“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.”
The autopsy room is large and unnaturally bright. Floor-to-ceiling gray subway tile covers the walls. The air is uncomfortably cool. Despite the high-tech ventilation system, the smells of formalin and the sickly-sweet stench of decaying flesh hang in the air. A young man clad in scrubs, surgical cap, and gown stands at the counter, his back to us, working on something unseen.
The body of Aden Karn lies atop a stainless-steel gurney, draped with a sheet. A disposable paper cover has been placed over the head and shoulders. Doc Coblentz walks directly to the gurney, reaches for the pull-down work light, and switches it on.
I stand midway between the door and the gurney, taking in the scene, cognizant that I need to put on my cop face and walk over there and do my job. I remind myself that the clock is ticking and there’s a killer on the loose in Painters Mill.
The doc is patient. Saying nothing, he busies himself with the light and the positioning of the disposable cover, touching the unspeakable instruments laid out on the tray. When I reach the gurney, he gives me a sagacious look. “Remember, Kate, everything we discuss prior to autopsy is preliminary. But I felt what I’m about to show you may be important in terms of your investigation.”
“I appreciate it,” I hear myself say, and I’m surprised because my voice sounds perfectly normal.
The young man standing at the counter turns to us. The mask prevents me from seeing his mouth, but I discern the smile in his eyes. “Hi, Chief Burkholder.”
“This is Jared,” the doctor tells me. “He’s with BCI and he’s going to assist today.”
The young man looks like he’s fresh out of college, and is as undisturbed by the body before us as I am disturbed.
I give him a nod and I’m glad for my own mask because I can’t muster a smile.
“Here we go.” The doc peels away the paper cover. A quiver runs the length of me at the sight of Aden Karn’s head and shoulders. Waxy flesh. Dark hair contrasting sharply with the death pallor of the skin. One eye closed, one lid half open. Some type of stainless-steel device protrudes from the mouth, holding the cavity open. Lips drawn tight. Teeth exposed. The tongue swollen-looking and pale.
“I’m going to show you two incised wounds. Entries and exits, so there are four wounds total.” The doc peels down the sheet to the victim’s hips, exposing a skinny white chest. A sprinkling of hair. A flat belly. Protruding hip bones.
It’s my first unobstructed look at the wound. The hair has been shaven, the blood washed away. The wound is the shape of an X or cross mark. The cut gapes slightly, the tissue beneath deep red and wet looking.
“I stand by my original assessment that this incised wound was likely caused by a crossbow bolt or arrow,” the doc tells me. “What’s even more interesting are the exit wounds.”
He nods to his assistant. I resist the urge to step back while the two men shift the body onto its side. The exit wound is mid-back just to the left of the spine, and similar in shape, but slightly smaller than the entrance wound.
“Looks like the bolt went through the body,” I hear myself say. “We searched the area for the bolt, but didn’t find anything.”