The uniformed officer’s complexion had paled and his jaw flexed tight. If they can take it, so can I. David forced himself to watch as Reinholdt removed an organ and placed it on the kind of hanging scale found in grocery stores.
The autopsy team worked quickly and efficiently, keeping up a running commentary that was recorded by an overhead microphone for later transcription. After removing and weighing various organs, they took tissue samples.
Blair stepped back beside him for a moment. “Any questions?”
“What do they do with those pieces?”
“We preserve the body fluids and tissues for microscopic and toxicological testing.”
“Wasn’t she drowned?”
“Beyond cause of death, the body can reveal a lot of clues.”
When she looked directly at him, David worked hard at being cool. He’d already wiped the sweat off his forehead, but his mouth was cottony, and his lips stuck together.
She cocked her head and asked, “Are you okay?”
“You bet.” He nodded slowly so his head wouldn’t get dizzy and fall right off his shoulders onto the tiled floor.
She patted his arm and turned back to the autopsy table. The inside of the body wasn’t tidy like those neat overlapping transparencies in biology class that showed the layers of sinew and muscle, then different-colored organs, then a white skeleton. This work was messy, and there was a pungent smell that defied description.
David had to look at something else. He concentrated on the back of Blair’s head. Her soft brown hair made a pleasant distraction. She leaned forward to get a better view, and he could see part of her profile—high cheekbones and sharply defined chin. Her hands were clasped behind her back, and her fingers twitched as though she was itching to take a more active part.
“I’m particularly curious about the stomach contents,” she said.
“When we have the analysis, I’ll call,” Reinholdt promised. To the pathologist, he said, “Be careful with the liquid from the lungs. We want to know where that water came from.”
Time passed, and the process became a little less unsettling. David had grown accustomed to the odor. He found that if he stared at one body part at a time, he could forget that this was a whole person who once had a life.
Across the room, he saw Weathers and the uniformed cop leaving. Hah! He’d beaten them. He’d toughed it out. David felt like a forensic pathology ace. Go ahead and toss me that spleen, I can handle it!
Blair glanced over her shoulder at him, and David flashed an “okay” sign. He was cool.
Reinholdt had the scalpel again. He made an incision at the hairline. David instinctively turned away. He heard the whine of a Stryker saw, then the grinding noise as the blade hit the solid bone of the skull.
This part of the autopsy was why Weathers and his companion had left. They knew what was coming. David, in his naiveté, thought the worst was over.
Though he didn’t want to wimp out and disappoint Blair, there was no way he’d turn around and take a peek. His imagination told him plenty.
“David?” Blair was standing beside him.
He whipped around to face her. Her hands, in the latex gloves, were bloody. He concentrated on her green eyes. “Hi.”
“I think you were correct,” she said in a low voice. “This murder was the work of the Fisherman.”
If he hadn’t been afraid of losing his lunch, he would have grinned. Through clenched teeth, he said, “Stomach contents.”
“We’ll know after analysis.”
Behind her left shoulder, Reinholdt was doing something at the victim’s head. David raised one hand to his eyes, shielding his vision.
Blair glanced at the big clock on the wall over the door. “We should try to get over to Adam’s office before six. Are you ready to leave?”
“Way ahead of you.”
Chapter Four
The office for Colorado Crime Consultants was west of Denver in Golden, a small town nestled against the foothills. Blair hadn’t done much talking on the drive. Her mind was preoccupied, focused on the autopsy she’d just witnessed. Her reading of the medical findings told her this “clean kill” was performed by the same perp who’d committed the earlier crimes. Yet there were differences—most obviously, the fish hook scars on the abdomen.
The Fisherman was taunting them, sending a message. But why? And what was he trying to say? The answers weren’t evident in forensic analysis. Pursuing this investigation might require old-fashioned police work—interviewing witnesses and suspects.
Speaking of old-fashioned forensic police work, she had confided in Dr. Reinholdt before they left the Coroner’s Office, telling him about the stinky fish in the trunk of her car. He had taken her car keys and would notify the forensic investigators though neither of them expected to find fingerprints on a trout.
David found a parking space just off the main street with its quaint, Old West atmosphere, and they strolled down a covered sidewalk toward the opposite corner. “We’re like a couple of tourists,” he said.
“But we’re not here to shop.” She paused to peer in the storefront window of a candle shop. The smell of scented wax wafted through the open door. “I wonder if we can get access to the forensics gathered by the Denver PD and CID on the current investigation.”
“Doubtful,” David said. “Detective Weathers doesn’t seem inclined to share with me.”
“Well, of course not,” she said. “You’re from the press. Even worse than that, you’re an investigative reporter. Speaking on behalf of everyone in forensics and the cops, your people can be a major distraction.”
“My people? You make it sound like we’re a tribe of hyenas.”
“An apt analogy.”
“You think I’m a dog?”
She peeked up at him and grinned. He looked much better now than during the autopsy. The color had returned to his face, and his gaze was steady. “If you were a dog,” she asked, “what breed would you be?”
“Something macho. Maybe an Irish wolfhound.”
“Macho?” she teased. “Like you were in the autopsy suite?”
“Hey, it took guts to hang in there.” He linked his arm with hers and started along the sidewalk again. “Guts probably isn’t the best word to describe watching an autopsy. Fortitude. I showed fortitude. I should get a Boy Scout badge for fortitude.”
“Didn’t you find the process interesting?”
“In a word…no!”
“At least you’re honest.”
“And I
