by Anne Frasier
"Could be a suicide," Mary commented, crossing her arms and scanning the crowd, not wanting anybody to get ahead of themselves. Both nearby bridges were packed with people hoping to see something. "Or an accident."
"Mind if we take a look?" Anthony asked, flashing his ID.
The man with the camera stepped back. "Go ahead."
The three FBI agents approached.
The body had been pulled from the water and put in a lined body bag. From there it was taken to shore, the bag unzipped for evidence collection and photos.
"Dead less than twenty-four hours, wouldn't you say?" Mary asked, glancing up at Anthony. He was bent, hands on his knees, dark hair falling forward.
"Yeah."
Mary crouched down. If the body hadn't been found in the water, they would have documented everything on the spot, rolling her over to get both sides. Now the main objective was to keep any possible evidence inside the bag with the body. But everyone knew water usually erased all traces of evidence.
"Any visible signs of trauma?" she asked the medical examiner, a heavy middle-aged woman with graying temples.
"Not readily apparent." The ME focused back on her tablet.
The body belonged to a female, about seventeen. Her hair was blond, her skin the color of marble, her lips blue. One eye was half open, the pupil a creamy white, like a cataract.
She still had her eyes.
Mary visually studied her fingernails. Except for abrasions most likely caused by banging around in the river, they seemed unharmed. She looked up at Anthony and could see that he'd made the same observations.
He moved closer, crouching down opposite Mary. "Looks like our girl," he whispered.
"We'll have to wait for the fingerprints or her family's ID, but I think you're right."
They moved back so the crime scene investigators and medical examiner could finish up. The body was tagged, the bag zipped and secured with a seal to maintain the chain of evidence. It was then loaded into the van to be taken to the morgue.
Gillian and Ben arrived as the vehicle was pulling away. "Got caught in traffic," Gillian explained. "Looks like we missed the whole thing."
"Water cases don't take as long to process on-scene," Elliot commented.
Wakefield came up behind them. "A meeting in my office-right away." He began walking in the direction of the police station. As soon as he stepped under the crime scene tape, microphones were jammed in his face. "Come on, people. You know better than that. I can't talk to you until we have the facts."
One reporter wouldn't relent. He needed a sound bite for five o'clock. "Someone said it was a young girl. Can you confirm that?"
Wakefield stopped. "Yes. It appears to be the body of a woman. That's all I can say." He pushed them aside and continued on.
Elliot had his own technique for dealing with the mob. It could have been called pretend-they-don't-exist. It appeared to work extremely well, and Mary made a note to try it the next time she was bombarded with unwanted questions.
They must have made a strange group to anyone who met them on the city sidewalk outside the police station. Six stone-faced people, most dressed in black, moving silently and with purpose, their strides long and deliberate, looking like the opening scene of a police drama.
When they reached the seclusion of Wakefield's office, everybody began talking at once.
"… still had her eyes."
"… fingernails intact."
"Doesn't fit the MO."
"If it is Charlotte Henning, she wasn't killed right away." That comment came from Gillian.
Wakefield nodded in approval. "Anybody care to guess how long after she was kidnapped?" he asked.
"Twenty-four hours," Elliot said.
"Maybe longer," was Anthony's observation.
"So is it the same guy?" Ben asked, his face reflecting the confusion they all felt.
Everybody looked at Mary and Anthony. They were the experts. They were supposed to have the answers.
"Well?" said Wakefield.
Mary shook her head. "'I don't know."
"We need more facts," added Anthony.
"You must have some initial feeling about it," Wakefield argued.
"There are similarities," Mary said. "But they could simply be coincidence. It could even be a sort of copycat. Not a deliberate copycat, but someone who was given the idea to kidnap and kill a blond teenage girl. I'm hoping the autopsy reveals something. I'd like in on it, if that can be arranged."
"Shouldn't be a problem," Wakefield said. "Anybody else want their name on the list?"
"I may not be able to make it, but put me down," Anthony said.
"Me too." That from Gillian.
"What about you?" Wakefield was looking at Ben, who'd suddenly turned a pasty white.
He glanced at Gillian, as if expecting her to come to his rescue. "Uh, I'm not sure I'm ready for an autopsy."
"This would be a good one to start on. She's pretty fresh."
Ben gestured with his hands buried deep in the pockets of his black hooded sweatshirt. "Sure. Okay."
Chapter 12
Ben didn't show up.
At least he called, telling Gillian he didn't think he was going to make it. She wouldn't hold his squea-mishness against him. She remembered her first autopsy. The anticipation had been hell, but once she was in the suite with the body, nothing was what she'd expected. The experience was probably different for everybody. Maybe that's why nobody told her it would border on being spiritual. The cadaver's hands had especially intrigued her, and she'd finally gotten up enough nerve to ask the medical examiner if she could touch them, hold them, feel the muscles and tendons and bones.
She wasn't especially religious, and yet she couldn't help but think of one of the most beautifully written lines from the Bible: "Behold, I am fearfully and wonderfully made." The human body was truly amazing.
Mary and Anthony arrived together, looking cool and professional as always. What was their deal? Gillian wondered. There was a weird electricity between them. It was unnerving the way they were always finishing each other's sentences and exchanging those silent communications. Yesterday when they were walking to the police station, Gillian had noticed women furtively glancing in Anthony's direction. He was striking, that was for sure, but a little intimidating for her taste.
Mary looked around the preparation room. "Where's Ben?"
"I don't think he's coming."
"Oh." Mary nodded, immediately understanding.
They began putting on protective gear.
"I'd better warn you," Gillian said as she slid a pair of Tyvek pants over her jeans. "The pathologist-Dr. Phillips-he has the reputation for being an ass."
Bending at the waist, Mary pulled paper slippers over her shoes. "I've met some of those in my life. I think I've even been one upon occasion."
Gillian laughed, surprised that Mary had made a joke.
"Does he know we're coming?" Anthony asked.
"Sure, but he didn't invite us. Cough drop?" She extended an open tin.
Mary took a lozenge and popped it in her mouth.
Anthony shook his head. "I can't handle any of that eucalyptus stuff anymore. I associate it with dead bodies."
"Luckily I haven't reached that point," Gillian said.
After donning the bio safety hoods, they moved from the preparation room to the autopsy suite, their paper suits rustling.
The Hennepin County Morgue had four exam tables, each separated by a curtain. A special room to one side was reserved for the badly decomposed. Gillian had been in there only once-and had no desire to go again. When she was done she had to throw out her clothes, and a full bottle of lemon shampoo hadn't been enough to get the stink from her hair.
Several people were already present-two detectives Gillian recognized from Homicide, along with one of the crime scene investigators, and the two policemen who'd answered the initial call. Mary and Anthony slipped into a space near the foot of the body. Gillian took a po
sition directly opposite the infamous Dr. Phillips, the stainless steel exam table between them.
"I don't know why you can't just read my autopsy report," Phillips grumbled. "Those Tyveks aren't cheap."
Gillian looked at Mary. What'd I tell you?
The table was equipped with one of the newer down vents rather than an exhaust fan above the work area. Next to the doctor were trays containing some of the tools of his trade: scalpels, saws, needles, tweezers, mallets, and shears. The exam hadn't started, yet the overpowering smell of formalin filled the room. The cough drop didn't help. Instead, the synergy of the two odors created something entirely new and repulsive, and Gillian decided Anthony might have a point about eucalyptus.
"It used to be nobody wanted to see an autopsy," Dr. Phillips remarked. "Now so many people want in on it that we've had cases where we had to hold a lottery."
The nude body was removed from the sealed body bag and placed on the tunneled exam table, a case number attached to her shoulder: ME-02-652. Her skin had a waxy, transparent quality, her hair matted, her lips almost black. In death, there was something regai and beautiful about her. And, as with all the dead, something secretive and mysterious.
The exam began with the doctor recording vital statistics-name, race, social security number, date of birth, medical history, and case number-into the tiny microphone clipped to his scrub suit. "This is the body of a well-developed, well-nourished white female," Dr.Phillips stated. "She is five feet seven inches tall, weighing approximately one hundred and thirty pounds."
The body had already been identified by the family as Charlotte Henning. Now it was gone over from head to toe. Case numbers were also affixed to various areas of the body as they were examined. Photos were taken with a digital and a 35-millimeter camera.
"I like to have negatives for the file," Dr. Phillips said.
The epidermis was examined.
"Some slight tissue damage on both sides of the mouth," he said. He pulled the swing-arm light closer. With a scalpel, he lightly scraped the abrasion. "I'm removing some foreign material from the right side of the face, below the cheekbone. Slide." His assistant stepped forward, and Dr. Phillips transferred the possible evidence from the scalpel to the slide.
He continued with the preliminary pass, examining the body from front to back, the diener helping at the appropriate times. More photos were taken. He made note of any birthmarks; those were also photographed.
"Abrasions on both wrists." Photos of the wrists were taken.
Scrapings were lifted from beneath the fingernails. Then, using the scalpel, he cut around the wrist and slipped the withered, unprintable skin of the entire hand away until it lay like a crumpled latex glove in his palm. As in most cases where the body had been submerged in water, the skin slipped free easily.
"Who has small hands?" he asked, eyeing the audience.
One detective and a cop took a step back. Gillian offered her gloved hand, which he accepted. He slipped the peeled skin over hers, smoothing the fingertips so a decent print could now be retrieved. His assistant produced the metal container of ink. Wearing the skin, Gillian inked all of the fingers and thumbs and then pressed the prints onto cards. Even when family or friends had visually identified a body, prints were always taken.
"You earned the right to be here," the pathologist said, helping her slip the skin from her hand.
Gillian had felt Mary's eyes on her the entire time. Now she looked up to see that her sister appeared impressed by her coolness.
The ME's examination continued. "Broken forearm, two broken ankles."
"Postmortem?" Mary asked.
"Most likely. The injuries are consistent with a body that's been found in water. The strong current would have banged it against rocks and outcroppings. I'd expect broken bones and lacerations such as these."
"Anything that looks like an inflicted wound?" The question came from Anthony.
"No."
With a syringe, Dr. Phillips drew blood by puncturing the heart; then he filled several tubes.
Now it was time for the internal exam.
Gillian braced herself for the initial cut.
He made a long, deep, Y-shaped incision, beginning at the shoulders and ending at the pubic bone. With shears, he snipped through the rib cartilage and removed the rib cage. More blood was collected for a microorganism culture.
The dissecting continued inside the neck. He removed the trachea and esophagus. "There's your probable cause of death," Dr. Phillips said, placing them in a stainless steel tray. Asphyxiation." With a scalpel, he poked around at the trachea, separating some small pieces of foreign matter. "Regurgitated food particles." He moved to the head, examining the eyelids. "Petechial hemorrhaging. A classic sign of asphyxiation."
"She choked on her own vomit?" Mary asked.
Using his foot, the doctor clicked off the tape recorder. "It would appear so."
He moved sback to the face, touching the skin damage he'd pointed out earlier. "I would guess that she was bound and gagged, her mouth sealed with tape. During that time, she got sick and threw up. No place for the vomit to go except, of course, out the nose. The nostrils immediately became plugged, and that was that. Asphyxiation. Since the exam isn't finished, this information is off the record, and nothing is a hundred percent until I've sewn up the body, gone over the slides, and gotten the reports back from the labs."
He turned the recorder back on, then continued with the dissection, proceeding to the carotid artery and jugular veins. Half an hour later, he'd moved down to the abdomen.
"Sulfhemoglobin," Phillips noted, pointing to the green discoloration in the abdominal cavity.
A heavy, cloying, familiar odor filled the room, a smell that was as unforgettable as it was indescribable. Maybe if you put a combination of rancid gym shorts, dirty diapers, and rotten food outside in a hot, sealed car for a couple of days, then you might come close to recreating the stench. One thing for sure, it was a smell nobody ever forgot.
"What's this?"
From the vaginal cavity, Phillips pulled out a small sandwich bag with a plastic zipper. He unzipped the bag. Using a pair of tweezers, he extracted an object and deposited it on a tray. Everybody leaned closer. On the* small stainless steel tray was a single red rose petal.
"That's a first for me," Phillips said.
"Weird as hell," said one of the police officers.
The other one started humming the song "Red Roses for a Blue Lady" under his breath.
Everybody cracked up.
"News of this finding can't be released to the public." Mary glanced around the table. "Having exclusive knowledge of this kind of evidence can be used in our favor."
There was a unanimous nodding of heads and verbal agreement.
"I've seen what I need to see," Anthony said. He turned and left the room. Gillian thanked Dr. Phillips; then the sisters followed Anthony out the door. In the changing area, they removed their masks, and stripped out of their scrubs, dropping them into the biohaz-ard container.
Anthony wiped his arm across his face. "That smell will be in my sinuses for a week."
"Should have used Vicks," Mary said.
"You know how I hate that stuff."
They left the building, all three of them taking deep, cleansing breaths.
Anthony pulled out his mobile phone. "We are all pretty much in agreement that this is the same guy, right?"
"If it is, then he probably didn't intend to kill her- at least not yet," Mary said. "She was abducted. Her mouth was taped, her wrists tied. And like Phillips said, she got sick and choked to death."
"Pretty clear cut," Anthony added.
"I don't get the rose petal," Gillian said. "Is it a signature?"
"Could be a clue he left for us," Mary said. "Subconsciously he may even want to get caught before he kills someone else. And it definitely ties in with the grafting performed on the previous victim."
"He could be toying with us." Anthony checked his phone
for messages. "I'm calling Wakefieldv He needs to schedule a meeting-within a few hours, if possible." He talked while entering the number. "Charlotte Henning died by accident, so everybody needs to be on high alert. I'm afraid this guy could be extremely agitated and already trolling for a replacement."
Chapter 13
In the City Hall building Mary, Anthony, and Gillian made a beeline for the caf6 on the first floor, a place called Larry's Canteen. There they were able to grab snack food and beverages from the vending machines-enough to get them through the next couple of hours.
The meeting room was on the same floor. When they arrived, Mary was relieved to see that Wakefield had been able to round up several detectives from the Minneapolis Police Department, officers from the Hennepin County Sheriffs office, plus agents from the BCA. Also present was the press liaison-quite likely the most important person in the room at the moment. Ben Collins was also there, lounging in a chair, feet crossed at the ankle, looking sheepish. Elliot hurried in at the last minute, out of breath and carrying a sack lunch.
It was good to see such diversification. In the old days, lack of organization, competition, and jealousy, made for little exchange of information among bureaus. Over the last several years there had been a deliberate movement toward sharing on all levels, with the various departments agreeing that they were after the same thing: capturing the criminal.
Chairs were lined up in rows schoolroom fashion.
People grabbed and rearranged them until they were U-shaped.
"I want to thank all of you for getting here on such short notice," Wakefield said, perching on the corner of a full-size desk at the front of the room. "We don't have an official autopsy report on the latest victim- who's turned out to be the missing Canary Falls girl- but we do have information that could be crucial to the safety of our citizens. I also have lab results to pass along, but we'll get to those later. Right now I'll let Agents Spence and Cantrell explain their immediate concerns."
Remaining seated, Anthony detailed what had occurred during the autopsy. His voice was low but clear.