by Gina Conroy
The last slice down the length of the torso completed the Y incision, which took all of four seconds to make. No blood sprang from the body. No blood. No life. The weight in my gut lightened until my middle felt empty. Void of feeling, like the body on the cold table.
The smaller man grabbed the skin, peeling it back. I turned away as someone gagged behind me. I focused on the sign hanging on the wall of the autopsy bay. “This is the place where death rejoices to help those who live.”
I laughed at the irony. Death does rejoice, but not to help the living. Death rejoices because it can.
The sound of a saw revved to life. My hands flew to my ears as I watched the blade hitting the skull. Metal on bone. Piercing. Cutting. The shrillness vibrated through my entire body. I ran my tongue over my teeth, trying to kill the tingling sensation. Panic awakened my body.
On wobbly legs, I pushed myself up. My head, light and hazy. A student gagged to my left. My head spun. Acidic latte raced to the surface, burning my throat. I grabbed the sickness bag before I exploded. Someone screamed. I turned to see the smaller man fold the skin from the skull. Cold, lifeless flesh, once living.
With knees buckling, my heavy body succumbed to gravity, but before I hit the ground, in that suspended time between awareness and unconsciousness I suddenly realized I wasn’t afraid of just dying.
I was terrified of not living.
Of ending up in an urn, or on a cold slab.
Six feet under. Forgotten. Discarded.
The sum of my life reduced to a science experiment or someone’s fading memory, until they too have forgotten, and I’m lost forever.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
6:59 p.m.
A PUNGENT ODOR BURNED my nostrils, and I gasped for breath. My eyelids popped open as my mind awakened. A familiar face hovered over me, something tickled my nose.
“Detective Lopez?” I pushed myself up. “What are you doing here?” Where was here? I looked around at the unfamiliar, sterile office. “Where am I?”
“One question at a time. Why don’t you lie down?”
“I’m fine.”
“I insist.”
I did as Lopez said, too physically spent to challenge. The AME limped to me, his tap-tap-tapping of his cane pound-pound-pounding in my head.
“My apologies for the mix-up.” His left hand slipped into his lab coat pocket, jiggled around, then came out and in again. “Detective Lopez told me you’re not a student. If I had known I would’ve insisted you leave the room.”
“What do you think I was trying to do? Go for popcorn?”
“I’m so sorry about that.” He removed a five-dollar bill from his wallet. “Let me buy you a coffee or something.” His hand shook as he waited for me to accept.
“It’s okay, really. I’ll be fine. I just want to collect Henderson’s death certificate and get out of here.”
“I can issue you a temporary one until the toxicology report comes back.”
“Is a temporary certificate legal when proving a will?”
“Works fine. Ask Mrs. Henderson. We faxed a copy this morning to the funeral home, and she requested one to collect the insurance.”
Natasha never mentioned who was on her father’s life insurance policy. Had Henderson forgotten to take Susan off his policy as well when he filed for divorce?
“I’ll be right back with the necessary papers.” The AME jetted out the door as fast as a man with a limp could.
Detective Lopez handed me a cup of water. I leaned against the soft cushion, sipping the cool liquid. “Thanks.” Feeling returned to my limbs, clarity to my head. “Are you here to check on Henderson’s blood work?”
“You really shouldn’t worry about that. You need to rest.”
“How do you know what I need?” I fanned out the bottom of my blouse, trying to draw air underneath. Lopez put his hand on my forehead.
I knocked it away. “I’m fine. Just a little overheated. I didn’t expect to get a front row seat to Autopsy: Postmortem 101.”
“You should go upstairs to the emergency room and get checked. The AME said you hit your head when you fainted.”
“I’ll be fine. I want to leave as quickly as I can.”
Lopez leaned against the desk, legs wide. With interlocked hands, he rested his arms on his thighs. “Mari, I know about Jack.”
“I don’t need your sympathy or your concern. Jack is innocent.”
“I’m sure he is, but there’s an interesting connection between the two cases.”
“What do you mean?”
“We’re collaborating with the FBI, sharing information. Isn’t it a little strange how the Head of the Archaeology Department dies right before one of the most important artifacts this university uncovers goes missing?”
“Technically, it’s not missing.”
“And technically, Henderson wasn’t murdered. Not until the blood work says so, but I can’t overlook the common denominators in the two cases.”
“What’s that?”
“The Archaeology Department, for one. And the people who had a close proximity to Henderson and the artifact.”
“That’s a coincidence.”
“Then there’s the identical soil found on Henderson and in the studio and green room. You believe that’s a coincidence?”
“Life is full of coincidences.”
“That doesn’t sound like something a scientist would say.”
“Okay, where’s the connection, besides it coming from the same source? Were you able to identify that source?”
Lopez straightened to his full height and crossed his arms. “We sampled all the soils we could find in the lab. There wasn’t a match.”
“So what’s the link to the Archaeology Department?”
“Your ex-husband’s artifact.”
“What?”
“After speaking with the FBI and DRSA, I got a hunch and had another soil sample tested.”
Lopez stalled.
“And?”
“The soil on Jack’s artifact matched the soil on Fletcher and Henderson.”
“That means what?”
“The artifact is probably a fake and either Henderson or Fletcher had something to do with it. Since Henderson is dead …”
“Not necessarily. The micromorphology test could prove the artifact came from the soil at the dig site and the Luxor soil in the lab was tainted.”
“If that’s the case, then how did the untainted soil get on Henderson and Fletcher?”
I didn’t have an answer for that. Logic and science would concur that if the untainted soil was found on Henderson and tracked through the green room and studio, it would be tainted. “The only other possible explanation is that the artifact is a fake.” And either Fletcher or Henderson had something to do with it.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
7:15 p.m.
“EITHER WAY, JACK’S INNOCENT, right?” I sat up and leaned back on the couch in the AME’s office.
“Seems that way.” Lopez leaned against the desk.
“I still don’t believe Fletcher is guilty of the forgery.”
“Or the murder?”
Air whisked from my lungs. I hadn’t sincerely considered that. “You’re not seriously thinking Fletcher killed Henderson?”
“I take all my suspects seriously. Right now there’s a growing list of contenders, but it’s all moot until we get that blood test back.” Lopez started to pace.
I chewed on my pinky nail. How high on his list was Peter Kipling? Probably not as high as it should be. “I think I may have some more information in Henderson’s murder.”
“More letters?”
“No, a conversation.” I relayed my suspicions of Peter to Lopez. He nodded with constant eye contact and took notes.
“I’m no detective, but doesn’t it make sense that Susan and Peter could’ve conspired to kill Henderson?”
“I’m not sold on that idea. You said yourself Susan wanted nothing to do with Peter. Plus, as
Henderson’s legal wife and heir, we interviewed her early on. She didn’t realize she was still married to Henderson and claimed to know nothing about being on the insurance policy or being heir until after his death. Her background check was clean. In fact, her peers had only good things to say about her. Even you said she acted like she wanted nothing to do with Peter.”
Still, something dug under my skin. I bit my lip, wanting to tell him about Natasha’s stolen artifacts.
“Well, thanks for the information on Peter. It could be useful.”
“Did you find anything else about C.S.?”
“We’re still working on her identity, but the preliminary testing returned on the letters. Forensics matched the paper and ink used to a manufacturer of stationery sets that went out of business fifteen years ago. Seems C.S. might be an old lover.”
“Or she could be using old stationery.”
“You’ve got a knack for this. Sure you’re not thinking about switching careers?”
“Not a chance, Detective. I prefer the ancient dead opposed to the recently dead.”
Lopez laughed and sat on the other end of the couch. “I’m glad you still have your sense of humor. It’s good to see you’re lightening up. Losing your sardonic touch. ”
“Glad to see your vocabulary’s improving. Word-a-day calendar?”
“No, email.”
A genuine smile emerged. I was actually enjoying the change of pace with Detective Lopez. “So do you have any leads on C.S.?”
“I hoped you could help with that. We’ve compiled a list of all the C.S.’s in and out of the university over the last twenty years. We’re collecting handwriting samples from those currently at the university.”
“You think it could be a student?”
“Actually, I’m betting on someone much older. The tone of the letters was very formal, unlike today’s slang.”
“I hadn’t thought of that.”
Detective Lopez winked. “Maybe you should stick to your day job.”
“How can I help?”
“When the list is compiled, I’d like you to go through it and see if any of the names sound familiar. If you think you’ve seen the women with Henderson. I could also use a student roster from all of Henderson’s classes going back twenty years. Do you think you could get that for me?”
“I guess if they’re still in existence, Candy Finch, the office secretary, could get it for you. She’s been around as long as Henderson, if not longer.”
The AME lumbered in with a cup of coffee in his left hand and a file tucked under his arm. “It’s not Starbucks, but I thought you could use the jolt.”
The smell turned my stomach. “Thank you.” I accepted the coffee and set it on the end table.
“Mr. Farlow, would you mind stepping outside for a moment? There’s a matter I need to discuss with you.” Lopez turned to me. “Don’t rush to leave. Relax for a while until you’re ready to drive. Or I can have someone take you home.”
“No need. I feel better already.”
The door creaked closed. I could hear their voices whispering on the other side. I hobbled to the door and pressed my ear against it. Eavesdropping twice in one day. I couldn’t believe the extent to which I had sunk.
Detective Lopez raised his voice. “How could you release the body before the blood work came back, and without the ME signing off on it? Mrs. Whetherby is threatening to have my badge, and she has the influence to do it.”
“I … I have the authority.” Brian Farlow’s voice trembled. “The ME was on vacation when the deceased came in. I performed the autopsy, signed the papers, then released the body to the wife. I took all the samples we needed, and photos. I didn’t want to keep the body longer than necessary.”
Someone paced, then stopped abruptly. “If I didn’t know better I’d think someone wanted to sabotage this case.” Lopez lowered his voice. “It reeks of incompetence and unprofessionalism. One mistake after another. You knew this was an active investigation.”
“There was no evidence of unnatural death. I took the blood samples.” Then silence. I imagined Lopez staring the AME down.
“Make sure you don’t botch the blood work. If it’s clean, then I will have to close the case no matter what Natasha Whetherby says. But if not, it will be evidence in Henderson’s murder. Let’s hope you didn’t miss something in the autopsy.”
“Henderson had a history of heart complications. He was wearing a DNR bracelet when he was brought in. He was obviously a sick man. I doubt the toxicology report will show suspicious drugs in his system, but we will find out soon. Until then, my finding is death from natural causes. Congestive cardiac failure brought on by chronic arrhythmias.”
“In English, please.”
“He had a heart attack due to lack of blood flow to the heart.”
“My gut tells me something isn’t right with this case. Hurry up with that tox screen.”
Footsteps stomped away. I hurried to my couch. Henderson had a “Do Not Resuscitate” order? Something was definitely off. Henderson was too young and too arrogant to lie down and die without a fight.
The AME limped in. Sweat beaded on his upper lip. He handed me a large envelope. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Duggins, for the mix-up, and to leave so abruptly, but I’m needed somewhere else right now.” He clasped his hands, trying to steady their shaking.
Brian Farlow hustled to the door, glanced at me, then at his desk, and stepped out into the empty hall. Something was amiss with the AME. I waited a few seconds then grabbed my bag and followed. He stopped outside a door, then fumbled with something in his pocket as he looked around. I sauntered toward the water fountain and sipped, keeping my eye on the AME. He rounded the corner. I followed, stopping before I continued down the next hallway.
Peeking around the corner, I held my breath. He reached inside his lab coat, pulled out a medicine bottle, put something in his left hand, and swallowed it without water. Then he entered a room. I walked toward the door. The sign said LAB.
My weight shifted from one foot to the other. Should I go in? I could always claim I was disoriented and thought it was the bathroom. Which was half true. Come to think of it, I did need a potty break.
“May I help you, Mrs. Duggins?” The lady from the front desk rested a withered hand on my shoulder.
“I was looking for the restroom.”
“This isn’t it. It’s a restricted area. I’ll show you the way to the lobby.”
As I followed the woman through the hall, more questions than hypotheses muddled my mind.
Things were getting incredibly complicated. I didn’t have time to snoop for Henderson’s murderer, but if Fletcher was involved? No, that was as ridiculous as Jack stealing the heart scarab. I noticed the AME limp down the hall toward the underground exit, talking on his cell phone.
I slowed my pace, following him out the door to Matt’s Jeep. I had more urgent things on my mind than figuring out what he was up to. After I delivered the urn and certificate to Natasha, I would wipe my hands clean of this Henderson business. Detective Lopez could handle it. I needed to get home and make sure my own house was in order.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
7:53 p.m.
MATERNAL GUILT ATE AT my insides as I headed toward the Jeep in the hospital parking lot. Here I was traipsing through town running someone else’s errands, while my own children fended for themselves. I unlocked the door, but hesitated when I saw Susan Henderson talking with Brian Farlow three cars over. What was she doing here? She already had a death certificate.
I waited until the AME left in his car, then I hurried to her before she reached the building. “Susan?”
“Mari?” Her eyes startled.
“I thought that was you. I almost didn’t recognize you. When did you go blonde?”
She fingered her shoulder-length, bottle-blonde hair. “Oh, I just needed a change.”
“How are you? It’s been a long time.”
“Yes, it has.” Her eyes avoided
mine.
“I’m so sorry about Theron. He’ll be missed.”
“Thank you. Even though we weren’t together … it still hurts.” She shifted her weight. “Are you visiting someone?”
“What?”
“At the hospital. Is someone sick?”
“Oh, no, I’m running an errand for Natasha.”
“How is she taking all this?”
“She’s devastated over the loss of her father and fortune.”
Susan looked away. “I had no idea we were legally married. I thought the lawyer filed the divorce papers. I’m as surprised as she is about being Theron’s heir.”
How about being on his insurance policy?
“Mari, tell Natasha I wish her no ill will. I didn’t even want the inheritance at first.”
“What changed your mind?”
“Well—” Susan pressed her pale, pink lips together. “Natasha did get the house and everything in it. She’s already wealthy and has her doctor husband to take care of her. I have nobody, and I’m struggling to pay the bills as a single mom.”
Guess that made sense, especially with two kids in college.
“What about Peter? I’m sure he still cares for you.”
“No, Peter and I are through. I hurt him so deeply I’m afraid he’d never want me back.”
“How do you know? When was the last time you really talked to him?”
“A woman knows how her ex-husband feels about her. Besides, it’s been months since I’ve seen him. That doesn’t seem like a man in pursuit of his ex.”
A month?
She glanced at her watch. “I should be going. I was called in to cover for a coworker.”
“So you’re a nurse. Finally finished your degree?”
“No, I’m a paramedic.” She shrugged. “I enjoy being out in the field instead of working in a stuffy hospital.”
That was strange. Susan used to prattle on and on about how she loved being a caretaker and anticipated nurturing her patients to health. She didn’t strike me as the patch-‘em-up-and-send-‘em-off type. My memory expanded. The woman with the gurney outside of the studio. It was Susan. “You were called to the scene when Henderson died, weren’t you?”