“I think it’s remarkable you’re handling it so well. Do you have anyone you can lean on in the FBI office?”
“I have a new mentor—Agent Lime. He’s been really supportive.”
“I’m glad to hear that.” He paused. “You’ll get through this, Corrie. You’ve got an inner toughness, and I think you know that.”
She nodded. She did know that. She was tough and she would get through it. “We’d better get going. Thanks for your help with Buford—I really appreciate it.”
Watts balled up their burrito foils, shoved them in the empty coffee cups, put it all in the bag, and started the Explorer. “I’ll let you know how the case develops, but as I said, it’s probably as banal as it seems—the guy just disappeared himself.”
Corrie nodded. “Thanks for showing me this special place.”
“Maybe we can get together for dinner sometime?”
This had tumbled out abruptly. And the uncharacteristic nervousness had returned. “You mean, like…as in a date?”
“Well, you know, just to catch up. I’ll fill you in on Buford’s work.”
Corrie felt, not for the first time, a strange mix of excitement and anxiety rising within her. “I’d like that,” she said. “But let’s make it lunch. Is that okay?”
He nodded, the relaxed smile returning. “No problem.” And he eased the vehicle around and back down the sandy road.
39
CORRIE HAD SEEN many autopsies before, and this would be no different—or so she kept telling herself.
Lime had assured her several times it wasn’t necessary for her to attend, that he could do it alone, and more than once she’d come close to canceling. But she felt it her duty to hear directly from the M.E. how Morwood had died.
Struggling to control her apprehension, she and Lime arrived at the door of the FBI medical examiner’s lab and were welcomed by the M.E. himself, a short, portly doctor named Boyd Mason.
He led them into the brightly lit room, where a corpse lay on a gurney under a plastic sheet. His bustling, talkative manner was somehow reassuring. This was, she thought, the way to treat death: matter-of-factly, with a professional outlook. They were just dead bodies, nothing more, as inert as a tree trunk or a rock.
Mason reached out and grasped the corner of the sheet, then glanced up. “You’ve both…seen autopsied cadavers before, of course?”
They nodded, and he drew back the sheet.
Instantly, the sight froze Corrie with horror. Her gorge rose. She struggled mightily to control herself, but almost immediately realized it was going to be a losing fight.
“If I might—sorry—excuse myself—”
She stumbled into the adjacent restroom—thank God it was nearby—and violently threw up her breakfast. Then again. God, how she hated herself as she knelt over the toilet bowl, nose filling with snot, tears streaming down her face. Shame, self-disgust, and humiliation washed over her in waves as she kept right on retching. Finally she rose, staggered to the washbasin, washed and dried her face with paper towels, rinsed out her mouth, and hazarded a glance in the mirror.
She looked like shit.
Pull yourself together, get back out there, and finish what you have to do.
Adjusting her hair, straightening her jacket, and putting on a fresh coat of lipstick, she emerged from the bathroom and walked stiffly back into the examiner’s suite.
“Agent Swanson,” said Lime, coming forward with a concerned look, “this isn’t necessary at all. In fact—”
“I apologize, sir,” Corrie said as coolly as she could. Then she turned to the M.E. “Sorry. Please proceed.”
“Of course,” said Mason, looking as unperturbed as ever. Corrie had the impression this was nothing new to him—and it made her feel marginally better.
The body, more precisely the upper part that remained in decent condition, had been thoroughly autopsied, organs and brain removed, then stitched together in rough fashion, the cranium fastened back on sans brain, scalp wrinkling back from the bone and the eyes open—it was awful. But Corrie steadied herself. There was nothing more to come up. Even the dry heaves had exhausted themselves.
“As you can see, we did a complete medicolegal autopsy. In addition to examining all the organs, we did histological sections of the lungs, heart, brain, and liver, and a complete toxicological suite as well. The cause of death was clear: asphyxiation caused by lack of oxygen and carbon monoxide poisoning, both exacerbated by smoke inhalation. Agent Morwood had a chronic pre-existing condition: autoimmune lung disease, sometimes labeled interstitial lung disease. It’s characterized by inflammation and scarring. He kept it under control with anti-inflammatories and corticosteroids, but his lungs were permanently damaged.