"Reichs, Kathy - Temperance Brennan 01 - Deja Dead" - читать интересную книгу автора (Reichs Kathy)

short blocks to my condo, I suspected that no one would be sleeping much
for a long time. As things turned out, I was right. What I couldn't know
then was the full extent of the horror we were about to face.

THE NEXT DAY BEGAN AS WARM AND SUNNY AS ITS PREDECESSOR, A fact that
would normally draw me into high spirits. I am a woman whose moods are
influenced by the weather, my outlook rising and falling with the
barometer. But that day the weather would be irrelevant. By 9 A.M. I was
already in autopsy room 4, the smallest of the suites at the Laboratoire
de Wdecine Ugale, and one that is specially outfitted for extra
ventilation. I often work here since most of my cases are less than
perfectly preserved. But it's never fully effective. Nothing is. The
fans and disinfectants never quite win over the smell of ripened death.
The antiseptic gleam of the stainless steel never really eradicates the
images of human carnage. The remains recovered at Le Grand S6minaire
definitely qualified for room 4. After a quick dinner the previous
evening, I'd gone back to the grounds and we'd processed the site. The
bones were at the morgue by 9:30 PM. Now they lay in a body bag on a
gurney to my right. Case #26704 had been discussed at the morning staff
meeting. Following standard procedure, the body had been assigned to one
of the five pathologists working at the lab. Since the corpse was
largely skeletonized, the little soft tissue that remained far too
decomposed for standard autopsy, my expertise was requested. One of the
autopsy technicians had called in sick this morning, leaving us
shorthanded. Bad timing. It'd been a busy night: a teenage Suicide, an
elderly couple found dead in their home, and a car fire victim charred
beyond recognition. Four autopsies. I'd offered to work alone.

I was dressed in green surgical scrubs, plastic goggles, and latex
gloves. Fetching. I'd already cleaned and photographed the head. It
would be X-rayed this morning, then boiled to remove the putrefied flesh
and brain tissue so that I could do a detailed examination of the
cranial features.

I'd painstakingly examined the hair, searching for fibers or other trace
evidence. As I separated the damp strands, I couldn't help imaginig the
last time the victim had combed it, wondering if she'd been pleased,
frustrated, indifferent. Good hair day. Bad hair day. Dead hair day.

Suppressing these thoughts, I bagged the sample and sent it up to
biology for microscopic analysis. The plunger and plastic bags had also
been turned over to the Laboratoire des Sciences Judiciaires where
they'd be checked for prints, traces of bodily fluids, or other
minuscule indicators of killer or victim. Three hours on our hands and
knees the previous night feeling through mud, combing through grass and
leaves, and turning over rocks and logs had yielded nothing else. We'd
searched until darkness closed us down, but came away empty. No
clothing. No shoes. No jewelry. No personal effects. The crime scene
recovery team would return to dig and sift today, but I doubted they'd
find anything. I would have no manufacturer's tags or labels, no zippers