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  “Don’t interrupt. He never made it home for dinner. His wife called a friend from the company around eight and a couple of guys went over to the site to look for him. Found him at the bottom of the air duct five stories down. Nobody heard anything and nobody saw anything. Still had weak vitals. Paramedics were called and he was transported here. Time of death called in the ED and Bob’s your uncle.” He snapped his notebook closed.

  She remained quiet as she gripped the rib shears in both hands, snapping through the lateral, intercostal cartilage between the ribs and sternum on each side, then the clavicles. Sweat ran down her back and neck as she pried the wedge-shaped section of chest plate off, spilling blood over the sides, to splatter onto the floor over her feet. She ripped the nicotine patch off his shoulder and held it up.

  “I don’t know, Curtis. Maybe it was to appease his wife? Maybe it’s a year old and he just never took it off?”

  “Gross. Was there a cigarette? A lighter?”

  “As a matter a fact, there was.” He tossed a baggie with a battered chrome lighter and crumpled soft pack of Camels to her. She caught it with a bloody-gloved hand.

  He smirked. “These were found with him at the bottom. Keep them here with the clothes until we know what to do with them. Shit gets lost all the time in evidence.” He produced another bag with a multipurpose tool, gum and some coins and set it on the counter. “This too.”

  Dr. Webster wheezed to his feet and ambled over to the body. “Suction please, Corey.”

  She uncoiled the plastic tubing from beneath the table and turned on the power. Blood filling the chest and abdominal cavity sucked up the tube into a vacutainer underneath the table. “Looks like just about three liters.” She switched off the machine and recorded her notes on the whiteboard. The man had exsanguinated half his blood volume into his chest. She couldn’t believe he had vitals.

  Dr. Webster picked up a long, thin, steel probe and peered into the body. “Rib fractures, punctured lung, liver and spleen lacerations.” He poked around with the probe.

  He shuffled around to the head and slid blood-soaked clumps of hair away to better see the head lacerations. “Open the head now, please.”

  She snapped a fresh blade on the scalpel handle and moved to the head of Gordon Akers. She ran her blade across the crown from ear to ear, down to the bone, in order to pry the thick skin of the scalp forward over the face and backward over the skull while allowing the funeral home to reconstruct it with ease and hide the incision. The skull shifted beneath her hands, cracking open like an egg.

  Dr. Webster clucked his tongue. “I’ve seen enough.” He moved over to the counter and pulled a blank death certificate from a drawer. “Where are the blue pens?”

  She waved her bloody scalpel in his direction. “In the same drawer.”

  Vital Records required death certificates be filled out in blue pen only so the original could be easily discerned from a photocopy. Also, there could be no mistakes or cross outs or it would be sent back. Nothing put her in a worse mood than chasing down physicians who didn’t know how to complete a proper death certificate. As infuriating as Webster could be, she did appreciate his attention to completing paperwork.

  He scribbled away for a few minutes. “You can complete the rest.” It wasn’t a question. “I have a meeting with a prosecutor in an hour to go over my testimony in that hit-and-run from last month.” He ambled out, wheezing audibly.

  She leaned over the counter, keeping her dripping hands out of the way, to read the cause of death. “Catastrophic trauma to the head and chest due to a fall of five stories.” She shrugged. At least it didn’t say “cardiac arrest” or “respiratory arrest,” neither of which was actually an acceptable cause of death. Everyone died when their heart and lungs quit working. “He left manner of death blank, by the way.”

  “So?” He was jotting notes and didn’t look at her. “That’s why you make the big bucks—checking the box marked accident.”

  “What are you even doing here if you didn’t think his death was suspicious?” she snapped. “Why didn’t they send me a rookie who has to pretend to answer the phone every five goddamn seconds so they can go out in the hallway?”

  “I was available,” he said dryly as he tucked his notebook back into his pocket. “And why wouldn’t I want to come down here when you’re so pleasant?”

  “You’re not even going to stay?” she yelled as he headed to the door. “Will you, at least email me the scene photos?”

  “I’ll get right on that,” he called over his shoulder sarcastically. “You make autopsies fun, Curtis.”

  She shook her head, grinding her teeth in frustration. She now needed to complete the autopsy by herself, a task likely to take hours if she was going to document the trauma thoroughly. And she was always thorough, especially in a case that could be going to court, accident or not.

  She folded the scalp flap back into place and moved back to the internal organs. She photo-documented the internal injuries documenting sizes and locations of all the pathology she could detect without complete removal of the organs. They would not necessarily ever get sent out, but she took fluids for lab work including blood, urine, and vitreous for a routine toxicology screen if anyone called for it.

  There were no surprises, but the list of internal damage was extensive, as one would expect from a fall of more than fifty feet. She bagged up the organs and placed them back into the body cavity for the funeral home to deal with before moving back around to focus on the head.

  Despite the fractures, she was still able to get the Stryker evenly around the skull and remove the calvarium—the skull cap. She pulled the bone gently from the adhered brain matter, blood clot, and membranous dura to reveal the brain itself. The convolutions were ragged with blood pooling and clotting around the lacerations. She gently pried the brain up at the frontal lobe with her left hand, the scalpel in her right, skimming along inferiorly, severing the attached nerves, vessels, and spinal cord by feel alone. She eased the brain up and out with two hands, careful not to cause further damage.

  She weighed the brain, took more photos and a few tissue sections before adding the brain to the bag of organs. The final photos were of the inside of the skull to document the basilar skull fractures and areas of surrounding hemorrhage.

  The bagged organs were sewn into the body cavity, the broken limbs straightened, and blood sponged from the skin. She eyed the removed part of the skull and decided to see if she could piece it back together. There was no way to singularly characterize the damage. The plate of bone was a mess of chaotic fractures, but as she set the pieces back together, a different pattern began to emerge. An area covering the posterior aspect appeared to form an elongated, depression where the bone was broken inward in the particular shape of whatever the head struck—or was struck with.

  She considered the puzzle, flipping a small shard around until it lined up properly, completing the picture. She placed a ruler next to the area and took some more photos. The fracture was about nine centimeters long and barely two centimeters in width. Carefully replacing the calvarium, she folded the skin back over it to keep it in place and added a few quick sutures with the heavy nylon thread. She lined up the skin over the fracture site and studied it more closely. There was a near-full thickness laceration near the crown corresponding to the superior end of the fracture. She took her last photos and set the camera on the counter. It was all over but the cleanup.

  Chapter Six

  It hadn’t been hard for Corey to come up with a reason to visit the ED the next morning. An apology for the young nurse she had barked at yesterday was more than called for. Nevertheless, Corey hesitated outside the stairwell, her stomach jangling with nerves she hadn’t felt since she first made a move on Bethany Stills in undergrad. She had changed into scrub pants and a plain long-sleeved black shirt, trying to appear less intimidating.

  Thayer Reynolds had quite clearly come on to her. She had nothing to be nervous about. She was the ch
ased not the chaser. Collier’s words stuck in her head, though, about Thayer being out of her league and it rattled her confidence right on the heels of the debacle with Anna.

  One thing at a time. She shifted the paper-wrapped bottle to her other hand and looked around the busy department for the young woman from yesterday. She was at the admission desk talking with the head nurse, Dana Fowler. Corey had worked with Dana before, liked her even. She had pretty, chestnut hair and big brown eyes. She had always been respectful and helpful to Corey in the past, though their relationship had never gone past professional, not even to friendly.

  She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders and strode across the room. “Excuse me.”

  Both women looked up at her—startled—the younger one’s eyes widening in alarm and Nurse Fowler’s narrowing in suspicion. If she weren’t so nervous she’d have laughed.

  “Oh, I gotta run and do that thing,” the younger one said.

  “Wait.” Corey jerked a hand out and stopped just short of touching her. “Jules, right?”

  Her gaze darted toward Dana. “Yeah?”

  Corey pulled out the bottle of wine she had picked up last night. “I wanted to apologize for being such a jerk yesterday.” She held out the bottle. “I was having a rough morning, but I should never have taken it out on you. I’m sorry.”

  “Oh.” Jules’s eyebrows shot up and she took the bottle, smiling hesitantly. “Um, thanks. Thank you. It’s cool. I’m sorry I couldn’t help you.”

  “No worries.” Corey grinned. “It all worked out.”

  “Jules, they need you in three,” another nurse called as he raced by.

  “Oh, I gotta hustle.” Jules thrust the bottle at Dana. “Can you stash this for me?”

  Corey shuffled her feet nervously and glanced around the room while Dana disappeared to hide the bottle beneath the desk.

  Dana popped back up. “Something I can help you with, Corey?”

  “Oh, um, yeah.” She cleared her throat. “I was hoping Thayer, er, Dr. Reynolds was around?”

  “She’s with a patient in curtain two.”

  “Right, of course. She’s working.” Corey hoped she was hiding her disappointment better than Dana was hiding her amusement.

  “You want me to pass along a message?”

  “No. No message.” She suddenly felt profoundly stupid like she was chasing after some girl on the schoolyard. “Thanks, Dana.”

  Thayer smacked her chart down on the desk in front of Dana. “Man, that guy was chatty.”

  “Pardon, Dr. Reynolds,” a gravelly voice behind her made her turn.

  “Good morning…” Her gaze flicked to Dana in a panic.

  “Hi, Jerome.” Dana winked at her. “Whatcha got?”

  The older, grizzled porter held out a cup of coffee toward Thayer in a wobbly hand. “I made an extra cup by mistake. Thought you might like it.”

  Thayer smiled. “Thank you, Jerome.” She took a sip of the bitter brew. “It’s perfect.”

  A rare smile flashed on his face before he shuffled away.

  She set the coffee behind the counter. “That was sweet but this tastes like it was made in a mop bucket.” She saw Dana eyeing her, curiously. “What?”

  “You’ve got the magic of a unicorn or something.” She shook her head. “I’ve been working here eight years and I don’t think I’ve ever heard that man speak more than one word.”

  She grinned. “Eh, well, what can I say? It’s a gift.” Dana continued to stare at her. “What now?”

  “I never got a chance to follow up with you yesterday. What happened when you went to drop off the chart in the morgue?”

  “Oh, God.” Thayer groaned theatrically and covered her face with her hands. “Uh, I may have made a completely inappropriate pass at her practically in front of her boss and the police.”

  Dana’s brows shot up. “Wow. Really?” She laughed. “God, Thayer, I’m sorry about the circumstances but I’m so glad you’re here. I really have missed you.”

  “Happy to entertain. I’ll be here all week.” She reached for the next chart and flipped it open.

  “Well, whatever you did seems to have made quite an impression.”

  Thayer was only half paying attention as she scanned the intake sheet. “Why? What happened?”

  “Corey Curtis was up here a while ago.”

  Her head snapped up. “She was? Was she looking for me? I mean, what was she doing?”

  Dana laughed. “Actually, she was apologizing to Jules with, if I’m not mistaken, a very nice bottle of wine.” Dana paused before adding, “And she was looking for you.”

  Thayer smiled triumphantly.

  Chapter Seven

  There were no autopsies scheduled and no residents to train. Corey puttered around the morgue cleaning instruments until they shone, reorganizing and restocking supplies, and doing pretty much anything she could think of to avoid the mountain of paperwork that faced her following yesterday’s post—and to keep her mind off Dr. Thayer Reynolds.

  The clothes and personal effects of Gordon Akers were still on the counter where she had left them. The police had taken his wallet, keys, and wedding ring to return immediately to his widow and left Corey with the loose change, a folding multi-tool, and a half pack of Nicorette gum in one baggie and the lighter and cigarettes in another, both sitting atop his bagged bloody clothes and boots. She considered where to put them so they went with his body when the funeral home arrived. Bodies were supposed to be picked up within three days, but it wasn’t unusual for victims of tragic deaths to hang around for a while until the family had processed what had happened and made arrangements.

  She finally decided to put his belongings in the fire cabinet because it was the only storage space that locked. She stacked the items next to the unopened formalin boxes and other flammable chemicals where they would be safe and out of the way. She picked up one of the baggies, fiddling with the items through the clear plastic as she ruminated on why the man was wearing a patch, chewing nicotine gum and still smoking.

  “Hey, Corey, what are these photos from?” Cin called from the other room.

  “Which?” She placed the items inside and locked the heavy, metal fireproof door before wandering into the other room.

  Cin was going through her paperwork on Gordon Akers. “These.” She held up the photos of her hastily reconstructed skull as she pawed through the other photos she had printed out for the hard copy of the report. “This is a sweet signature fracture. I could use this for my undergrad forensics class when I teach the segment on blunt force trauma, assault, and determination of weapons. What caused it?”

  She leaned against the doorway. “Guy fell down an airshaft at a construction site.”

  “Oh, bummer.” She looked at the photo again, considering. “He hit something on the way down? I could still make it work.”

  “I guess.” Corey shrugged and moved to the computer. “Slide over and I’ll see if Collier emailed me the photos of the scene.” She opened her email, dismayed at her overflowing inbox of reminders of online safety training courses, which were overdue, her mood recovering when she saw the file from Collier. “Here.” She opened the attachment and scrolled through a series of dark, nearly unrecognizable images. If she hadn’t known what it was supposed to be, she wouldn’t have had a clue.

  “These photos are shit,” Cin grumbled. “My left tit could take a better picture.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Corey appraised her breasts. “I’d like to see that.”

  Cin eyed her mischievously. “Can we take a ride?”

  She frowned for a moment before she fully understood what Cin was asking. Corey had no other obligations for the morning and she had to acknowledge her own curiosity about this case. Something wasn’t sitting right with her. “I’ll get the camera and you get a light.”

  “What are we going to tell them?” Cin leaned forward and peered through the windshield as Corey pulled her truck up to the site.

  “Tell who
?” She appraised the building before jumping out of the cab and grabbing the camera. She had changed back into jeans and a T-shirt for their field trip and her truck fit right in at the rutted dirt parking area, though there were no other cars.

  “Isn’t someone going to ask what we’re doing?” Cin grabbed one of the rechargeable high-powered floodlights and followed her out.

  “Collier mentioned the site was closed for the week and it may still be an active crime scene so we can just wing it.” She slung the camera around her neck. “Over here.”

  She led the way to the trailer that served as an office and grabbed a couple of beat-up hard hats off hooks by the door. “Put this on so it looks like we know what we’re doing.”

  “It smells like ass.” Cin wrinkled her nose. “And it’s probably going to give me lice.”

  “Quit bitching.” Corey laughed. “This was your idea.”

  “Which way?”

  They both scanned the area, the ground littered with stacks of lumber, brick, and rebar. A crane and a cement truck were parked at one end of the site while a roll-off dumpster with a refuse chute system leading to the fifth floor sat at the other. The building spanned the entire block and there were several entrances on the ground floor.

  “There.” Corey pointed to a square cutout in the wall about three feet off the ground, from which a length of yellow police tape flapped in the breeze.

  “Oh, good eye.” Cin headed to where she indicated. She leaned in and flicked on the light, the entire airshaft lighting up. “Whoa, that fall would do it.” She pointed the light to the floor, illuminating a large, dark, and thickly congealed pool of blood. “And it did.”

  “I’m going in.” Corey threw a leg over the edge and eased her tall frame through the small opening, carefully avoiding the blood. “Shine the light up the shaft, Cin.”

  “Gotcha.” Cin leaned in and directed the light through the shaft. It was a smooth sheet of metal as far as the eye could see.