Rocky Mountain Mystery

Blair stepped back beside him for a moment. “Any questions?”

“What do they do with those pieces?”

“We preserve the body fluids and tissues for microscopic and toxicological testing.”

“Wasn’t she drowned?”

“Beyond cause of death, the body can reveal a lot of clues.”

When she looked directly at him, David worked hard at being cool. He’d already wiped the sweat off his forehead, but his mouth was cottony, and his lips stuck together.

She cocked her head and asked, “Are you okay?”

“You bet.” He nodded slowly so his head wouldn’t get dizzy and fall right off his shoulders onto the tiled floor.

She patted his arm and turned back to the autopsy table. The inside of the body wasn’t tidy like those neat overlapping transparencies in biology class that showed the layers of sinew and muscle, then different-colored organs, then a white skeleton. This work was messy, and there was a pungent smell that defied description.

David had to look at something else. He concentrated on the back of Blair’s head. Her soft brown hair made a pleasant distraction. She leaned forward to get a better view, and he could see part of her profile—high cheekbones and sharply defined chin. Her hands were clasped behind her back, and her fingers twitched as though she was itching to take a more active part.

“I’m particularly curious about the stomach contents,” she said.

“When we have the analysis, I’ll call,” Reinholdt promised. To the pathologist, he said, “Be careful with the liquid from the lungs. We want to know where that water came from.”

Time passed, and the process became a little less unsettling. David had grown accustomed to the odor. He found that if he stared at one body part at a time, he could forget that this was a whole person who once had a life.

Across the room, he saw Weathers and the uniformed cop leaving. Hah! He’d beaten them. He’d toughed it out. David felt like a forensic pathology ace. Go ahead and toss me that spleen, I can handle it!

Blair glanced over her shoulder at him, and David flashed an “okay” sign. He was cool.

Reinholdt had the scalpel again. He made an incision at the hairline. David instinctively turned away. He heard the whine of a Stryker saw, then the grinding noise as the blade hit the solid bone of the skull.

This part of the autopsy was why Weathers and his companion had left. They knew what was coming. David, in his naiveté, thought the worst was over.

Though he didn’t want to wimp out and disappoint Blair, there was no way he’d turn around and take a peek. His imagination told him plenty.

“David?” Blair was standing beside him.

He whipped around to face her. Her hands, in the latex gloves, were bloody. He concentrated on her green eyes. “Hi.”

“I think you were correct,” she said in a low voice. “This murder was the work of the Fisherman.”

If he hadn’t been afraid of losing his lunch, he would have grinned. Through clenched teeth, he said, “Stomach contents.”

“We’ll know after analysis.”

Behind her left shoulder, Reinholdt was doing something at the victim’s head. David raised one hand to his eyes, shielding his vision.

Blair glanced at the big clock on the wall over the door. “We should try to get over to Adam’s office before six. Are you ready to leave?”

“Way ahead of you.”

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