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“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.
Struggling to swallow, he glanced across the room at Detective Weathers and the uniformed cop who stood beside him. Neither of them were looking directly at the body. 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 should get another badge for that.” He turned right at the corner and started up the block. “How about you, Blair? What kind of dog would you be?”
“Not a poodle,” she said quickly. Nothing fluffy or cute. “A dog that likes swimming. Maybe a Labrador retriever.”
“Most of the Labs I’ve known have been a little wild. Is that you? Wild and exuberant?”
She hadn’t been crazy and out of control in years, certainly not after her accident. And before that? Her career left very little time for fun and games. She’d gone directly from college to med school, then an internship and field research. “Maybe I’m not wild, but the potential for exuberance is there.”
“That’s something I’d like to see.” His voice slipped into a lower register. “The wanton, uncontrolled, passionate side of Dr. Blair Weston.”
His intimate tone suggested passion in the bedroom. And, when she confronted his sexy blue eyes, similar thoughts popped inside her head. All too easily, she imagined discarded clothing at the foot of the bed. She and David, meshed together on the sheets. Their legs entwined. Their arms grasping and clawing at each other. Their lungs screaming with unfettered lust. Oh, my.
She pushed open the gate in the white picket fence surrounding a gingerbread Victorian house that had been converted to office space. The sidewalk was flagstone, lined by a border of yellow dahlias and pansies. On the veranda, David opened the door to the charming yellow house with white trim. Inside was a foyer with hardwood floors, an imitation Persian rug and several potted ferns. Colorado Crime Consultants was the first door to the right.
