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Aubrey ticks his head toward my office, silently requesting that we handle this out of earshot. I don’t hide from my coworkers, though. Since the abduction, my life has become an open book.
“They’re foreign,” I say, keeping the escalating panic from creeping into my tone.
With a deliberate nod, Aubrey says, “Yes. From what we’ve garnered, all the victims were originally from outside the US.” He toggles his screen. “Marcy Beloff was initially from Canada before she took up residence in Arlington. She’s the only local victim, however.”
My mind is spinning theories. Everything coming at me at supersonic speed. A dizzying rush attacks my equilibrium. I grip the edge of the table.
“Avery. I’m sorry, but I don’t understand.” Aubrey approaches me with caution. “We’re not detectives or agents. Our job isn’t to speculate or connect evidence with theories. We’re just gathering the facts.”
For a medical examiner who doesn’t read into theories, he’s deducing one about me pretty well right now. “I understand this. But I was also very nearly a victim myself.” I head around the cart toward the last victim. “So excuse me if this case is a bit more personal for me.”
His sigh is audible over the lab clamor. “And that’s exactly why I suggested you take time off.”
That stings. I whirl around, the end of my ponytail slaps my cheek. “Which doesn’t conclude that I can’t be objective and do my job.”
I’m not a confrontational person by nature. I don’t seek out conflict, and I really don’t want to go toe-to-toe with some FBI medical examiner. But I’ve been abducted, drugged, and damn near killed in the past forty-eight hours, and amid it all, I’ve had my lab infiltrated.
The one place that I used to feel the most myself in will never, ever be mine again.
“We need to determine the cause of death for this vic,” I say, directing his exasperated attention to the final cadaver. Once I have conclusive findings to all their deaths, I might actually have a worthy update for Quinn.
I peel away the body bag to examine the last victim. Her toe tag does in fact list her name. She didn’t go easily. She put up a vicious fight. Good for her.
Her frail body is covered in lacerations and contusions. Defensive wounds cover her arms and legs. At least she has limbs…and skin and viscera.
“With each vic, the perp stepped up the method of torture,” I say, thinking out loud. “What happened to you?” I whisper to the victim.
Aubrey shakes his head, and I glance up. “What?” I ask.
“You must work closely with the detectives in your building.” He adjusts his gloves as he takes up a place opposite the victim. “You sound just like them.”
A small smile tugs at my lips. “We are a pretty close unit.” Heat splashes the back of my neck at the memory of Quinn in my kitchen.
“See this here?” He points to a dark ring of bruises around her neck, and I refocus my thoughts. “It appears the victim was strangled as the…perp”—he glances up—“submerged her.”
I find how he came to the drowning conclusion right away. Her skin is bloated, but not of a normal degree due to typical death bloat, and the petechial hemorrhaging, the blood dotting her pale eyes, isn’t pooled at the bottom of her lids, like it would be if it settled there naturally at her death. The offender could’ve submerged her right after she was asphyxiated, the broken vessels of her eyes bleeding out into the water, but I believe we’ll discover water in her lungs to constitute she was drowned.
“We should open the vic up to confirm.” I turn toward my tray of tools.
“From the degree and number of contusions along her neck, and the varying placements…” He pauses as he pulls back the bag shielding her torso. “Yes, she has bruising on her chest, too.” He presses his fingers along her rib cage and applies pressure. “At least two broken ribs.”
I feel the blood drain from my face, cold and prickling in its wake. “He resuscitated her.”
His gaze meets mine, his mouth curved in a hard frown. “Many times. To drown her all over again.”
My eyes are drawn to the other victims, their gory demise, their brutal torture. Their suffering was excruciating. And yet, they only had to endure it once. As I look at the last victim again, her skin pale and drained of life, her unseeing eyes dull, I break down.
My bones are liquid by the time the last COD report is submitted. My muscles burn, my shoulder that was wrenched during my struggle in the lab yesterday throbs, the pain medication having worn off hours ago.
Aubrey insisted on staying after I let my techs go for the evening. They’ve seen me nearly broken before, but my breakdown earlier was shocking even for me. I’m too drained to be embarrassed. The fragile walls I’ve erected could come tumbling down any second.
All Aubrey has to do is ask the right questions—about the drug, about the men who abducted me. In a moment of sheer exhaustion, I’d confess everything.
He doesn’t ask, though. He records facts and findings, and doesn’t entertain theories. I do admire his work ethic and skills, but I couldn’t answer to the FBI the way he does. There’s an almost military structure and code that makes me claustrophobic just being near him.
As I massage my shoulder, working out the ache, my phone vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out and look down, my heart unsure whether it wants to stop beating or rejoice.
Quinn: I’m parked out front.
