"Slau_0440335574_oeb_c03_r1" - читать интересную книгу автора (Slaughter Karin - [Grant County 05] - Faithless (html))

CHAPTER THREE

Sara winced as she wrapped a Band-Aid around a broken fingernail. Her hands felt bruised from digging and small scratches gouged into the tips of her fingers like tiny pinpricks. She would have to be extra careful at the clinic this week, making sure the wounds were covered at all times. As she bandaged her thumb, her mind flashed to the piece of fingernail she had found stuck in the strip of wood, and she felt guilty for worrying about her petty problems. Sara could not imagine what the girl’s last moments had been like, but she knew that before the day was over, she would have to do just that.

Working in the morgue, Sara had seen the terrible ways that people can die— stabbings, shootings, beatings, strangulations. She tried to look at each case with a clinical eye, but sometimes, a victim would become a living, breathing thing, beseeching Sara to help. Lying dead in that box out in the woods, the girl had called to Sara. The look of fear etched into every line of her face, the hand grasping for some hold on to life— all beseeched someone, anyone, to help. The girl’s last moments must have been horrific. Sara could think of nothing more terrifying than being buried alive.

The telephone rang in her office, and Sara jogged across the room to answer before the machine picked up. She was a second too late, and the speaker echoed a screech of feedback as she picked up the phone.

“Sara?” Jeffrey asked.

“Yeah,” she told him, switching off the machine. “Sorry.”

“We haven’t found anything,” he said, and she could hear the frustration in his voice.

“No missing persons?”

“There was a girl a few weeks back,” he told her. “But she turned up at her grandmother’s yesterday. Hold on.” She heard him mumble something, then come back on the line. “I’ll call you right back.”

The phone clicked before Sara could respond. She sat back in her chair, looking down at her desk, noticing the neat stacks of papers and memos. All of her pens were in a cup and the phone was perfectly aligned with the edge of the metal desk. Carlos, her assistant, worked full-time at the morgue but he had whole days when there was nothing for him to do but twiddle his thumbs and wait for someone to die. He had obviously kept himself busy straightening her office. Sara traced a scratch along the top of the Formica, thinking she had never noticed the faux wood laminate in all the years she had worked here.

She thought about the wood used to build the box that held the girl. The lumber looked new, and the screen mesh covering the pipe had obviously been wrapped around the top in order to keep debris from blocking the air supply. Someone was keeping the girl there, holding her there, for his own sick purposes. Was her abductor somewhere right now thinking about her trapped in the box, getting some sort of sexual thrill from the power he thought he held over her? Had he already gotten his satisfaction, simply by leaving her there to die?

Sara startled as the phone rang. She picked it up, asking, “Jeffrey?”

“Just a minute.” He covered the phone as he spoke to someone, and Sara waited until he asked her, “How old do you think she is?”

Sara did not like guessing, but she said, “Anywhere from sixteen to nineteen. It’s hard to tell at this stage.”

He relayed this information to someone in the field, then asked Sara, “You think somebody made her put on those clothes?”

“I don’t know,” she answered, wondering where he was going with this.

“The bottom of her socks are clean.”

“He could have taken away her shoes after she got in the box,” Sara suggested. Then, realizing his true concern, she added, “I’ll have to get her on the table before I can tell if she was sexually assaulted.”

“Maybe he was waiting for that,” Jeffrey hypothesized, and they were both quiet for a moment as they considered this. “It’s pouring down rain here,” he said. “We’re trying to dig out the box, see if we can find anything on it.”

“The lumber looked new.”

“There’s mold growing on the side,” he told her. “Maybe buried like that, it wouldn’t weather as quickly.”

“It’s pressure treated?”

“Yeah,” he said. “The joints are all mitered. Whoever built this didn’t just throw it together. It took some skill.” He paused a moment, but she didn’t hear him talking to anyone. Finally, he said, “She looks like a kid, Sara.”

“I know.”

“Somebody’s missing her,” he said. “She didn’t just run away.”

Sara was silent. She had seen too many secrets revealed during an autopsy to make a snap judgment about the girl. There could be any number of circumstances that had brought her to that dark place in the woods.

“We put out a wire,” Jeffrey said. “Statewide.”

“You think she was transported?” Sara asked, surprised. For some reason, she had assumed the girl was local.

“It’s a public forest,” he said. “We get all kinds of people in and out of here.”

“That spot, though . . .” Sara let her voice trail off, wondering if there was a night last week when she had looked out her window, darkness obscuring the girl and her abductor as he buried her alive across the lake.

“He would want to check on her,” Jeffrey said, echoing Sara’s earlier thoughts about the girl’s abductor. “We’re asking neighbors if they’ve seen anybody in or out recently who looked like they didn’t belong.”

“I jog through there all the time,” Sara told him. “I’ve never seen anyone. We wouldn’t have even known she was there if you hadn’t tripped.”

“Brad’s trying to get fingerprints off the pipe.”

“Maybe you should dust for prints,” she said. “Or I will.”

“Brad knows what he’s doing.”

“No,” she said. “You cut your hand. Your blood is on that pipe.”

Jeffrey paused a second. “He’s wearing gloves.”

“Goggles, too?” she asked, feeling like a hall monitor but knowing she had to raise the issue. Jeffrey did not respond, so she spelled it out for him. “I don’t want to be a pain about this, but we should be careful until we find out. You would never forgive yourself if . . .” She stopped, deciding to let him fill in the rest. When he still did not respond, she asked, “Jeffrey?”

“I’ll send it back with Carlos,” he said, but she could tell he was irritated.

“I’m sorry,” she apologized, though she was not sure why.

He was quiet again, and she could hear the crackling from his cell phone as he changed position, probably wanting to get away from the scene.

He asked, “How do you think she died?”

Sara let out a sigh before answering. She hated speculating. “From the way we found her, I would guess she ran out of air.”

“But what about the pipe?”

“Maybe it was too restrictive. Maybe she panicked.” Sara paused. “This is why I don’t like giving an opinion without all the facts. There could be an underlying cause, something to do with her heart. She could be diabetic. She could be anything. I just won’t know until I get her on the table— and then I might not know for certain until all the tests are back, and I might not even know then.”

Jeffrey seemed to be considering the options. “You think she panicked?”

“I know I would.”

“She had the flashlight,” he pointed out. “The batteries were working.”

“That’s a small consolation.”

“I want to get a good photo of her to send out once she’s cleaned up. There has to be someone looking for her.”

“She had provisions. I can’t imagine whoever put her in there was planning on leaving her indefinitely.”

“I called Nick,” he said, referring to the Georgia Bureau of Investigation’s local field agent. “He’s going into the office to see if he can pull up any matches on the computer. This could be some kind of kidnapping for ransom.”

For some reason, this made Sara feel better than thinking the girl had been snatched from her home for more sadistic purposes.

He said, “Lena should be at the morgue within the hour.”

“You want me to call you when she gets here?”

“No,” he said. “We’re losing daylight. I’ll head over as soon as we secure the scene.” He hesitated, like there was more he wanted to say.

“What is it?” Sara asked.

“She’s just a kid.”

“I know.”

He cleared his throat. “Someone’s looking for her, Sara. We need to find out who she is.”

“We will.”

He paused again before saying, “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

She gently placed the receiver back in the cradle, Jeffrey’s words echoing in her mind. A little over a year ago, he had been forced to shoot a young girl in the line of duty. Sara had been there, had watched the scene play out like a nightmare, and she knew that Jeffrey had not had a choice, just like she knew that he would never forgive himself for his part in the girl’s death.

Sara walked over to the filing cabinet against the wall, gathering paperwork for the autopsy. Though the cause of death was probably asphyxiation, central blood and urine would have to be collected, labeled and sent to the state lab, where it would languish until the Georgia Bureau of Investigation’s overburdened staff could get to it. Tissue would have to be processed and stored in the morgue for at least three years. Trace evidence would have to be collected, dated and sealed into paper bags. Depending on what Sara found, a rape kit might have to be performed: fingernails scraped and clipped, vagina, anus and mouth swabbed, DNA collected for processing. Organs would be weighed, arms and legs measured. Hair color, eye color, birthmarks, age, race, gender, number of teeth, scars, bruises, anatomical abnormalities— all of these would be noted on the appropriate form. In the next few hours, Sara would be able to tell Jeffrey everything there was to know about the girl except for the one thing that really mattered to him: her name.

Sara opened her logbook to assign a case number. To the coroner’s office, she would be #8472. Presently, there were only two cases of unidentified bodies found in Grant County, so the police would refer to her as Jane Doe number three. Sara felt an overwhelming sadness as she wrote this title in the log. Until a family member was found, the victim would simply be a series of numbers.

Sara pulled out another stack of forms, thumbing through them until she found the US Standard Certificate of Death. By law, Sara had forty-eight hours to submit a death certificate for the girl. The process of changing the victim from a person into a numerical sequence would be amplified at each step. After the autopsy, Sara would find the corresponding code that signified mode of death and put it in the correct box on the form. The form would be sent to the National Center for Health Statistics, which would in turn report the death to the World Health Organization. There, the girl would be catalogued and analyzed, given more codes, more numbers, which would be assimilated into other data from around the country, then around the world. The fact that she had a family, friends, perhaps lovers, would never enter into the equation.

Again, Sara thought about the girl lying in the wooden coffin, the terrified look on her face. She was someone’s daughter. When she was born, someone had looked into the infant’s face and given her a name. Someone had loved her.

The ancient gears of the elevator whirred into motion, and Sara set the paperwork aside as she stood from her desk. She waited at the elevator doors, listening to the groaning machinery as the car made its way down the shaft. Carlos was incredibly serious, and one of the few jokes Sara had ever heard him make had to do with plummeting to his death inside the ancient contraption.

The floor indicator over the doors was the old-fashioned kind, a clock with three numbers. The needle hovered between one and zero, barely moving. Sara leaned back against the wall, counting the seconds in her head. She was on thirty-eight and about to call building maintenance when a loud ding echoed in the tiled room and the doors slowly slid open.

Carlos stood behind the gurney, his eyes wide. “I thought it was stuck,” he murmured in his heavily accented English.

“Let me help,” she offered, taking the end of the gurney so that he wouldn’t have to angle it out into the room by himself. The girl’s arm was still stuck up at a shallow angle where she had tried to claw her way out of the box, and Sara had to lift the gurney into a turn so that it would not catch against the door.

She asked, “Did you get X-rays upstairs?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Weight?”

“A hundred thirteen pounds,” he told her. “Five feet three inches.”

Sara made a note of this on the dry erase board bolted to the wall. She capped the marker before saying, “Let’s get her on the table.”

At the scene, Carlos had placed the girl in a black body bag, and together, they grabbed the corners of the bag and lifted her onto the table. Sara helped him with the zipper, working quietly alongside him as they prepared her for autopsy. After putting on a pair of gloves, Carlos cut through the brown paper bags that had been placed over her hands to preserve any evidence. Her long hair was tangled in places, but still managed to cascade over the side of the table. Sara gloved herself and tucked the hair around the body, aware that she was studiously avoiding the horror-stricken mask of the girl’s face. A quick glance at Carlos proved he was doing the same.

As Carlos began undressing the girl, Sara walked over to the metal cabinet by the sinks and took out a surgical gown and goggles. She laid these on a tray by the table, feeling an almost unbearable sadness as Carlos exposed the girl’s milk-white flesh to the harsh lights of the morgue. Her small breasts were covered with what looked like a training bra and she was wearing a pair of high-legged cotton briefs that Sara always associated with the elderly; Granny Earnshaw had given Sara and Tessa a ten-pair pack of the same style every year for Christmas, and Tessa had always called them granny panties.

“No label,” Carlos said, and Sara went over to see for herself. He had spread the dress on a piece of brown paper to catch any trace evidence. Sara changed her gloves before touching the material, not wanting to cross-contaminate. The dress was cut from a simple pattern, long sleeves with a stiff collar. She guessed the material to be some kind of heavy cotton blend.

Sara checked the stitching, saying, “It doesn’t look factory made,” thinking this might be a clue in its own right. Aside from an ill-fated home economics course in high school, Sara had never sewn more than a button. Whoever had sewn the dress obviously knew what they were doing.

“Looks pretty clean,” Carlos said, placing the underwear and bra on the paper. They were well-worn but spotless, the tags faded from many washings.

“Can you black light them?” she asked, but he was already walking over to the cabinet to get the lamp.

Sara returned to the autopsy table, relieved to see no signs of bruising or trauma on the girl’s pubis and upper thighs. She waited as Carlos plugged in the purple light and waved it over the clothes. Nothing glowed, meaning there were no traces of semen or blood on the items. Dragging the extension cord behind him, he walked to the body and handed Sara the light.

She said, “You can do it,” and he slowly traced the light up and down the girl’s body. His hands were steady as he did this, his gaze intent. Sara often let Carlos do small tasks like this, knowing he must be bored out of his mind waiting around the morgue all day. Yet, the one time she had suggested he look into going back to school, Carlos had shaken his head in disbelief, as if she had proposed he fly to the moon.

“Clean,” he said, flashing a rare smile, his teeth purple in the light. He turned off the lamp and started winding the cord to store it back under the counter.

Sara rolled the Mayo trays over to the table. Carlos had already arranged the tools for autopsy, and even though he seldom made mistakes, Sara checked through them, making sure everything she needed would be on hand.

Several scalpels were lined up in a row beside various types of surgically sharpened scissors. Different-sized forceps, retractors, probes, wire cutters, a bread-loafing knife and various probes were on the next tray. The Stryker saw and postmortem hammer/hook were at the foot of the table, the grocer’s scales for weighing organs above. Unbreakable jars and test tubes were by the sink awaiting tissue samples. A meter stick and a small ruler were beside the camera, which would be used to document any abnormal findings.

Sara turned back around just as Carlos was resting the girl’s shoulders on the rubber block in order to extend her neck. With Sara’s help, he unfolded a white sheet and draped it over her body, leaving her bent arm outside the cover. He was gentle with the body, as if she was still alive and could feel everything he did. Not for the first time, Sara was struck by the fact that she had worked with Carlos for over a decade and still knew very little about him.

His watch beeped three times, and he pressed one of the many buttons to turn it off, telling Sara, “The X-rays should be ready.”

“I’ll take care of the rest,” she offered, though there wasn’t much left to do.

She waited until she heard his heavy footsteps echoing in the stairwell before she let herself look at the girl’s face. Under the overhead spotlight, she looked older than Sara initially had thought. She could even be in her early twenties. She could be married. She could have a child of her own.

Again, Sara heard footsteps on the stairs, but it was Lena Adams, not Carlos, who pushed open the swinging doors and came into the room.

“Hey,” Lena said, looking around the morgue, seeming to take in everything. She kept her hands on her hips, her gun sticking out under her arm. Lena had a cop’s way of standing, feet wide apart, shoulders squared, and though she was a small woman, her attitude filled the room. Something about the detective had always made Sara uncomfortable, and they were rarely alone together.

“Jeffrey’s not here yet,” Sara told her, taking out a cassette tape for the Dictaphone. “You can wait in my office if you want.”

“That’s okay,” Lena answered, walking over to the body. She gazed at the girl a moment before giving a low whistle. Sara watched her, thinking something seemed different about Lena. Normally, she projected an air of anger, but today, her defenses felt slightly compromised. There was a red-rimmed tiredness to her eyes, and she had obviously lost weight recently, something that didn’t suit her already trim frame.

Sara asked, “Are you okay?”

Instead of answering the question, Lena indicated the girl, saying, “What happened to her?”

Sara dropped the tape into the slot. “She was buried alive in a wooden box out by the lake.”

Lena shuddered. “Jesus.”

Sara tapped her foot on the pedal under the table, engaging the recorder. She said “Test” a couple of times.

“How do you know she was alive?” Lena asked.

“She clawed at the boards,” Sara told her, rewinding the tape. “Someone put her in there to keep her . . . I don’t know. He was keeping her for something.”

Lena took a deep breath, her shoulders rising with the effort. “Is that why her arm’s sticking up? From trying to claw her way out?”

“I would imagine.”

“Jesus.”

The rewind button on the recorder popped up. They were both quiet as Sara’s voice played back, “Test, test.”

Lena waited, then asked, “Any idea who she is?”

“None.”

“She just ran out of air?”

Sara stopped and explained everything that had happened. Lena took it all in, expressionless. Sara knew the other woman had trained herself not to respond, but it was unnerving the way Lena could distance herself from such a horrific crime.

When Sara had finished, Lena’s only response was to whisper, “Shit.”

“Yeah,” Sara agreed. She glanced at the clock, wondering what was keeping Carlos just as he walked in with Jeffrey.

“Lena,” Jeffrey said. “Thanks for coming in.”

“No problem,” she said, shrugging it off.

Jeffrey gave Lena a second, closer look. “You feeling okay?”

Lena’s eyes flashed to Sara’s, something like guilt in them. Lena said, “I’m fine.” She indicated the dead girl. “You got a name on her yet?”

Jeffrey’s jaw tightened. She could not have asked a worse question. “No,” he managed.

Sara indicated the sink, telling him, “You need to wash out your hand.”

“I already did.”

“Do it again,” she told him, dragging him over and turning on the tap. “You’ve still got a lot of dirt in there.”

He hissed between his teeth as she put his hand under the hot water. The wound was deep enough for sutures, but too much time had passed to sew it up without risking infection. Sara would have to butterfly it closed and hope for the best. “I’m going to write you a prescription for an antibiotic.”

“Great.” He shot her a look of annoyance when she put on a pair of gloves. She gave him the same look back as she wrapped his hand, knowing they didn’t need to have this discussion with an audience.

“Dr. Linton?” Carlos was standing by the lightbox, looking at the girl’s X-rays. Sara finished with Jeffrey before joining him. There were several films in place, but her eyes instantly went to the abdominal series.

Carlos said, “I think I need to take these again. This one’s kind of blurry.”

The X-ray machine was older than Sara, but she knew nothing was wrong with the exposure. “No,” she whispered, dread washing over her.

Jeffrey was at her side, already picking at the bandage she had wrapped around his hand. “What is it?”

“She was pregnant.”

“Pregnant?” Lena echoed.

Sara studied the film, the task ahead taking shape in her mind. She hated infant autopsies. This would be the youngest victim she had ever had in the morgue.

Jeffrey asked, “Are you sure?”

“You can see the head here,” Sara told him, tracing the image. “Legs, arms, trunk . . .”

Lena had walked up for a closer look, and her voice was very quiet when she asked, “How far along was she?”

“I don’t know,” Sara answered, feeling like a piece of glass was in her chest. She would have to hold the fetus in her hand, dissecting it like she was cutting up a piece of fruit. The skull would be soft, the eyes and mouth simply hinted at by dark lines under paper-thin skin. Cases like this made her hate her job.

“Months? Weeks?” Lena pressed.

Sara could not say. “I’ll have to see it.”

“Double homicide,” Jeffrey said.

“Not necessarily,” Sara reminded him. Depending on which side screamed the loudest, politicians were changing the laws governing fetal death practically every day. Thankfully, Sara had never had to look into it. “I’ll have to check with the state.”

“Why?” Lena asked, her tone so odd that Sara turned to face her. She was staring at the X-ray as if it was the only thing in the room.

“It’s no longer based on viability,” Sara explained, wondering why Lena was pressing the point. She had never struck Sara as the type who liked children, but Lena was getting older. Maybe her biological clock had finally started ticking.

Lena nodded at the film, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. “Was this viable?”

“Not even close,” Sara said, then felt the need to add, “I’ve read about fetuses being delivered and kept alive at twenty-three weeks, but it’s very unusual to—”

“That’s the second trimester,” Lena interrupted.

“Right.”

“Twenty-three weeks?” Lena echoed. She swallowed visibly, and Sara exchanged a look with Jeffrey.

He shrugged, then asked Lena, “You okay?”

“Yeah,” she said, and it seemed as if she had to force herself to look away from the X-ray. “Yeah,” she repeated. “Let’s . . . uh . . . let’s just get this started.”

Carlos helped Sara into the surgical gown, and together they went over every inch of the girl’s body, measuring and photographing what little they found. There were a few fingernail marks around her throat where she had probably scratched herself, a common reaction when someone was having difficulty breathing. Skin was missing from the tips of the index and middle finger of her right hand, and Sara imagined they would find the pieces stuck to the wooden slats that had been above her. Splinters were under her remaining fingernails where she had tried to scrape her way out, but Sara found no tissue or skin lodged under the nails.

The girl’s mouth was clean of debris, the soft tissue free from tears and bruising. She had no fillings or dental work, but the beginning of a cavity was on her right rear molar. Her wisdom teeth were intact, two of them already breaking through the skin. A star-shaped birthmark was below the girl’s right buttock and a patch of dry skin was on her right forearm. She had been wearing a long-sleeved dress, so Sara assumed this was a bit of recurring eczema. Winter was always harder on the fair-skinned.

Before Jeffrey took Polaroids for identification, Sara tried to press the girl’s lips together and close her eyes in order to soften her expression. When she had done all she could, she used a thin blade to scrape the mold from the girl’s upper lip. There wasn’t much, but she put it in a specimen jar to send to the lab anyway.

Jeffrey leaned over the body, holding the camera close to her face. The flashbulb sparked, sending a loud pop through the room. Sara blinked to clear her vision, the smell of burning plastic from the cheap camera temporarily masking the other odors that filled the morgue.

“One more,” Jeffrey said, leaning over the girl again. There was another pop and the camera whirred, spitting out a second photograph.

Lena said, “She doesn’t look homeless.”

“No,” Jeffrey agreed, his tone indicating he was anxious for answers. He waved the Polaroid in the air as if that would make it develop faster.

“Let’s take prints,” Sara said, testing the tension in the girl’s raised arm.

There was not as much resistance as Sara had expected, and her surprise must have been evident, because Jeffrey asked, “How long do you think she’s been dead?”

Sara pressed down the arm to the girl’s side so that Carlos could ink and print her fingers. She said, “Full rigor would happen anywhere between six to twelve hours after death. From the way it’s breaking up, I’d say she’s been dead a day, two days, tops.” She indicated the lividity on the back of the body, pressing her fingers into the purplish marks. “Liver mortis is set up. She’s starting to decompose. It must’ve been cold in there. The body was well preserved.”

“What about the mold around her mouth?”

Sara looked at the card Carlos handed her, checking to make sure he had gotten a good set from what remained of the girl’s fingertips. She nodded to him, giving back the card, and told Jeffrey, “There are molds that can grow quickly, especially in that environment. She could have vomited and the mold set up on that.” Another thought occurred to her. “Some types of fungus can deplete oxygen in an enclosed space.”

“There was stuff growing on the inside of the box,” Jeffrey recalled, looking at the picture of the girl. He showed it to Sara. “It’s not as bad as I thought.”

Sara nodded, though she could not imagine what it would be like to have known the girl in life and see this picture of her now. Even with all Sara had tried to do to the face, there was no mistaking that the death had been an excruciating one.

Jeffrey held the photo out for Lena to see, but she shook her head. He asked, “Do you think she’s been molested?”

“We’ll do that next,” Sara said, realizing she had been postponing the inevitable.

Carlos handed her the speculum and rolled over a portable lamp. Sara felt they were all holding their breath as she did the pelvic exam, and when she told them, “There’s no sign of sexual assault,” there seemed to be a group exhalation. She did not know why rape made cases like this that much more horrific, but there was no getting around the fact that she was relieved the girl hadn’t had to suffer one more degradation before she’d died.

Next, Sara checked the eyes, noting the scattershot broken blood vessels. The girl’s lips were blue, her slightly protruding tongue a deep purple. “You don’t usually see petechiae in this kind of asphyxiation,” she said.

Jeffrey asked, “You think something else could have killed her?”

Sara answered truthfully, “I don’t know.”

She used an eighteen-gauge needle to pierce the center of the eye, drawing out vitreous humor from the globe. Carlos filled another syringe with saline and she used this to replace what she had taken so that the orb would not collapse.

When Sara had done all she could as far as the external exam, she asked, “Ready?”

Jeffrey and Lena nodded. Sara pressed the pedal under the table, engaging the Dictaphone, and recorded into the tape, “Coroner’s case number eighty-four-seventy-two is the unembalmed body of a Caucasian Jane Doe with brown hair and brown eyes. Age is unknown but estimated to be eighteen to twenty years old. Weight, one thirteen; height, sixty-three inches. Skin is cool to the touch and consistent with being buried underground for an unspecified period of time.” She tapped off the recorder, telling Carlos, “We need the temperature for the last two weeks.”

Carlos made a note on the board as Jeffrey asked, “Do you think she’s been out there longer than a week?”

“It got down to freezing on Monday,” she reminded him. “There wasn’t much waste in the jar, but she could have been restricting her fluid intake in case she ran out. She was also probably dehydrated from shock.” She tapped on the Dictaphone and took up a scalpel, saying, “The internal exam is started with the standard Y incision.”

The first time Sara had performed an autopsy, her hand had shaken. As a doctor, she had been trained to use a light touch. As a surgeon, she had been taught that every cut made into the body should be calculated and controlled; every movement of her hand working to heal, not harm. The initial cuts made at autopsy— slicing into the body as if it were a piece of raw meat— went against everything she had learned.

She started the scalpel on the right side, anterior to the acromial process. She cut medial to the breasts, the tip of the blade sliding along the ribs, and stopped at the xiphoid process. She did the same on the left side, the skin folding away from the scalpel as she followed the midline down to the pubis and around the umbilicus, yellow abdominal fat rolling up in the sharp blade’s wake.

Carlos passed Sara a pair of scissors, and she was using these to cut through the peritoneum when Lena gasped, putting her hand to her mouth.

Sara asked, “Are you—” just as Lena bolted from the room, gagging.

There was no bathroom in the morgue, and Sara assumed Lena was trying to make it upstairs to the hospital. From the retching noise that echoed in the stairwell, she hadn’t made it. Lena coughed several times and there was the distinct sound of splatter.

Carlos murmured something under his breath and went to get the mop and bucket.

Jeffrey had a sour look on his face. He had never been good around anyone being sick. “You think she’s okay?”

Sara looked down at the body, wondering what had set Lena off. The detective had attended autopsies before and never had a bad reaction. The body hadn’t really been dissected yet; just a section of the abdominal viscera was exposed.

Carlos said, “It’s the smell.”

“What smell?” Sara asked, wondering if she had punctured the bowel.

He furrowed his brow. “Like at the fair.”

The door popped open and Lena came back into the room looking embarrassed. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t know what—” She stopped about five feet from the table, her hand over her mouth as if she might be sick again. “Jesus, what is that?”

Jeffrey shrugged. “I don’t smell anything.”

“Carlos?” Sara asked.

He said, “It’s . . . like something burning.”

“No,” Lena countered, taking a step back. “Like it’s curdled. Like it makes your jaw ache to smell it.”

Sara heard alarms go off in her head. “Does it smell bitter?” she asked. “Like bitter almonds?”

“Yeah,” Lena allowed, still keeping her distance. “I guess.”

Carlos was nodding, too, and Sara felt herself break out into a cold sweat.

“Christ,” Jeffrey exhaled, taking a step away from the body.

“We’ll have to finish this at the state lab,” Sara told him, throwing a sheet over the corpse. “I don’t even have a chemical hood here.”

Jeffrey reminded her, “They’ve got an isolation chamber in Macon. I could call Nick and see if we can use it.”

She snapped off her gloves. “It’d be closer, but they’d only let me observe.”

“Do you have a problem with that?”

“No,” Sara said, slipping on a surgical mask. She suppressed a shudder, thinking about what might have happened. Without prompting, Carlos came over with the body bag.

“Careful,” Sara cautioned, handing him a mask. “We’re very lucky,” she told them, helping Carlos seal up the body. “Only about forty percent of the population can detect the odor.”

Jeffrey told Lena, “It’s a good thing you came in today.”

Lena looked from Sara to Jeffrey and back again. “What are you two talking about?”

“Cyanide.” Sara zipped the bag closed. “That’s what you were smelling.” Lena still didn’t seem to be following, so Sara added, “She was poisoned.”

CHAPTER THREE

Sara winced as she wrapped a Band-Aid around a broken fingernail. Her hands felt bruised from digging and small scratches gouged into the tips of her fingers like tiny pinpricks. She would have to be extra careful at the clinic this week, making sure the wounds were covered at all times. As she bandaged her thumb, her mind flashed to the piece of fingernail she had found stuck in the strip of wood, and she felt guilty for worrying about her petty problems. Sara could not imagine what the girl’s last moments had been like, but she knew that before the day was over, she would have to do just that.

Working in the morgue, Sara had seen the terrible ways that people can die— stabbings, shootings, beatings, strangulations. She tried to look at each case with a clinical eye, but sometimes, a victim would become a living, breathing thing, beseeching Sara to help. Lying dead in that box out in the woods, the girl had called to Sara. The look of fear etched into every line of her face, the hand grasping for some hold on to life— all beseeched someone, anyone, to help. The girl’s last moments must have been horrific. Sara could think of nothing more terrifying than being buried alive.

The telephone rang in her office, and Sara jogged across the room to answer before the machine picked up. She was a second too late, and the speaker echoed a screech of feedback as she picked up the phone.

“Sara?” Jeffrey asked.

“Yeah,” she told him, switching off the machine. “Sorry.”

“We haven’t found anything,” he said, and she could hear the frustration in his voice.

“No missing persons?”

“There was a girl a few weeks back,” he told her. “But she turned up at her grandmother’s yesterday. Hold on.” She heard him mumble something, then come back on the line. “I’ll call you right back.”

The phone clicked before Sara could respond. She sat back in her chair, looking down at her desk, noticing the neat stacks of papers and memos. All of her pens were in a cup and the phone was perfectly aligned with the edge of the metal desk. Carlos, her assistant, worked full-time at the morgue but he had whole days when there was nothing for him to do but twiddle his thumbs and wait for someone to die. He had obviously kept himself busy straightening her office. Sara traced a scratch along the top of the Formica, thinking she had never noticed the faux wood laminate in all the years she had worked here.

She thought about the wood used to build the box that held the girl. The lumber looked new, and the screen mesh covering the pipe had obviously been wrapped around the top in order to keep debris from blocking the air supply. Someone was keeping the girl there, holding her there, for his own sick purposes. Was her abductor somewhere right now thinking about her trapped in the box, getting some sort of sexual thrill from the power he thought he held over her? Had he already gotten his satisfaction, simply by leaving her there to die?

Sara startled as the phone rang. She picked it up, asking, “Jeffrey?”

“Just a minute.” He covered the phone as he spoke to someone, and Sara waited until he asked her, “How old do you think she is?”

Sara did not like guessing, but she said, “Anywhere from sixteen to nineteen. It’s hard to tell at this stage.”

He relayed this information to someone in the field, then asked Sara, “You think somebody made her put on those clothes?”

“I don’t know,” she answered, wondering where he was going with this.

“The bottom of her socks are clean.”

“He could have taken away her shoes after she got in the box,” Sara suggested. Then, realizing his true concern, she added, “I’ll have to get her on the table before I can tell if she was sexually assaulted.”

“Maybe he was waiting for that,” Jeffrey hypothesized, and they were both quiet for a moment as they considered this. “It’s pouring down rain here,” he said. “We’re trying to dig out the box, see if we can find anything on it.”

“The lumber looked new.”

“There’s mold growing on the side,” he told her. “Maybe buried like that, it wouldn’t weather as quickly.”

“It’s pressure treated?”

“Yeah,” he said. “The joints are all mitered. Whoever built this didn’t just throw it together. It took some skill.” He paused a moment, but she didn’t hear him talking to anyone. Finally, he said, “She looks like a kid, Sara.”

“I know.”

“Somebody’s missing her,” he said. “She didn’t just run away.”

Sara was silent. She had seen too many secrets revealed during an autopsy to make a snap judgment about the girl. There could be any number of circumstances that had brought her to that dark place in the woods.

“We put out a wire,” Jeffrey said. “Statewide.”

“You think she was transported?” Sara asked, surprised. For some reason, she had assumed the girl was local.

“It’s a public forest,” he said. “We get all kinds of people in and out of here.”

“That spot, though . . .” Sara let her voice trail off, wondering if there was a night last week when she had looked out her window, darkness obscuring the girl and her abductor as he buried her alive across the lake.

“He would want to check on her,” Jeffrey said, echoing Sara’s earlier thoughts about the girl’s abductor. “We’re asking neighbors if they’ve seen anybody in or out recently who looked like they didn’t belong.”

“I jog through there all the time,” Sara told him. “I’ve never seen anyone. We wouldn’t have even known she was there if you hadn’t tripped.”

“Brad’s trying to get fingerprints off the pipe.”

“Maybe you should dust for prints,” she said. “Or I will.”

“Brad knows what he’s doing.”

“No,” she said. “You cut your hand. Your blood is on that pipe.”

Jeffrey paused a second. “He’s wearing gloves.”

“Goggles, too?” she asked, feeling like a hall monitor but knowing she had to raise the issue. Jeffrey did not respond, so she spelled it out for him. “I don’t want to be a pain about this, but we should be careful until we find out. You would never forgive yourself if . . .” She stopped, deciding to let him fill in the rest. When he still did not respond, she asked, “Jeffrey?”

“I’ll send it back with Carlos,” he said, but she could tell he was irritated.

“I’m sorry,” she apologized, though she was not sure why.

He was quiet again, and she could hear the crackling from his cell phone as he changed position, probably wanting to get away from the scene.

He asked, “How do you think she died?”

Sara let out a sigh before answering. She hated speculating. “From the way we found her, I would guess she ran out of air.”

“But what about the pipe?”

“Maybe it was too restrictive. Maybe she panicked.” Sara paused. “This is why I don’t like giving an opinion without all the facts. There could be an underlying cause, something to do with her heart. She could be diabetic. She could be anything. I just won’t know until I get her on the table— and then I might not know for certain until all the tests are back, and I might not even know then.”

Jeffrey seemed to be considering the options. “You think she panicked?”

“I know I would.”

“She had the flashlight,” he pointed out. “The batteries were working.”

“That’s a small consolation.”

“I want to get a good photo of her to send out once she’s cleaned up. There has to be someone looking for her.”

“She had provisions. I can’t imagine whoever put her in there was planning on leaving her indefinitely.”

“I called Nick,” he said, referring to the Georgia Bureau of Investigation’s local field agent. “He’s going into the office to see if he can pull up any matches on the computer. This could be some kind of kidnapping for ransom.”

For some reason, this made Sara feel better than thinking the girl had been snatched from her home for more sadistic purposes.

He said, “Lena should be at the morgue within the hour.”

“You want me to call you when she gets here?”

“No,” he said. “We’re losing daylight. I’ll head over as soon as we secure the scene.” He hesitated, like there was more he wanted to say.

“What is it?” Sara asked.

“She’s just a kid.”

“I know.”

He cleared his throat. “Someone’s looking for her, Sara. We need to find out who she is.”

“We will.”

He paused again before saying, “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

She gently placed the receiver back in the cradle, Jeffrey’s words echoing in her mind. A little over a year ago, he had been forced to shoot a young girl in the line of duty. Sara had been there, had watched the scene play out like a nightmare, and she knew that Jeffrey had not had a choice, just like she knew that he would never forgive himself for his part in the girl’s death.

Sara walked over to the filing cabinet against the wall, gathering paperwork for the autopsy. Though the cause of death was probably asphyxiation, central blood and urine would have to be collected, labeled and sent to the state lab, where it would languish until the Georgia Bureau of Investigation’s overburdened staff could get to it. Tissue would have to be processed and stored in the morgue for at least three years. Trace evidence would have to be collected, dated and sealed into paper bags. Depending on what Sara found, a rape kit might have to be performed: fingernails scraped and clipped, vagina, anus and mouth swabbed, DNA collected for processing. Organs would be weighed, arms and legs measured. Hair color, eye color, birthmarks, age, race, gender, number of teeth, scars, bruises, anatomical abnormalities— all of these would be noted on the appropriate form. In the next few hours, Sara would be able to tell Jeffrey everything there was to know about the girl except for the one thing that really mattered to him: her name.

Sara opened her logbook to assign a case number. To the coroner’s office, she would be #8472. Presently, there were only two cases of unidentified bodies found in Grant County, so the police would refer to her as Jane Doe number three. Sara felt an overwhelming sadness as she wrote this title in the log. Until a family member was found, the victim would simply be a series of numbers.

Sara pulled out another stack of forms, thumbing through them until she found the US Standard Certificate of Death. By law, Sara had forty-eight hours to submit a death certificate for the girl. The process of changing the victim from a person into a numerical sequence would be amplified at each step. After the autopsy, Sara would find the corresponding code that signified mode of death and put it in the correct box on the form. The form would be sent to the National Center for Health Statistics, which would in turn report the death to the World Health Organization. There, the girl would be catalogued and analyzed, given more codes, more numbers, which would be assimilated into other data from around the country, then around the world. The fact that she had a family, friends, perhaps lovers, would never enter into the equation.

Again, Sara thought about the girl lying in the wooden coffin, the terrified look on her face. She was someone’s daughter. When she was born, someone had looked into the infant’s face and given her a name. Someone had loved her.

The ancient gears of the elevator whirred into motion, and Sara set the paperwork aside as she stood from her desk. She waited at the elevator doors, listening to the groaning machinery as the car made its way down the shaft. Carlos was incredibly serious, and one of the few jokes Sara had ever heard him make had to do with plummeting to his death inside the ancient contraption.

The floor indicator over the doors was the old-fashioned kind, a clock with three numbers. The needle hovered between one and zero, barely moving. Sara leaned back against the wall, counting the seconds in her head. She was on thirty-eight and about to call building maintenance when a loud ding echoed in the tiled room and the doors slowly slid open.

Carlos stood behind the gurney, his eyes wide. “I thought it was stuck,” he murmured in his heavily accented English.

“Let me help,” she offered, taking the end of the gurney so that he wouldn’t have to angle it out into the room by himself. The girl’s arm was still stuck up at a shallow angle where she had tried to claw her way out of the box, and Sara had to lift the gurney into a turn so that it would not catch against the door.

She asked, “Did you get X-rays upstairs?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Weight?”

“A hundred thirteen pounds,” he told her. “Five feet three inches.”

Sara made a note of this on the dry erase board bolted to the wall. She capped the marker before saying, “Let’s get her on the table.”

At the scene, Carlos had placed the girl in a black body bag, and together, they grabbed the corners of the bag and lifted her onto the table. Sara helped him with the zipper, working quietly alongside him as they prepared her for autopsy. After putting on a pair of gloves, Carlos cut through the brown paper bags that had been placed over her hands to preserve any evidence. Her long hair was tangled in places, but still managed to cascade over the side of the table. Sara gloved herself and tucked the hair around the body, aware that she was studiously avoiding the horror-stricken mask of the girl’s face. A quick glance at Carlos proved he was doing the same.

As Carlos began undressing the girl, Sara walked over to the metal cabinet by the sinks and took out a surgical gown and goggles. She laid these on a tray by the table, feeling an almost unbearable sadness as Carlos exposed the girl’s milk-white flesh to the harsh lights of the morgue. Her small breasts were covered with what looked like a training bra and she was wearing a pair of high-legged cotton briefs that Sara always associated with the elderly; Granny Earnshaw had given Sara and Tessa a ten-pair pack of the same style every year for Christmas, and Tessa had always called them granny panties.

“No label,” Carlos said, and Sara went over to see for herself. He had spread the dress on a piece of brown paper to catch any trace evidence. Sara changed her gloves before touching the material, not wanting to cross-contaminate. The dress was cut from a simple pattern, long sleeves with a stiff collar. She guessed the material to be some kind of heavy cotton blend.

Sara checked the stitching, saying, “It doesn’t look factory made,” thinking this might be a clue in its own right. Aside from an ill-fated home economics course in high school, Sara had never sewn more than a button. Whoever had sewn the dress obviously knew what they were doing.

“Looks pretty clean,” Carlos said, placing the underwear and bra on the paper. They were well-worn but spotless, the tags faded from many washings.

“Can you black light them?” she asked, but he was already walking over to the cabinet to get the lamp.

Sara returned to the autopsy table, relieved to see no signs of bruising or trauma on the girl’s pubis and upper thighs. She waited as Carlos plugged in the purple light and waved it over the clothes. Nothing glowed, meaning there were no traces of semen or blood on the items. Dragging the extension cord behind him, he walked to the body and handed Sara the light.

She said, “You can do it,” and he slowly traced the light up and down the girl’s body. His hands were steady as he did this, his gaze intent. Sara often let Carlos do small tasks like this, knowing he must be bored out of his mind waiting around the morgue all day. Yet, the one time she had suggested he look into going back to school, Carlos had shaken his head in disbelief, as if she had proposed he fly to the moon.

“Clean,” he said, flashing a rare smile, his teeth purple in the light. He turned off the lamp and started winding the cord to store it back under the counter.

Sara rolled the Mayo trays over to the table. Carlos had already arranged the tools for autopsy, and even though he seldom made mistakes, Sara checked through them, making sure everything she needed would be on hand.

Several scalpels were lined up in a row beside various types of surgically sharpened scissors. Different-sized forceps, retractors, probes, wire cutters, a bread-loafing knife and various probes were on the next tray. The Stryker saw and postmortem hammer/hook were at the foot of the table, the grocer’s scales for weighing organs above. Unbreakable jars and test tubes were by the sink awaiting tissue samples. A meter stick and a small ruler were beside the camera, which would be used to document any abnormal findings.

Sara turned back around just as Carlos was resting the girl’s shoulders on the rubber block in order to extend her neck. With Sara’s help, he unfolded a white sheet and draped it over her body, leaving her bent arm outside the cover. He was gentle with the body, as if she was still alive and could feel everything he did. Not for the first time, Sara was struck by the fact that she had worked with Carlos for over a decade and still knew very little about him.

His watch beeped three times, and he pressed one of the many buttons to turn it off, telling Sara, “The X-rays should be ready.”

“I’ll take care of the rest,” she offered, though there wasn’t much left to do.

She waited until she heard his heavy footsteps echoing in the stairwell before she let herself look at the girl’s face. Under the overhead spotlight, she looked older than Sara initially had thought. She could even be in her early twenties. She could be married. She could have a child of her own.

Again, Sara heard footsteps on the stairs, but it was Lena Adams, not Carlos, who pushed open the swinging doors and came into the room.

“Hey,” Lena said, looking around the morgue, seeming to take in everything. She kept her hands on her hips, her gun sticking out under her arm. Lena had a cop’s way of standing, feet wide apart, shoulders squared, and though she was a small woman, her attitude filled the room. Something about the detective had always made Sara uncomfortable, and they were rarely alone together.

“Jeffrey’s not here yet,” Sara told her, taking out a cassette tape for the Dictaphone. “You can wait in my office if you want.”

“That’s okay,” Lena answered, walking over to the body. She gazed at the girl a moment before giving a low whistle. Sara watched her, thinking something seemed different about Lena. Normally, she projected an air of anger, but today, her defenses felt slightly compromised. There was a red-rimmed tiredness to her eyes, and she had obviously lost weight recently, something that didn’t suit her already trim frame.

Sara asked, “Are you okay?”

Instead of answering the question, Lena indicated the girl, saying, “What happened to her?”

Sara dropped the tape into the slot. “She was buried alive in a wooden box out by the lake.”

Lena shuddered. “Jesus.”

Sara tapped her foot on the pedal under the table, engaging the recorder. She said “Test” a couple of times.

“How do you know she was alive?” Lena asked.

“She clawed at the boards,” Sara told her, rewinding the tape. “Someone put her in there to keep her . . . I don’t know. He was keeping her for something.”

Lena took a deep breath, her shoulders rising with the effort. “Is that why her arm’s sticking up? From trying to claw her way out?”

“I would imagine.”

“Jesus.”

The rewind button on the recorder popped up. They were both quiet as Sara’s voice played back, “Test, test.”

Lena waited, then asked, “Any idea who she is?”

“None.”

“She just ran out of air?”

Sara stopped and explained everything that had happened. Lena took it all in, expressionless. Sara knew the other woman had trained herself not to respond, but it was unnerving the way Lena could distance herself from such a horrific crime.

When Sara had finished, Lena’s only response was to whisper, “Shit.”

“Yeah,” Sara agreed. She glanced at the clock, wondering what was keeping Carlos just as he walked in with Jeffrey.

“Lena,” Jeffrey said. “Thanks for coming in.”

“No problem,” she said, shrugging it off.

Jeffrey gave Lena a second, closer look. “You feeling okay?”

Lena’s eyes flashed to Sara’s, something like guilt in them. Lena said, “I’m fine.” She indicated the dead girl. “You got a name on her yet?”

Jeffrey’s jaw tightened. She could not have asked a worse question. “No,” he managed.

Sara indicated the sink, telling him, “You need to wash out your hand.”

“I already did.”

“Do it again,” she told him, dragging him over and turning on the tap. “You’ve still got a lot of dirt in there.”

He hissed between his teeth as she put his hand under the hot water. The wound was deep enough for sutures, but too much time had passed to sew it up without risking infection. Sara would have to butterfly it closed and hope for the best. “I’m going to write you a prescription for an antibiotic.”

“Great.” He shot her a look of annoyance when she put on a pair of gloves. She gave him the same look back as she wrapped his hand, knowing they didn’t need to have this discussion with an audience.

“Dr. Linton?” Carlos was standing by the lightbox, looking at the girl’s X-rays. Sara finished with Jeffrey before joining him. There were several films in place, but her eyes instantly went to the abdominal series.

Carlos said, “I think I need to take these again. This one’s kind of blurry.”

The X-ray machine was older than Sara, but she knew nothing was wrong with the exposure. “No,” she whispered, dread washing over her.

Jeffrey was at her side, already picking at the bandage she had wrapped around his hand. “What is it?”

“She was pregnant.”

“Pregnant?” Lena echoed.

Sara studied the film, the task ahead taking shape in her mind. She hated infant autopsies. This would be the youngest victim she had ever had in the morgue.

Jeffrey asked, “Are you sure?”

“You can see the head here,” Sara told him, tracing the image. “Legs, arms, trunk . . .”

Lena had walked up for a closer look, and her voice was very quiet when she asked, “How far along was she?”

“I don’t know,” Sara answered, feeling like a piece of glass was in her chest. She would have to hold the fetus in her hand, dissecting it like she was cutting up a piece of fruit. The skull would be soft, the eyes and mouth simply hinted at by dark lines under paper-thin skin. Cases like this made her hate her job.

“Months? Weeks?” Lena pressed.

Sara could not say. “I’ll have to see it.”

“Double homicide,” Jeffrey said.

“Not necessarily,” Sara reminded him. Depending on which side screamed the loudest, politicians were changing the laws governing fetal death practically every day. Thankfully, Sara had never had to look into it. “I’ll have to check with the state.”

“Why?” Lena asked, her tone so odd that Sara turned to face her. She was staring at the X-ray as if it was the only thing in the room.

“It’s no longer based on viability,” Sara explained, wondering why Lena was pressing the point. She had never struck Sara as the type who liked children, but Lena was getting older. Maybe her biological clock had finally started ticking.

Lena nodded at the film, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. “Was this viable?”

“Not even close,” Sara said, then felt the need to add, “I’ve read about fetuses being delivered and kept alive at twenty-three weeks, but it’s very unusual to—”

“That’s the second trimester,” Lena interrupted.

“Right.”

“Twenty-three weeks?” Lena echoed. She swallowed visibly, and Sara exchanged a look with Jeffrey.

He shrugged, then asked Lena, “You okay?”

“Yeah,” she said, and it seemed as if she had to force herself to look away from the X-ray. “Yeah,” she repeated. “Let’s . . . uh . . . let’s just get this started.”

Carlos helped Sara into the surgical gown, and together they went over every inch of the girl’s body, measuring and photographing what little they found. There were a few fingernail marks around her throat where she had probably scratched herself, a common reaction when someone was having difficulty breathing. Skin was missing from the tips of the index and middle finger of her right hand, and Sara imagined they would find the pieces stuck to the wooden slats that had been above her. Splinters were under her remaining fingernails where she had tried to scrape her way out, but Sara found no tissue or skin lodged under the nails.

The girl’s mouth was clean of debris, the soft tissue free from tears and bruising. She had no fillings or dental work, but the beginning of a cavity was on her right rear molar. Her wisdom teeth were intact, two of them already breaking through the skin. A star-shaped birthmark was below the girl’s right buttock and a patch of dry skin was on her right forearm. She had been wearing a long-sleeved dress, so Sara assumed this was a bit of recurring eczema. Winter was always harder on the fair-skinned.

Before Jeffrey took Polaroids for identification, Sara tried to press the girl’s lips together and close her eyes in order to soften her expression. When she had done all she could, she used a thin blade to scrape the mold from the girl’s upper lip. There wasn’t much, but she put it in a specimen jar to send to the lab anyway.

Jeffrey leaned over the body, holding the camera close to her face. The flashbulb sparked, sending a loud pop through the room. Sara blinked to clear her vision, the smell of burning plastic from the cheap camera temporarily masking the other odors that filled the morgue.

“One more,” Jeffrey said, leaning over the girl again. There was another pop and the camera whirred, spitting out a second photograph.

Lena said, “She doesn’t look homeless.”

“No,” Jeffrey agreed, his tone indicating he was anxious for answers. He waved the Polaroid in the air as if that would make it develop faster.

“Let’s take prints,” Sara said, testing the tension in the girl’s raised arm.

There was not as much resistance as Sara had expected, and her surprise must have been evident, because Jeffrey asked, “How long do you think she’s been dead?”

Sara pressed down the arm to the girl’s side so that Carlos could ink and print her fingers. She said, “Full rigor would happen anywhere between six to twelve hours after death. From the way it’s breaking up, I’d say she’s been dead a day, two days, tops.” She indicated the lividity on the back of the body, pressing her fingers into the purplish marks. “Liver mortis is set up. She’s starting to decompose. It must’ve been cold in there. The body was well preserved.”

“What about the mold around her mouth?”

Sara looked at the card Carlos handed her, checking to make sure he had gotten a good set from what remained of the girl’s fingertips. She nodded to him, giving back the card, and told Jeffrey, “There are molds that can grow quickly, especially in that environment. She could have vomited and the mold set up on that.” Another thought occurred to her. “Some types of fungus can deplete oxygen in an enclosed space.”

“There was stuff growing on the inside of the box,” Jeffrey recalled, looking at the picture of the girl. He showed it to Sara. “It’s not as bad as I thought.”

Sara nodded, though she could not imagine what it would be like to have known the girl in life and see this picture of her now. Even with all Sara had tried to do to the face, there was no mistaking that the death had been an excruciating one.

Jeffrey held the photo out for Lena to see, but she shook her head. He asked, “Do you think she’s been molested?”

“We’ll do that next,” Sara said, realizing she had been postponing the inevitable.

Carlos handed her the speculum and rolled over a portable lamp. Sara felt they were all holding their breath as she did the pelvic exam, and when she told them, “There’s no sign of sexual assault,” there seemed to be a group exhalation. She did not know why rape made cases like this that much more horrific, but there was no getting around the fact that she was relieved the girl hadn’t had to suffer one more degradation before she’d died.

Next, Sara checked the eyes, noting the scattershot broken blood vessels. The girl’s lips were blue, her slightly protruding tongue a deep purple. “You don’t usually see petechiae in this kind of asphyxiation,” she said.

Jeffrey asked, “You think something else could have killed her?”

Sara answered truthfully, “I don’t know.”

She used an eighteen-gauge needle to pierce the center of the eye, drawing out vitreous humor from the globe. Carlos filled another syringe with saline and she used this to replace what she had taken so that the orb would not collapse.

When Sara had done all she could as far as the external exam, she asked, “Ready?”

Jeffrey and Lena nodded. Sara pressed the pedal under the table, engaging the Dictaphone, and recorded into the tape, “Coroner’s case number eighty-four-seventy-two is the unembalmed body of a Caucasian Jane Doe with brown hair and brown eyes. Age is unknown but estimated to be eighteen to twenty years old. Weight, one thirteen; height, sixty-three inches. Skin is cool to the touch and consistent with being buried underground for an unspecified period of time.” She tapped off the recorder, telling Carlos, “We need the temperature for the last two weeks.”

Carlos made a note on the board as Jeffrey asked, “Do you think she’s been out there longer than a week?”

“It got down to freezing on Monday,” she reminded him. “There wasn’t much waste in the jar, but she could have been restricting her fluid intake in case she ran out. She was also probably dehydrated from shock.” She tapped on the Dictaphone and took up a scalpel, saying, “The internal exam is started with the standard Y incision.”

The first time Sara had performed an autopsy, her hand had shaken. As a doctor, she had been trained to use a light touch. As a surgeon, she had been taught that every cut made into the body should be calculated and controlled; every movement of her hand working to heal, not harm. The initial cuts made at autopsy— slicing into the body as if it were a piece of raw meat— went against everything she had learned.

She started the scalpel on the right side, anterior to the acromial process. She cut medial to the breasts, the tip of the blade sliding along the ribs, and stopped at the xiphoid process. She did the same on the left side, the skin folding away from the scalpel as she followed the midline down to the pubis and around the umbilicus, yellow abdominal fat rolling up in the sharp blade’s wake.

Carlos passed Sara a pair of scissors, and she was using these to cut through the peritoneum when Lena gasped, putting her hand to her mouth.

Sara asked, “Are you—” just as Lena bolted from the room, gagging.

There was no bathroom in the morgue, and Sara assumed Lena was trying to make it upstairs to the hospital. From the retching noise that echoed in the stairwell, she hadn’t made it. Lena coughed several times and there was the distinct sound of splatter.

Carlos murmured something under his breath and went to get the mop and bucket.

Jeffrey had a sour look on his face. He had never been good around anyone being sick. “You think she’s okay?”

Sara looked down at the body, wondering what had set Lena off. The detective had attended autopsies before and never had a bad reaction. The body hadn’t really been dissected yet; just a section of the abdominal viscera was exposed.

Carlos said, “It’s the smell.”

“What smell?” Sara asked, wondering if she had punctured the bowel.

He furrowed his brow. “Like at the fair.”

The door popped open and Lena came back into the room looking embarrassed. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t know what—” She stopped about five feet from the table, her hand over her mouth as if she might be sick again. “Jesus, what is that?”

Jeffrey shrugged. “I don’t smell anything.”

“Carlos?” Sara asked.

He said, “It’s . . . like something burning.”

“No,” Lena countered, taking a step back. “Like it’s curdled. Like it makes your jaw ache to smell it.”

Sara heard alarms go off in her head. “Does it smell bitter?” she asked. “Like bitter almonds?”

“Yeah,” Lena allowed, still keeping her distance. “I guess.”

Carlos was nodding, too, and Sara felt herself break out into a cold sweat.

“Christ,” Jeffrey exhaled, taking a step away from the body.

“We’ll have to finish this at the state lab,” Sara told him, throwing a sheet over the corpse. “I don’t even have a chemical hood here.”

Jeffrey reminded her, “They’ve got an isolation chamber in Macon. I could call Nick and see if we can use it.”

She snapped off her gloves. “It’d be closer, but they’d only let me observe.”

“Do you have a problem with that?”

“No,” Sara said, slipping on a surgical mask. She suppressed a shudder, thinking about what might have happened. Without prompting, Carlos came over with the body bag.

“Careful,” Sara cautioned, handing him a mask. “We’re very lucky,” she told them, helping Carlos seal up the body. “Only about forty percent of the population can detect the odor.”

Jeffrey told Lena, “It’s a good thing you came in today.”

Lena looked from Sara to Jeffrey and back again. “What are you two talking about?”

“Cyanide.” Sara zipped the bag closed. “That’s what you were smelling.” Lena still didn’t seem to be following, so Sara added, “She was poisoned.”