Chapter 2
I treated the morgue like a crime scene, calling in the CSU, cordoning off the area, gathering a list of employees to question.
No one had seen anything.
The Crime Scene Unit, consisting of Officer Dan Rogers -- tall, blond, goatee -- on samples and Officer Scott Hajek -- short and compact, blue eyes hidden behind glasses -- on photographs. They were young, but knew their stuff.
Rogers scanned the arms with an ALS, and they glowed flawlessly pale under the high-intensity light.
'Not a thing.' Rogers scratched at his beard.
Unusual. Under Alternate Light Source, even the tiniest bit of foreign matter glowed like a hot coal. Particles, hair, dirt, bone fragments, blood, semen, bruises, bite marks -- they all fluoresced.
Dan bent down, his nose to one of the wrists.
'They've been washed. Smells like bleach.'
'Are you sure? The whole morgue smells like bleach.'
Rogers, in a move characteristic of his thoroughness, touched the tip of his tongue to the arm.
'Tastes like bleach too. Probably diluted with water, or it would have mottled the skin.'
'Get a sample to burn. And go brush your teeth.'
Rogers dug into his breast pocket for some cinnamon gum. After popping three pieces, he moved the soft blue light closer to the fingers on the right hand.
'I have a slight indentation on the index finger. Looks like she usually wore a ring.'
Hajek brushed past me, zooming in on the fingers. He snapped a close-up.
'I missed the taste test.' He playfully shoved Rogers. 'Can I get one with you sucking on the fingers?'
Rogers showed him a finger of a different kind. Hajek's shutter clicked.
'When you're done scraping the fingernails, I need one of the fakes.'
'Finished already, Lieut.'
Rogers snapped off a pink press-on nail, bagged it, and handed it to me. Then he used a scalpel to take skin samples from each arm, putting them into glass tubes.
'Nothing on the handcuffs?'
'Wiped clean. I can take them back and fume them to make sure.'
'Do it. You'll need these.'
I took the cuff keys from my ring, where they'd been attached for the last year. Rogers undid the handcuffs and placed them in an evidence bag. Then he brought the ALS around.
'No abrasions on the wrist.'
Hajek moved in, shooting a few frames.
'Thanks, guys,' I said. 'If you can get the pictures on my desk tomorrow, along with the prints.'
'I'm on it.'
Rogers dug into his bag, removing fingerprint ink and two sets of cards. I left him to his work and went off in search of Herb.
Benedict stood in the lobby, talking to one of the attendants. Herb's hand cradled a snack-size potato chip bag, half full. The other half was in his mouth.
He must have noticed the question on my face when I approached, because he said, 'They're fat-free.'
'Herb -- it's a morgue.'
'My Pilates instructor told me to eat small snacks several times a day to keep my metabolism up.'
He offered the bag.
'Try one. They're baked. One-third less sodium too.'
I politely declined. 'Get anything?'
'They run three eight-hour shifts, twenty-four hours. I questioned the four attendants here, and no one saw anything. Full list of employees is in my pocket.'
'Won't help.'
The thin black man standing next to Herb offered his hand. I took it.
'And why won't it help, Mr. . . . ?'
'Graves. Carl Graves. All them bodies come here in bags. Cops and EMTs wrap them up before dropping them off. Be real easy to put some extra parts in a bag, wheel it in, then sneak them out. No one would see a thing.'
'How many bodies are dropped off every day?'
'Depends. Sometimes, five or six. Sometimes, a few dozen.'
