“Detective Fiske. Detective Seas.” Tim wiggled his eyebrows at Rachel, adding, “Gorgeous as always.”
She laughed, shaking her head and patting her stomach. “Just what I needed to hear.”
Carter rolled his eyes at the young man’s ineffectual flirting. “Natalie Bastion is expecting us.”
“She’s in autopsy three.”
Moving through the doors in the back, he and Rachel stalked down the hall. She laughed again as he wiggled his eyebrows, mocking Tim.
“I swear, the people they hire here seem to be getting younger and younger. Last time I was in here there was a girl at reception that looked like she was barely eighteen.”
“Are you sure you’re just not getting older, Rachel?” he asked.
“Shut up, Fiske. The last thing I want to think about is how old I’m getting.”
Coming to the door indicating Autopsy 3, she pushed through and he followed. They were in a small observatory room, the seats leading down to a large glass window overlooking the actual autopsy. He walked past the four rows of inclined seats and observed Natalie in what appeared to be the final stages of the autopsy.
He pressed the buzzer located on the panel and a chime sounded, drawing the doctor’s attention up to the window. She lifted her hand in acknowledgment and pulled the surgical mask down to her chin, still keeping her face shield in place. “Five minutes,” she called out. “I’ll meet you in the consultation room and can give you my results and his personal effects.”
He felt Rachel shift beside him, turning to go back up the steps, but his gaze remained on the young man lying on the autopsy table. His chest had been opened, now stitched in the familiar Y. Under the harsh lighting in the autopsy arena, the corpse appeared even younger than he had the night before. A large tattoo covered his left bicep, but Carter was too far away to discern a pattern. He knew Natalie would have pictures and all the information they needed.
With a last look at the young man’s face, he sighed before turning and following Rachel out the door. In the two years that he and Rachel had worked together, he appreciated that she intuitively knew when he did not want to be peppered with questions. And every time they viewed an autopsy was one of those times. They walked down the hall in silence to the consultation room for Autopsy 3.
“Quick break,” she said.
As Rachel hurried down the hall to the ladies’ room, he entered the consultation room. A few minutes later, both she and Natalie entered at the same time, Rachel with an air of relief and Natalie with her hands full of several bags and a file.
Not wasting any time, Natalie sat behind the desk and nodded toward the bags. “Here are his effects. There was no identification on his body. No wallet. No cell phone. I’ll send his fingerprints to the lab and see if we can get an identification.”
Opening the file, she flipped through several pieces of paper. “Obviously, my full report isn’t written yet, but this is what I do have. Male. Approximately 18 to 25 years old. 5 feet, 11 inches. 173 pounds. Cause of death was smoke inhalation. There were drugs in his system but not enough to cause death. Definitely enough to make him drowsy and could have been a contributing factor as to why it appeared he made no move to get out of the smoke coming from the fire next door.”
“Do you know what kind?” he asked.
“Selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors. Prescription antidepressant.”
“Fuck.”
Natalie continued reading. “He had eaten recently, probably just last night. Overall health was good. There were no obvious wounds. He did have a tattoo on his left arm. I’ll send the pictures to you to see if that will aid in identification. He had scarring on his left leg and tiny fragments of shrapnel embedded in the bone.”
“Military?”
“Quite possibly.”
Carter listened as she finished the recitation, nothing else giving them any more pertinent information or clues to the young man’s identity until she mentioned what was in the bag.
“You’ll notice when you look at his clothes they appear worn, somewhat dirty. Not filthy but not recently washed. The coat, on the other hand, is almost brand-new.”
“Probably stolen,” Rachel said on a sigh.
“Maybe, except I noticed the brand. It’s a WinterPole, and there was an article in the paper a few weeks back about how the WinterPole company has a manufacturing plant here in Hope City. Wanting to give back to the community, they were donating a large number of winter coats to the homeless shelters to be distributed. I have no idea if that will help but thought I’d mention it.”
“What about the tattoo?” he asked.
Natalie leaned back and shoved her glasses up on top of her head, rubbing her eyes. Fatigue showed briefly before the mask of efficiency dropped back into place. “I’ll have it in my report that will get emailed to you but let me go ahead and send you a quick message.” Gaining his cell phone number, she sent the photograph of the tattoo to his phone.
Pulling it up, he stared at the black, monochromatic image of a fallen soldier memorial tattoo. Boots at the bottom. Rifle propped up, rising from the boots. Combat helmet resting on top. Heart pounding, the image hit him in the gut. For a few seconds, the analytical façade fell away at the memory of some of his fellow soldiers who did not come back. Blowing out his breath, he waited for the tightness in his chest to loosen.
He cleared his throat, swallowing past the lump, and pulled the mantle of detective around him once again. “This doesn’t mean he was a veteran, but it gives
