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Scowling, he brings his hands up to cup them.
“Approximately five feet, eleven inches tall. Perhaps an inch or so more. Five o’clock shadow. Says he didn’t shave for a few days prior to death.”
“Or the stubble grew in the last thirty-six to forty-eight,” Fletch inserts. “Right?”
Pausing my work, I look over my shoulder and scowl. “What?”
“Like, hair still grows after death. Everyone knows that. For a little while, anyway.”
“Absolutely not.” I bring my gaze back to my John Doe and shake my head. “Hair grows after death,” I grumble to myself. “Early mornings make Detective Fletcher a little simple.”
Aubree giggles on my left.
“What?” Fletch takes another step closer. “What’s the problem?”
“Hair doesn’t grow after death!”
“Of course it does,” he shoots back. “And nails too.Everyoneknows that.”
“Everyone’s a dummy,” I spit back. “Hair and nails do not continue to grow post-mortem, no matter how many middle-schoolers told you different. A body dehydrates,” I add before he can argue. “Skin tightens, which gives theappearanceof growth in our nails and hair, but I assure you, Detective Dummy, that stubble did notgrowafter he died.”
“Ah crap.” Alarmingly serious, Aubree grabs my wrist and stops my movements. Beneath the tarp, our John Doe’s chest is wrapped in a blood-soaked, white button-up. The shirt has been fastened, the fabric placed in such a way as to imply care was given to the victim.
Our killer wasn’t angry or rushed in his work, but rather, caring and gentle.
“Here.” I offer the corner of the plastic sheet to Aubree to hold, then I reach down and slowly open one shirt button. Then the next. I do them all with one hand, since my other remains pressed to the wall to hold up my weight.
The third button. Then the fourth.
Exposing the victim’s entire torso and moving a little to the side to give Aubree room to document, I peer back to the police and raise a brow. “Cause of death appears to be heart related.”
“What happened?” Together, they step closer, but it’s Fletch who guesses, “Heart attack? Heart disease? Heartbreak?” he adds with a grin. “Cholesterol?”
“Stabbed in the heart?” Archer asks. “Shot?”
“Heart transplant,” Aubree murmurs. “Someone literally removed the organ, buttoned him back up, and left him here.” Guarded, she glances across and meets my eyes. “Someone harvested the organ and took it with them.”
“Shiiiit.”
ARCHER
“The operation was performed by someone who knew at least a bit about what they were doing.”
Inside the George Stanley building’s Autopsy Room One, wearing a white lab coat and a pair of plastic glasses, Minka stands over Jesse Corrigan’s harvested body. Her gloved hands, stained red with Jesse’s blood, continue their work, but she speaks to me.
“The killer has a decent understanding of how to extract an organ safely.”
Narrowing my eyes, I lean back against the counter that lines the floor-to-ceiling windows and fold my arms. “Safe for who? Corrigan’s dead.”
“Safe for the organ,” she says with a slight croak in her tone. “This wasn’t a smash and grab, nor was it an attack for the sake of attacking. The killer wanted the heart, and they wanted it in good condition.”
“So… black-market organ harvesting?”
She firms her lips for a moment. Considering. Thinking. Then she finally nods. “I suspect so, yes. The killer’s actions were very deliberate. The attack was quiet, tidy, and the cleanup was methodical. Professional, even.”
“You’re not saying what you need to say.” I study her closely. Watch her eyes and prepare for what I suspect is coming. “Doctor Mayet…”Keep it professional. Keep it detached. “Why won’t you say it?”
“Because it’s supposed to be impossible.” Taking a step back from the table and the body on top, she snaps her gloves off so they roll into a ball. “They take an oath.”
