members to view their loved ones without having to venture into the brightly lit, sterile chill of the morgue itself. Joanna and Maggie MacFerson waited for several minutes in a silence softened only by the muted whisper of an air-conditioning fan.
Eventually George pulled the curtain open, revealing the loaded gurney that he had rolled up beside the window. Winfield reap geared on the other side of the window after he had pulled aside the curtain. Maggie stood up and leaned against the double-paned window. Slowly George Winfield drew back a corner of-the sheet, revealing a stark-white face.
Standing next to Maggie, Joanna felt the woman’s body sullen and heard her sharp intake of breath. “It’s her,” she whispered. “It’s Connie.”
With that, Maggie turned and fled the room. Joanna stayed long enough to nod in George’s direction, then she followed Maggie out into the reception area, where she had dropped into a chair.
“Are you all right?” Joanna asked.
“What on earth did he do to her? Dying’s too good for the son of a bitch!” Maggie growled. “Now take me someplace where I can have a drink.”
Joanna understood at once that this time a Burger King soda would hardly suffice. “Really, Ms. MacFerson,” Joanna began. “Don’t you think—”
“I think I need a drink,” Maggie interrupted. “If you won’t take me to get one, then I’ll find one myself.” With that, she got up and marched out the door. George Winfield entered the reception room just in time to hear the last of that exchange.
“What was that all about?” he asked.
“Maggie wants a drink,” Joanna explained. “Which, if you ask me, is the last thing she needs about now. She was so drunk earlier this afternoon that she didn’t remember my telling her that her sister was dead, and she didn’t remember cutting her hands with pieces from a broken glass, either.”
“She was functioning in a blackout?” George asked.
“Must have been,” Joanna replied. “That’s the only thing I can figure.”
“How long has it been since she’s had a drink?”
“A couple of hours,” Joanna replied with a shrug. “Several, actually.”
“If I were you, then,” George said, “I’d get her the drink she wants right away. If she’s enough of a problem drinker that she’s suffering blackouts, I’d advise not cutting off her supply of alcohol. She could go into DTs and die on you.”
Joanna was stunned. “Are you serious?”
“Absolutely. Her body is most likely accustomed to functioning with a certain level of booze in it. If you take the alcohol away suddenly, without her being under a doctor’s care, you risk triggering a case of DTs that could possibly kill her.”
“In that case,” Joanna said, “I’d best go buy the lady a drink. I’ll have Maggie call you later to give you all the relevant information, date of birth and all that. Before I go, I have to ask. Frank gave me the high points on your autopsy results—that Connie Haskell was beaten, raped, and tortured. Anything else?”
George Winfield shook his head. “Isn’t that enough? Whoever did this is a real psycho.”
“DNA evidence?” Joanna asked.
“Plenty of that. Either the guy didn’t think he’d get caught or else he didn’t care. Whichever the case, he sure as hell didn’t use a condom. And you’d better catch up with him soon,” George added. “If you don’t, I’m guessing he’ll do it again.”
On that grim note, Joanna started to leave. Before she made it to the door, George stopped her. “There’s something else I need to tell you,” he said. “Not about this,” he added hurriedly. “It’s another matter entirely.”
“Something about Mother?” Joanna asked.
“Well, yes,” he said, avoiding her eyes. “In a manner of speaking.”
