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"We cleared out all the other cases when we brought him in," Pete said, and for a moment, Sara did not understand what he meant.
He pointed to an empty gurney, the last in the row. "This is where I worked on him."
Sara stared at the empty table, wondering why the image didn't flash in her head, that horrible vision of the last time she had seen her husband. Instead, all she saw was a clean gurney, the overhead light bouncing off the dull stainless steel. This is where Pete collected the evidence that had led to Jeffrey's killer. This is where the case broke open, proving without a shadow of a doubt who was involved in his murder.
Standing here now, Sara had expected her memories to overwhelm her, but there was only calmness, a certainty of purpose. Good things were done here. People were helped, even in death. Particularly in death.
Slowly, she turned back to Pete, still not seeing Jeffrey, but feeling him, as if he was in the room with her. Why was that? Why was it that after three and a half years of begging her brain to come up with some sensation that might replicate what it felt like to have Jeffrey with her, being in the morgue had brought him to her in a flash?
Most cops hated sitting in on an autopsy, and Jeffrey was no exception, but he considered his attendance a sign of respect, a promise to the victim that he would do everything he could to bring the killer to justice. That was why he had become a cop—not just to help the innocent, but to punish the criminals who preyed upon them.
In all honesty, that was why Sara had taken the coroner's job. Jeffrey hadn't even heard of Grant County the first time she had walked into the morgue under the hospital, examined a victim, helped break a case. Many years ago, Sara had seen violence firsthand, had herself been the victim of a horrific assault. Every Y-incision she made, every sample she collected, every time she testified in court to the horrors she had documented, she had felt a righteous revenge burning in her chest.
"Sara?"
She realized she'd gone quiet. She had to clear her throat before she could tell Pete, "I had Grady send over the films of our Jane Doe from last night. She was able to speak before she went under. We think her name is Anna."
He clicked through to the file, pulling up Anna's X-rays on screen. "Is she conscious?"
"I called the hospital before I got here. She's still out."
"Neurologic damage?"
"She pulled through the surgery, which is more than anyone expected. Reflexes are good, pupils are still nonreactive. There's some swelling in her brain. They've got a scan scheduled for later today. It's the infection that's the real concern. They're doing some cultures, trying to figure out the best way to treat it. Sanderson called in the CDC."
"Oh, my." Pete was studying the X-ray. "How much hand strength do you think that would take, ripping out the rib?"
"She was starved, dehydrated. I suppose that would've made it easier."
"Tied down—couldn't have put up much of a fight. But, still . . . goodness. Reminds me of the third Mrs. Hanson. Vivian was a body builder, you know. Biceps as big around as my leg. Quite a woman."
"Thank you, Pete. Thank you for taking care of him."
He gave her another wink. "You earn respect by giving it to others."
She recognized the dictum from his lectures.
"Snoopy," Pete pronounced as the man pushed a gurney through the double doors. Jacquelyn Zabel's head showed above a white sheet, her skin purple with lividity from hanging upside down in the tree. The color was even darker around the woman's lips, as if someone had smeared a handful of blueberries over her mouth. Sara noticed that the woman had been attractive, with only a few fine lines at the edge of her eyes to show age. Again, she was reminded of Anna, the fact that she, too, was a striking woman.
Pete seemed to be thinking the same thing. "Why is it that the more beautiful the woman, the more horrendous the crime?"
Sara shrugged. It was a phenomenon she'd seen as a coroner back in Grant County. Beautiful women tended to pay a heavier price where homicide was concerned.
"Put her in my spot," Pete told his assistant.
Sara watched the expressionless way Snoopy approached his job, the methodical care he took as he angled the body toward an empty slot in the row. Pete was in the minority here; most of the people working in the morgue were either African-American or women. It was the same at Grady Hospital, which made sense, because Sara had noticed that the more horrible the job, the more likely a woman or minority was to do it. The irony was not lost on Sara that she was included in this mix.
Snoopy kicked down the brakes on the wheels and started to organize the various scalpels, knives and saws Pete would need over the next few hours. He had just pulled out a pair of large pruning shears that you normally find in the gardening section of a hardware store when Will and Faith walked into the room.
Will seemed nonplussed as they passed by open bodies. Faith, on the other hand, looked worse than she had when Sara had first seen her in the hospital. The woman's lips were white, and she stared straight ahead as she walked past a man with his face peeled from his skull so the doctor could check for contusions.
"Dr. Linton," Will began. "Thank you for coming. I know this is supposed to be your day off."
Sara could only smile and nod, wondering at his formal tone. Will Trent sounded more like a banker with every passing minute. She was still having trouble reconciling the man with his job.
Pete held out a pair of gloves to Sara, but she demurred, saying, "I'm just here to observe."
"Don't want to get your hands dirty?" He blew into the glove to open it, sliding in his hand. "Wanna go to lunch after this? There's a great new Italian place on Highland. I can print out a coupon from the web."
Sara was about to beg off when Faith made a noise that caused them all to look her way. She waved her hand in front of her face, and Sara guessed that it was nothing more nefarious than her presence in the morgue that was causing Faith Mitchell's skin to go ashen.
Pete ignored the reaction, telling Will and Faith, "Found plenty of sperm and fluids on the skin before we scrubbed her down. I'll bag them with the rape kit and send them off."
Will scratched his arm under his jacket sleeve. "I doubt our guy's been caught before, but we'll see what the computer kicks back."
For the sake of procedure, Pete turned on the Dictaphone, giving the time and date, then saying, "This is the body of Jacquelyn Alexandra Zabel, a malnourished female, reportedly thirty-eight years of age. She was found in a wooded area near Route 316 in Conyers, which is located in the Georgia county of Rockdale, in the early hours of Saturday, April eighth. The victim was hanging from a tree, face-down, her right foot caught in the branches. There is an obvious broken neck and signs of severe torture. Performing the procedure is Pete Hanson. Attending are Special Agents Will Trent and Faith Mitchell, and the inimitable Dr. Sara Linton."
He pulled back the sheet and Faith gasped. Sara realized that this was the first time she had seen the abductor's handiwork. In the harsh light of the morgue, every injustice was on display: the dark bruises and welts, the rips in the skin, the black electrical burns that looked like powder but could never be wiped off. The body had been washed prior to examination, the blood scrubbed away, so that the waxy white of the skin stood in stark contrast to the injuries. Shallow slices crisscrossed the victim's flesh, each cut deep enough to bleed but not bring about mortality. Sara guessed the cuts had been made by a razor blade or a very sharp, very thin knife.
