest to keep from accidentally touching something he should avoid.
From the opposite side of the room, he saw Detective Weathers’s eyes watching him as though David were a dangerous felon. Some cops, like Weathers, had a problem: they got so wrapped up in their own authority that they forgot the real crime and the real criminals. Determining who was in charge was a whole lot less important than the dead woman on the autopsy table.
Dr. Reinholdt removed the sheet. “We’ve already completed the external examination and taken photos. There are a few details I’d like to point out.”
Blair and three others—M.E.s and forensic pathologists—leaned forward to study the body.
Reinholdt said, “The ligature contusions at the wrists and ankles indicate that she was tied up and struggled against her bonds.”
“Nylon rope?” Blair asked.
“Yes.”
“Cause of death?”
“Drowning.”
From where he stood, David saw a length of marbled white thigh, slightly bluish. He could also see her head. In profile, her nose seemed prominent. Her cheek sank in. Her hair was a limp tangle of auburn.
“David,” Blair called to him. “Come closer.”
Though he was fine where he was, he didn’t want to appear squeamish. David put on his reporter’s face. It was his job to observe and make deductions; he could handle this. Stepping forward, he looked where she was pointing.
“See here,” she said, “on the abdomen. There’s an oddly shaped circle of pinprick scars. Postmortem injuries?”
“Yes,” Dr. Reinholdt said. “Those puncture wounds were made after death.”
With a gloved finger, Blair probed the flesh. “It’s a jagged tear. Not a pin.” She looked up at Reinholdt. “A fish hook.”
“Good call, Dr. Weston.” He glanced toward one of the forensic pathologists. “I told you she was sharp.”
Blair lifted the right hand to study the pattern of bruises on the forearms. “Her hands were tied in front of her. She lifted her arms to cover her face. Or to lash out.”
“She put up a fight,” Dr. Reinholdt said. “But we found no tissue under the fingernails. Matter of fact, we’ve found very little. No semen. No DNA. No fingerprints.”
“A clean kill,” said the pathologist. “Very clean. After death, the body was washed thoroughly with a strong lye-based soap.”
Blair peeked over her shoulder at David. “Except for the circle of wounds on the abdomen, this murder is consistent with the Fisherman.”
“I see.” He saw too much. His view of the inert body on the cold metal table churned up a serious revulsion in his gut. He might have puked right here, embarrassing himself badly, if he hadn’t also felt a hard burning rage. It was wrong for this innocent victim to be lying here. The man who killed her and terrorized her before death deserved to be caught, tried and brought to justice. He deserved to be confined for all eternity in his own private hell.
David stepped back when he saw Reinholdt take a scalpel from a tray of instruments.
Though the temperature in the autopsy room was cool, a sweat broke across David’s forehead. He adjusted the knot on his necktie. His throat tightened; it was hard to swallow.
Reinholdt made a Y-shaped incision from the shoulders to the middle of the chest, then straight down. The dark red blood had congealed. The heart was no longer pumping. The flesh was opened to reveal the internal organs.
It wasn’t necessary for David to stay in the room. He didn’t know enough about anatomy to notice any unusual clues, and he wasn’t particularly interested in learning. He could leave right now and wait for Blair to tell him the important details.
