Faithless (6 page)

When Sara had done all she could as far as the external exam, she asked, “Ready?”

Jeffrey and Lena nodded. Sara pressed the pedal under the table, engaging the Dictaphone, and recorded into the tape, “Coroner’s case number eighty-four-seventy-two is the unembalmed body of a Caucasian Jane Doe with brown hair and brown eyes. Age is unknown but estimated to be eighteen to twenty years old. Weight, one thirteen; height, sixty-three inches. Skin is cool to the touch and consistent with being buried underground for an unspecified period of time.” She tapped off the recorder, telling Carlos, “We need the temperature for the last two weeks.”

Carlos made a note on the board as Jeffrey asked, “Do you think she’s been out there longer than a week?”

“It got down to freezing on Monday,” she reminded him. “There wasn’t much waste in the jar, but she could have been restricting her fluid intake in case she ran out. She was also probably dehydrated from shock.” She tapped on the Dictaphone and took up a scalpel, saying, “The internal exam is started with the standard Y incision.”

The first time Sara had performed an autopsy, her hand had shaken. As a doctor, she had been trained to use a light touch. As a surgeon, she had been taught that every cut made into the body should be calculated and controlled; every movement of her hand working to heal, not harm. The initial cuts made at autopsy- slicing into the body as if it were a piece of raw meat- went against everything she had learned.

She started the scalpel on the right side, anterior to the acromial process. She cut medial to the breasts, the tip of the blade sliding along the ribs, and stopped at the xiphoid process. She did the same on the left side, the skin folding away from the scalpel as she followed the midline down to the pubis and around the umbilicus, yellow abdominal fat rolling up in the sharp blade’s wake.

Carlos passed Sara a pair of scissors, and she was using these to cut through the peritoneum when Lena gasped, putting her hand to her mouth.

Sara asked, “Are you-” just as Lena bolted from the room, gagging.

There was no bathroom in the morgue, and Sara assumed Lena was trying to make it upstairs to the hospital. From the retching noise that echoed in the stairwell, she hadn’t made it. Lena coughed several times and there was the distinct sound of splatter.

Carlos murmured something under his breath and went to get the mop and bucket.

Jeffrey had a sour look on his face. He had never been good around anyone being sick. “You think she’s okay?”

Sara looked down at the body, wondering what had set Lena off. The detective had attended autopsies before and never had a bad reaction. The body hadn’t really been dissected yet; just a section of the abdominal viscera was exposed.

Carlos said, “It’s the smell.”

“What smell?” Sara asked, wondering if she had punctured the bowel.

He furrowed his brow. “Like at the fair.”

The door popped open and Lena came back into the room looking embarrassed. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t know what-” She stopped about five feet from the table, her hand over her mouth as if she might be sick again. “Jesus, what is that?”

Jeffrey shrugged. “I don’t smell anything.”

“Carlos?” Sara asked.

He said, “It’s… like something burning.”

“No,” Lena countered, taking a step back. “Like it’s curdled. Like it makes your jaw ache to smell it.”

Sara heard alarms go off in her head. “Does it smell bitter?” she asked. “Like bitter almonds?”

“Yeah,” Lena allowed, still keeping her distance. “I guess.”

Carlos was nodding, too, and Sara felt herself break out into a cold sweat.

“Christ,” Jeffrey exhaled, taking a step away from the body.

“We’ll have to finish this at the state lab,” Sara told him, throwing a sheet over the corpse. “I don’t even have a chemical hood here.”

Jeffrey reminded her, “They’ve got an isolation chamber in Macon. I could call Nick and see if we can use it.”

She snapped off her gloves. “It’d be closer, but they’d only let me observe.”

“Do you have a problem with that?”

“No,” Sara said, slipping on a surgical mask. She suppressed a shudder, thinking about what might have happened. Without prompting, Carlos came over with the body bag.

“Careful,” Sara cautioned, handing him a mask. “We’re very lucky,” she told them, helping Carlos seal up the body. “Only about forty percent of the population can detect the odor.”

Jeffrey told Lena, “It’s a good thing you came in today.”

Lena looked from Sara to Jeffrey and back again. “What are you two talking about?”

“Cyanide.” Sara zipped the bag closed. “That’s what you were smelling.” Lena still didn’t seem to be following, so Sara added, “She was poisoned.”

CHAPTER FOUR

Jeffrey yawned so hard his jaw popped. He sat back in his chair, staring out at the squad room through his office window, trying to appear focused. Brad Stephens, the youngest patrolman on the Grant County force, gave him a goofy grin. Jeffrey nodded, feeling a shooting pain in his neck. He felt like he had slept on a slab of concrete, which was appropriate, as the only thing between him and the floor last night had been a sleeping bag that was so old and musty that Goodwill had politely refused to take it. They had, however, accepted his mattress, a couch that had seen better days and three boxes of kitchen stuff Jeffrey had fought Sara for during the divorce. Since he had not unpacked the boxes in the five years since the papers were signed, he figured it would be suicide to take them back to her place now.

Clearing out his small house over the last few weeks, he had been startled by how little he had accumulated during his bachelorhood. Last night, as a substitute for counting sheep, he had made a mental list of new purchases. Except for ten boxes of books, some nice sheets that had been a gift from a woman he prayed to God Sara would never meet and some suits he had to buy for work over the years, Jeffrey had nothing new to show for the time they had lived apart. His bike, his lawn mower, his tools- except for a cordless drill that had been purchased when he accidentally dropped his old one into a five-gallon bucket of paint- had been in his possession that final day he’d left Sara’s house. And now, everything of value he ever owned had already been moved back.

And he was sleeping on the floor.

He took a swig of tepid coffee before returning to the task that had occupied the last thirty minutes of his morning. Jeffrey had never been one of those guys who thought reading directions somehow made you less of a man, but the fact that he had for the fourth time carefully followed every single step in the instruction sheet that came with the cell phone and still couldn’t program his own number into the speed dial made him feel like an idiot. He wasn’t even sure Sara would take the phone. She hated the damn things, but he didn’t want her traveling all the way to Macon without a way of getting in touch with him in case something happened.

He mumbled under his breath, “Step one,” as if reading the directions out loud would convince the phone to see logic. Sixteen more steps went by for a fifth time, but when Jeffrey pressed the recall button, nothing happened.

“Shit,” he said, pounding his fist into the desk, then “Fuck!” because he had used his injured left hand. He twisted his wrist, watching blood wick into the white bandage Sara had applied last night at the morgue. He threw in a “Jesus” for good measure, thinking the last ten minutes put a fine point on what was proving to be an extremely shitty day.

As if he had been summoned, Brad Stephens stood at the office door. “Need help with that?”

Jeffrey tossed him the phone. “Put my number on speed dial.”

Brad pressed some buttons, asking, “Your cell number?”

“Yeah,” he said, writing Cathy and Eddie Linton’s home number on a yellow Post-it. “This one, too.”

“Okeydoke,” Brad said, reading the number upside down, punching more buttons.

“You need the instructions?”

Brad gave him a sideways look, like Jeffrey might be pulling his leg, and kept programming the phone. Suddenly, Jeffrey felt about six hundred years old.

“Okay,” Brad said, staring at the phone, pressing more buttons. “Here. Try this.”

Jeffrey hit the phone book icon and the numbers came up. “Thanks.”

“If you don’t need anything else…”

“That’s fine,” Jeffrey said, standing from his chair. He slipped on his suit jacket, pocketing the phone. “I guess there haven’t been any hits on the missing persons report we put out?”

“No, sir,” Brad answered. “I’ll let you know as soon as I hear.”

“I’ll be at the clinic, then back here.” Jeffrey followed Brad out of his office. He rolled his shoulder as he walked to the front of the squad room, trying to loosen up the muscles that were so tight his arm felt numb. The police station reception area had been open to the lobby at one time, but now it was walled in with a small banker’s window so visitors could check in. Marla Simms, the station’s secretary since before dirt, reached under her desk to buzz the door open for Jeffrey.

“I’ll be at Sara’s office if you need me,” he told her.

Marla gave him a cat’s grin. “You be good, now.”

He gave her a wink before heading outside.

Jeffrey had been at the station since five thirty that morning, having given up on sleep sometime around four. He usually ran for thirty minutes every weekday, but today he had fooled himself into thinking he wasn’t being lazy if he went straight to work instead. There was a mountain of paperwork to get through, including finalizing the station’s budget so the mayor could veto everything on it right before going to his annual two-week mayors’ conference in Miami. Jeffrey imagined the mayor’s minibar bill could pay for at least two Kevlar vests, but the politician never saw things that way.

Heartsdale was a college town, and Jeffrey passed several students going to class as he walked down the sidewalk. Underclassmen had to live in the dorms, and the first thing any sophomore with half a brain did was move off campus. Jeffrey had rented his house to a couple of juniors who he hoped were as trustworthy as they looked. Grant Tech was a school of eggheads, and while there weren’t nonacademic fraternities or football games, some of the kids knew how to party. Jeffrey had carefully screened prospective tenants, and he had been a cop long enough to know that there was no way in hell he would get his house back in one piece if he rented it to a bunch of young men. Something was wrong with your wiring at that age, and if it involved beer or sex- or both, if you were lucky- the brain ceased all higher levels of thinking. The two girls moving in had both listed reading as their only hobby. The way his luck was going lately, they were probably planning on turning the place into a meth lab.

The college was at the mouth of Main Street, and Jeffrey walked toward the front gates behind a group of students. They were all girls, all young and pretty, all oblivious to his presence. There had been a time when Jeffrey’s ego would have been bothered by a bunch of young women ignoring him, but now he was concerned for other reasons. He could be stalking them, listening to their conversation to find out where they would be later on. He could be anybody.

Behind him, a car horn beeped, and Jeffrey realized he had stepped into the street. He waved to the driver as he crossed the road, recognizing Bill Burgess from the dry cleaners, saying a small prayer of thanks that the old man had managed to see past his cataracts and stop the car in time.

Jeffrey seldom remembered dreams, which was a gift considering how bad some of them could be, but last night he’d kept seeing the girl in the box. Sometimes, her face would change, and he would see instead the girl he had shot and killed a year ago. She had been just a child, little more than thirteen, with more bad stuff going on in her world than most adults experience in a lifetime. The teen had been desperate for someone to help her, threatening to kill another kid in the hopes that it would end her own suffering. Jeffrey had been forced to shoot her in order to save the other kid. Or maybe not. Maybe things could have been different. Maybe she wouldn’t have shot the kid. Maybe they would both be alive now and the girl in the box would just be another case instead of a nightmare.

Jeffrey sighed as he walked along the sidewalk. There were more maybe’s in his life than he knew what to do with.

Sara’s clinic was on the opposite side of the street from the station, right by the entrance to Grant Tech. He glanced at his watch as he opened the front door, thinking that at a little after seven she would already be in. The clinic didn’t see patients until eight on Mondays, but a young woman was already pacing the front waiting room, jiggling a crying baby as she walked the floor.

Jeffrey said, “Hey.”

“Hey, Chief,” the mother said, and he saw the dark circles under her eyes. The baby on her hip was at least two, with a set of lungs on him that rattled the windows.

She shifted the kid, lifting her leg for support. She probably weighed ninety pounds soaking wet, and Jeffrey wondered how she managed to hold on to the baby.

She saw him watching and told him, “Dr. Linton should be right out.”

Jeffrey said, “Thanks,” taking off his suit jacket. The east-facing side of the waiting room was built with glass brick, so even on the coldest winter morning the rising sun could make you feel like you were in a sauna.

“Hot in here,” the woman said, resuming her pacing.

“Sure is.”

Jeffrey waited for her to say more, but she was concentrating on the child, shushing him, trying to soothe his crying. How mothers managed to keep from falling over into a coma when they had small children was beyond Jeffrey. At times like this, he understood why his own mother had kept a flask in her purse at all times.

He leaned back against the wall, taking in the toys stacked neatly in the corner. There were at least three signs posted around the room that warned, “NO CELL PHONES ALLOWED.” Sara figured if a kid was sick enough to go to the doctor, the parents should be paying attention, not yakking on the phone. He smiled, thinking of the first and only time Sara had carried a phone in her car. Somehow, she kept accidentally hitting the speed dial, so that Jeffrey would answer his phone and hear her singing along to the radio for minutes at a time. It had taken three calls before he figured out he was hearing Sara trying to harmonize with Boy George and not some sick freak beating up a cat.

Sara opened the door beside the office and went to the mother. She didn’t notice Jeffrey, and he kept quiet, taking her in. Normally, she pulled her long auburn hair back into a ponytail while she worked, but this morning it was loose around her shoulders. She was wearing a white button-down shirt and a black A-line skirt that hit just below the knee. The heel on her shoe wasn’t high, but it did something nice to her calf that made him smile. In the outfit, anyone else would look like a waitress from an uptown steakhouse, but on Sara’s tall, slim frame, it worked.

The mother shifted the baby, saying, “He’s still fussy.”

Sara put her hand to the boy’s cheek, shushing him. The child calmed as if a spell had been cast, and Jeffrey felt a lump rising in his throat. Sara was so good with children. The fact that she couldn’t have any of her own was something they seldom talked about. There were some things that just cut too close.

Jeffrey watched as Sara took a few more seconds with the baby, stroking his thin hair over his ear, a smile of sheer pleasure on her lips. The moment felt private, and Jeffrey cleared his throat, having the strange sensation of being an intruder.

Sara turned around, taken off guard, almost startled. She told Jeffrey, “Just a minute,” then turned back to the mother, all business as she handed the woman a white paper bag. “These samples should be enough for a week. If he’s not significantly better by Thursday, give me a call.”

The woman took the samples with one hand, holding tight to the baby. She had probably had the kid while she was just a teenager. Jeffrey had learned just recently that before going off to college he had fathered a child. Well, not a child anymore- Jared was nearly a grown man.

“Thank you, Dr. Linton,” the young mother said. “I don’t know how I’m gonna pay you for-”

“Let’s just get him better,” Sara interrupted. “And get some sleep yourself. You’re no good to him if you’re exhausted all the time.”

The mother took the admonishment with a slight nod of the head, and without even knowing her, Jeffrey understood the advice was falling on deaf ears.

Sara obviously knew this, too well. She said, “Just try, okay? You’re going to make yourself sick.”

The woman hesitated, then agreed, “I’ll try.”

Sara looked down at her hand, and it seemed to Jeffrey that she had not realized she was holding the baby’s foot in her palm. Her thumb rubbed his ankle, and she gave that private smile again.

“Thank you,” the mother said. “Thank you for coming in so early.”

“It’s fine.” Sara had never been good at taking praise or appreciation. She walked them to the door, holding it open as she reminded, “Call me if he’s not better.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Sara pulled the door shut after them, taking her time as she walked back across the lobby, not looking at Jeffrey. He opened his mouth to speak, but she beat him to it, asking, “Anything on the Jane Doe?”

“No,” he said. “We might get something later on when the West Coast opens for the day.”

“She doesn’t look like a runaway to me.”

“Me, either.”

They were both quiet for a beat, and Jeffrey didn’t know what to say.

As usual, Sara broke the silence. “I’m glad you’re here,” she said, walking back toward the exam rooms. He followed her, thinking he was hearing good news until she said, “I want to draw some blood for a hep and liver panel.”

“Hare already did all that.”

“Yeah, well,” she said, leaving it at that. She didn’t hold the door for him, and he had to catch it before it popped back in his face. Unfortunately, he used his left hand and the hard surface caught him smack on the bandaged cut. He felt like someone had stuck him with a knife.

He hissed, “Jesus, Sara.”

“I’m sorry.” Her apology seemed genuine, but there was a flash of something like revenge in her eyes. She reached for his hand and he pulled back on sheer reflex. Her look of irritation at this persuaded him to let her see the bandage.

She asked, “How long has it been bleeding?”

“It’s not bleeding,” he insisted, knowing she’d probably do something really painful to it if he told her the truth. Still, he followed her down the hall toward the nurses’ station like a lamb to the slaughter.

“You didn’t get that prescription filled, did you?” She leaned over the counter and riffled through a drawer, grabbing a handful of brightly colored packets. “Take these.”

He looked at the pink and green sample packs. There were farm animals printed on the foil. “What are these?”