Genie said, “If you see the blonde, let us know.” They thanked Cora for her time, gave her their cards, and left.
“Hiding out,” Genie said. “Going back to her old neighborhood where she’d blend in.”
“Her description couldn’t have been more vague,” Lucy mumbled.
“People here keep their heads low. The law-abiding citizens don’t want any trouble, so they don’t make waves. Nine months ago? I’d say that’s a pretty good memory. Nicole hanging with a young, rich blond girl. I’d say drugs, except knowing what business Nicole was in I’m leaning toward call girl.”
“As opposed to prostitute?”
“Nicole walked the streets, but if she was smart and clean, she might have found an underground escort service. You know how many girls for hire there are in a town like this?”
“Unfortunately, I have some idea.”
“Sex clubs, escort services, streetwalkers. Doesn’t matter the means, there’s a lot of men willing to pay for sex.” They got back into Genie’s car. “I’ll put out some feelers, but I think we’ll come back with some pictures for Ms. Cora Fox and see what she remembers. I’m going to drop you off at the morgue. Call me if you learn anything important.”
Miles West was the deputy coroner assigned to the Nicole Bellows death investigation.
“Twice in two days after no word from you in months,” Miles teased her.
“I’m just lucky.” With cutbacks, there were fewer investigators with the coroner’s office, and senior staff like Miles West took more cases because their experience helped them close faster.
“This is an FBI case, too?” Miles asked.
“We’re working with DC on this one. It’s a bit unusual.” She didn’t feel the need to explain her odd position on this case. Instead, she showed Miles a photo of the dead rat and written message.
Miles closed his eyes, slowly shaking his head. “Retirement is looking better and better. Want my job?”
“Have one.”
“Well, there’s a job here if you want it. We miss you.”
“I kind of miss the place too.” Working at the morgue had been oddly comforting for Lucy. The atmosphere was calm, the people professional, and though every day was different, every process had an established routine. Every corpse was a mystery to be solved, whether the person died naturally, accidentally, or by violence.
Miles pulled the paperwork on Nicole Bellows. “Sheila’s team is prepping the body now. Prostitute, right?”
“We don’t know that she was still working,” Lucy said.
“Not saying it to be judgmental, Kincaid. No one deserves to die like that.”
“But it’s important that we find out definitively. I was hoping you could put in a good word and let me observe the autopsy.”
He laughed again. “I don’t need to put in a good word. Let’s get you suited up. Like every morgue in the country, we’re shorthanded. Your pathology certification is still valid. You worked with Sheila before.”
Lucy remembered Sheila. The morgue had high turnover among assistant pathologists because of low pay, budget cuts, and internships, but the senior pathologists tended to stay once they carved out a niche. As if to prove her point, when Sheila walked into the scrub room, the two assistants-one male, one female, both young-were unfamiliar to Lucy.
Miles said, “Sheila, you have an extra set of eyes. Your slit throat is a federal case now.”
“How’ve you been?” Sheila asked. She introduced Ann and Ben, two interns from the biology department at GWU. Lucy had been in their position not long ago.
They chatted while they scrubbed, and Lucy immediately felt comfortable in the familiar surroundings.
The ritual of an autopsy was almost soothing. The victim’s body had already been weighed, photographed, and cleaned-in a homicide, they scraped under the fingernails, processed the clothing, combed the hair, did everything to extract possible trace evidence, all of which was sealed and stored in an airtight chamber. Evidence with blood or wet biological matter was first dried to prevent mold and other contaminations.
The victim had been found in panties and a tank top, standard sleep attire for many women in a heat wave. Both were soaked in blood and now hung in the drying unit.
There was no doubt that Nicole Bellows had bled out from a severed artery in her neck when her killer slit her throat, but in a homicide, they needed to be thorough and determine if she’d been raped or beaten or drugged first. Biological trace evidence could lead to her killer; the coroner and forensic labs were an essential part of the investigative team, and working at the morgue last year had given Lucy a new, deeper appreciation for this vital part of homicide investigation.
Lucy stood aside and let Sheila do her job. The process was standard and they used a checklist to ensure they covered all their bases-if the case went to trial, everything they did now mattered that much more.
While Sheila and her team handled the body, Lucy inspected the sealed evidence on the far table. Nothing jumped out at her as significant.
She took out her phone and scrolled through the pictures she’d taken at the crime scene.
There was no obvious connection between Wendy James and Nicole Bellows, but that the killer of each had left a message was definitely odd.
There was a singsong quality to the first one.
And the second was definitely the killer’s version of a nursery rhyme.
“From the angle of the wound,” Sheila said, jolting Lucy from her thoughts, “I can say fairly confidently that the killer was taller than the victim.” She tapped the chart. “She measured at five foot six. I can’t tell you how tall the killer was, but definitely several inches taller.”
“What if she was on her knees?” Lucy asked.
Sheila considered. “No, because the cut would most likely have an upward angle, especially at the end. This was straight across. Non-serrated blade. He tilted her head back with such force that he broke several capillaries in her throat. Put the knife on the soft area just below her chin and sliced deeply, without hesitation, severed her trachea and her carotid artery. She died immediately from massive blood loss.”
“There was no obvious sexual assault at the scene,” Lucy said.
“No evidence of recent intercourse, vaginal, anal, or oral. But I found something else you might find interesting.”
Lucy looked at the table. Nicole’s chest and abdomen were exposed. Lucy stared at a perfectly formed fetus.
“She was pregnant.”
“I’m guessing fourteen weeks. I’m going to run standard tests and DNA. You get a suspect, I can tell you if he’s the father.”
“That’s a solid motive,” Miles said, making note.
Motive maybe-but why leave the rat in the sink? Nicole being pregnant didn’t play into the message on the mirror.
Lucy stepped out of the room to text Noah about Nicole’s pregnancy, then remembered she was working with DC police on this case. She sent Genie the text message instead, then made a note to herself to write up a report for Noah at the end of the day.
When she returned to the autopsy station, Sheila had just finished closing the body.
“We’re done here,” she said. “You know what I know, but I’ll write up the official report, pending labs.”
Sheila stripped off her gloves and tossed them in a bio-bag. Her assistant started the process of cleaning the body so it could be placed in cold storage pending release.
Maybe Noah had been right and this case was a common homicide. But while she had the case, she would unearth the truth. The dead may not be able to speak, but their life and death told a story.
Ben motioned for Sheila to come over. “Do you know what this is?” He lifted Nicole’s left hand. Her skin was dark brown, but her palm was several shades lighter. In the center were three numbers, very faint.
