Page 34 of Rage

Doc extends his hand when I reach them and we shake. “This is Dr. Matrone from Franklin County.”

I turn my attention to the woman and introduce myself.

“Frederika,” she says. “Everyone calls me Ricky.”

“She just got in from Columbus a little while ago,” Doc says. “Hence my comment about timing.”

“We’re glad you’re here,” I tell her.

“Ricky won’t claim the title,” Doc says, “but she’s one of the best forensic pathologists in the country.”

“Phooey.” The woman waves away the statement, giving me a thoughtful once-over. “So, you’re the woman brave enough to marry John Tomasetti.”

I can’t help it; I grin. “Guilty as charged.”

She grins back. “He sure as hell won’t claim the title, and there are probably a few people out there who might argue the point, but he’s a good man.”

Despite the reason for my being here, the statement warms me. “He is.”

“Tomasetti’s the one who called me, by the way.” Ricky sobers. “I do quite a bit of work for BCI. Doc was just filling me in on the case.”

I look at the coroner. “Anything new you can share?”

“Some.” He grimaces. “Suit up and we’ll take a look.”

Though the morgue is kept at a cool sixty-two degrees, I’m sweating beneath my uniform as I slip a paper gown on over my shirt. Next come the head covering, mask, and shoe covers. I emerge from the alcove to find Dr. Matrone and Doc Coblentz waiting outside the double doors that will take us to the medical side of the facility.

I’m glad for the mask as I stride toward them; tension knots the muscles at the back of my neck and I’m sure my face shows it. The swish-swish of paper seems unduly loud in the silence of the corridor as we go through the doors. We pass a yellow-and-black biohazard sign and a plaque that reads MORGUE AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL. Doc pushes open one of the doors to the autopsy suite and the three of us enter.

The smells of formalin, antiseptic, and the darker undertones of death offend my olfactory nerves. The room is encased in floor-to-ceiling subway tile. I’m aware of my heart beating too fast, the slow boil of adrenaline in my gut, as we approach the stainless-steel gurney. Doc Coblentz’s technical assistant is standing at the counter. He glances at us over his shoulder, and raises his hand in greeting.

“Hey, Chief Burkholder.”

I don’t trust my voice so I settle for a nod. My attention is already riveted to the gurney. Even from a distance, I can plainly see that the remains we’re about to view aren’t in the form of a human body, but arranged in mounds beneath a sterile paper sheet that’s dotted with watery pink spots of fluid that have leaked through.

“The clothing was sent to the BCI lab in London, Ohio, for processing,” Doc Coblentz begins. “We’ve X-rayed the torso and various appendages and taken a CT scan of the skull. Blood and urine samples were taken for DNA and toxicology, and of course fingerprints, which have been sent to AFIS. We’ve got dental imprints, too. We took anal swabs to check for sexual assault.”

“The entire body was recovered?” I ask.

“I believe we got everything.” Doc looks over his shoulder at his assistant. “Jared, what time was the last piece logged in?”

The young man picks up an electronic pad and scrolls. “Seventeen oh two,” he replies.

“We’ve organized the remains in anatomical form and cleaned up what we could for visual examination. First thing in the morning, Dr. Matrone and I will perform the Y-incision examination and take a look at the thoracic and abdominal cavities. We’ll also perform the coronal incision to open and examine the cranial cavity.”

Doc reaches the gurney first and goes around to the other side. “This is what we’ve found so far.”

Carefully, he peels down the sheet. I thought I was prepared to see what’s left of Samuel Yutzy. I’m not. No one can ever be ready to see the dismembered parts of a human body. Each piece has been painstakingly labeled and then placed on the gurney in the approximate location of where it would have been had the body been intact. Head at the top. Shoulders. Upper arms. Forearms. The abdomen is the color of wax, the flesh covered with a layer of thin black hair. Same with the genitals. The thighs and calves.

Dear God in heaven …

“There are eleven excised body parts…” Doc Coblentz’s voice fades to babel as my brain is besieged by the dreadful sight. The flesh is waxy and shockingly pale. The cuts are primitive and jagged and brownish-red in color. I see tissue I can’t readily identify. The pink protrusion of bones and muscle and tendons. A face that’s barely recognizable. I’m aware of the smell of death all around. Saliva pools in my mouth. I swallow carefully, hoping my stomach holds.

“Chief?”

I snap my gaze to Doc’s. His eyes are sharp on mine above his mask and through the goggles he’s wearing. I’m not sure what he said or how many times he said it.

“I’m fine,” I say, my voice sounding snappish. “Keep going.”