An Evil Heart (Kate Burkholder, #15)(17)
Pomerene Hospital is located north of Millersburg. I park in the lot off the portico outside the Emergency entrance and push through the double glass doors. The elderly gentleman at the visitor desk waves as I pass. I give him a nod as I cross to the elevator and hit the Down button.
I mentally shore up on the ride to the basement. Two deep breaths, slowly released. I reach for the inner quiet I need to get through what comes next, but it eludes me. I remind myself I’m no rookie; I’ve done this before. I should know by now that facing the dead never gets any easier no matter how many times you do it.
Suck it up, Kate.
The doors swoosh open, ushering in a mix of smells that brings a sharp rise of dread. Recirculated air that’s a few degrees too cool for comfort. A medicinal pong that makes me want to hold my breath. The eucalyptus from the dried plant in the vase. Something unpleasant hovering just beneath the surface …
“Hi, Chief Burkholder!”
I glance left to see Doc Coblentz’s assistant, Carmen Anderson, sitting at a desk stacked high with legal-size hanging files. She’s wearing black-and-white pinstripe today. Pencil skirt. Low-heeled pumps. Silver hoops at her ears. Dressed to the hilt, as always.
I cross to the desk and we shake. “You’re working late this afternoon.”
“I’m trying to usher our filing system into the twenty-first century.” She gestures at the stacks of files. “Doc is under the impression technology is overrated.”
“He might have a point.”
“Can you believe he still uses a Rolodex?”
“Aren’t those from 2000 BC?”
She tosses me a conspiratorial grin. “He’s not going to like it when that thing goes missing.”
“I don’t think you’ll be able to blame it on your coworkers down here.”
She throws her head back and laughs, and I wonder how she maintains a sunny persona when she works in such close proximity to the dead.
“He’s expecting you.” She motions toward the corridor that will take me to Doc Coblentz’s office. “Go right in.”
I start down the hall, passing by the yellow-and-black biohazard sign and a plaque that reads MORGUE AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL. At the end of the corridor, I go through a set of double doors and enter the medical sector of the facility. The autopsy room is straight ahead. To my right is the alcove where the biohazard protection is stored. Doc’s glassed-in office on the left, the door open, an old Van Morrison tune pouring out.
Another quick inner pep talk, and I step into the doorway of his office, knock quietly on the jamb. “I hear your Rolodex is in grave danger,” I say by way of greeting.
Doc Coblentz is wearing his usual white lab coat over blue scrubs. Tie-dyed graphic Crocs stick out from beneath his desk. He looks past me as if expecting the threat to be standing there in all of her pinstriped glory. “She’s been after it for a year now. I’ve got twenty years of contacts in that thing.”
He grumbles the words good-naturedly, but he’s looking at me with scrutiny, and I know he’s wondering if I’m up to the task ahead.
Resolved to let him know I am, I get down to business. “Do you have a time of death for me?”
“I do.” He picks up the clipboard on his desk and flips a page, his eyes skimming. “Victim was logged in here at twelve thirteen P.M. Rectal body temp taken at twelve twenty-seven. Temp recorded at ninety-one point one degrees Fahrenheit.” He looks at me over the top of his glasses. “The body loses approximately one point five degrees per hour. Keep in mind that ambient temperature can affect that number. In this case, there were no extreme temps, so I went with the median.”
I start to do the math in my head, but he beats me to it. “In my estimation, this young man died around seven thirty this morning. That is not an exact time. It may change once I complete the autopsy and run a tox. But that is my most accurate number at this time. In terms of your investigation, I suggest a one-hour window in either direction. That puts the time of death between six thirty and eight thirty A.M.”
I pull out my notebook and write it down. “The 911 call came in at eight oh nine A.M., so that narrows the window down to sometime between six thirty and eight oh nine.”
“Do you have any idea who did it?” he asks.
“Not yet,” I tell him. “So far, I’m chasing my tail.”
“Well, I won’t hold you up.” Doc Coblentz rises and rounds his desk. “I wouldn’t have called you if this wasn’t important, Kate. I think you’ll want to see this.”
I feel a weird flutter in my gut as we go through the door. In the hall, Doc motions toward the alcove where Carmen has laid out individually wrapped protective garments. Mechanically, I tear open the packages and slip into a disposable gown. I pull the cap over my head, tuck my hair beneath the elastic band. I pull shoe covers over my boots, don a mask, and, finally, slip my hands into gloves.
Doc is waiting for me in the hall when I emerge, his eyes lingering on mine an instant longer than I’m comfortable with. “I’ll make this as quick as I can,” he tells me.
I hit him with a question so he’ll knock it off. “You’re still confident this is a homicide?”
“Now that I’ve taken a better look, I’ve no doubt.” He pushes open the swinging doors. “You’ll see.”