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He stares blankly at us.
“We weren’t expecting to be conducting autopsies,” Yolanda says. “Pierre can set bones and he can stitch cuts. That’s what we’ve needed, and it’s what we got.”
Pierre’s gaze goes to the exam table, as if he’s seeing the covered body for the first time. He quicksteps back. “Uh-uh. I don’t know anything about performing an autopsy.”
“We don’t need a full autopsy. I’m mostly looking for your medical opinion on what killed her. I have a doctor I can link in. We’ll need your help assisting—”
“No,” he says, taking another step back. “Sorry, but no.”
“You were an EMT,” Yolanda snaps. “Don’t tell me you never had to handle a corpse.”
“Yes, I did. Once. An old guy who’d been dead in his apartment for a month, and no one noticed until he missed his rentalpayment. That’s when I remembered how much I enjoyed carpentry in high school.”
“That’s fine,” I cut in, trying to sound as if I mean it. “Our victim isn’t decomposing yet, but if you really don’t feel you can help…”
“I can’t. Sorry. I was hired to tend to the living. No one said anything about working on the dead.”
He’s gone before anyone can respond.
“I’ll help,” Yolanda says. “I may lack medical training, but I’m not squeamish.”
“Thank you,” I say. “I know first aid, but that’s about it.”
“Casey’s being modest,” Dalton says. “But yeah, none of us are medical professionals. We’ll need to use the sat phone to call Casey’s sister to guide us through this.”
“She’s not going to like doing it long-distance. Be prepared for complaints.”
“Understandable,” Yolanda says. “Do you have your sat phone handy?”
“We don’t have it at all,” I say. “Someone stole my backpack while I was in a pit finding Penny.” When Yolanda’s brow furrows, I say, “Long story. Short version is that the thief may have been Bruno, who may…”
I remember that Yolanda is missing a key detail, one she’s going to need to know fast.
I continue, “Earlier, I said we’d need to let people know that Penny suffered an accident. It wasn’t an accident. She was murdered.”
Yolanda’s face gives nothing away. She just stands there, seconds ticking by before she says, “You’re certain of that?”
“I’m certain she was stabbed twice,” I say.
Another pause. I wait it out.
“I’ll get the other sat phone,” she says finally.
“Thank you.”
I fold down the sheet as Yolanda leaves. She’s halfway out the door when she stops.
“Do you need anything else?” she asks as she turns back. “The clinic is stocked but—” She stops, her gaze on Penny as she blinks.
“Would you prefer I kept her face covered?” I ask.
“No,” she says slowly. She walks back and stares down at the body. Then she looks at me.
“That’s not Penny.”
CHAPTER SIX
The dead woman lying on our examination table is not Penny. She resembles the architect, only in the most superficial way. She seems roughly the same age, she’s white, and she has light brown hair. In any other missing-person case, we’d have gotten more details, starting with a photograph. No one saw a reason for that. Exactly how many missing women did we expect to find wandering around the forest? The answer, apparently, is: at least two.
