Page 30 of Fallen

Her smile is dazzling. “Why thank you, Chief.” She chuckles. “I don’t get many compliments down here.”

We share a laugh as I set down the pen. “Doc in?”

“He’s expecting you.” She stands and motions toward the doors at the end of the hall marked MORGUE AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL.

I don’t let myself think about my purpose here, focusing instead on the questions roiling in my head as I tread down the hall and push open the door. The autopsy room is straight ahead, along with the alcove where the biohazard supplies are stored for visiting officials. To my left, I see Doc Coblentz’s glassed-in office. The miniblinds are open. The doctor is sitting at his cherrywood desk, a wrapper containing what looks like the remains of a fast-food breakfast on the blotter in front of him next to a to-go cup of coffee.

I’ve known Doc since becoming chief. He’s one of five doctors in Painters Mill, and assumes the responsibilities of coroner on an as-needed basis, which isn’t often. On those occasions when he is called upon, he tackles his duty with compassion and professionalism. His is a tough position fraught with high emotion and a drop-everything-and-get-it-done timeline. There’s no room for error—and invariably some cop or lab hounding him for results. Doc’s a laid-back individual with an inhuman work ethic and the curiosity of a scientist, both of which make him very good at what he does. Somehow, he manages to remain an optimist.

Setting down the coffee cup, he looks at me over the rims of his glasses. “I know you’re in a hurry to get to the bottom of what happened to that young woman, so I cleared my schedule. I’m planning to do the autopsy this morning.”

“Time and manner would be a big help,” I tell him.

“Figured as much. I’ve got some preliminary observations you might find useful.” Rising, he motions toward the alcove outside his office. “Shall we?”

I go to the alcove where Carmen has laid out an individually wrapped gown, disposable shoe covers, hair cap, face mask, and gloves. Doc waits in the hall while I gear up.

“You guys have any leads?” he asks.

“Not yet.” I slide the covers over my shoes, tie the gown strings haphazardly, and step into the hall.

“You knew the victim?” Doc says.

I wonder how he knows that, if he heard it from someone or if I gave him some indication while we were at the scene yesterday. “Years ago.” I say the words with calculated detachment, but I don’t meet his gaze. I remind myself that this is not about me or my emotions. This is about Rachael Schwartz, the family that mourns her, the community that will bear the scar of her death, and the bastard who killed her.

“Tough when it hits close to home,” he says.

“She was Amish,” I say, keeping my answer as vague and impersonal as possible.

He makes a sound of understanding. “You make the notification?”

I nod, thinking of Rhoda and Dan, and I do my best to ignore the knot of discomfort that’s tight and hard in my gut.

“A lot of people wonder how I do what I do. You know, autopsies and the like, dealing with the dead. Most are too polite to ask, but I see the questions. The truth of the matter is it’s not as difficult as they think. It’s not the dead who hurt. Their suffering is done.”

I finally meet his gaze. “I guess we, the living, have the market cornered on that, don’t we?”

His mouth pulls into a smile. “Precisely.” He motions toward the double doors at the end of the hall. “Let’s see what we can do to set you on track to get some justice for this young woman.”

I’m aware of the buzz of the lights as I take the hall toward the doors. The only sound comes from the rustle of our protective clothing, the voice in my head telling me I’m a fool for being here when I could be knocking on doors and doing my job. But this is part of it and I’ve no intention of not following through. Not now. Not the next time or the next. Macabre as this pilgrimage is, it is my ritual. For better or worse, it is my introduction to the victim. I need to see her not as the girl I’d once known, but the woman whose life was cut short. It brings me one step closer to knowing her. Understanding what happened to her. It is my burden to bear. My tribute to the victim. To the family. If I’m lucky, it will bring me one step closer to getting inside the mind of a killer.

The autopsy room is too bright, the lights buzzing. Floor-to-ceiling subway tile covers the walls. Ahead, a stainless-steel gurney is draped with a sheet.

“I did a preliminary exam and went over every inch of her with a fine-tooth comb. I took samples and scrapings, took the requisite photos. Pulled blood and urine for a full tox screen. We couriered everything to the police lab in London, including the clothes she was wearing at the time of her death. This morning, my technician cleaned her up. For obvious reasons, I took a CT scan and X-rays.” The doctor sighs. “I’ve seen a lot of injuries, a lot of deaths. Motor vehicle accidents. Farming mishaps. You name it. This woman suffered a tremendous amount of physical injury.”

I resist the urge to shudder. “Says something about the killer,” I say.

“That’s your forte, not mine. Thank God for that.” He shuffles to a clipboard hanging on the wall, flips the page, makes a note. “The victim arrived here at the morgue at four twelve P.M. Core body temperature was taken at four forty-six.” He flips another page and frowns, mumbling. “Heat is lost at about one point five degrees per hour. Liver temp was seventy-seven point six.” He turns to me. “My best estimation is that she died sometime between one and three A.M.”

He rehangs the clipboard and crosses to me, looks at me over the tops of his bifocals. I look back, trying not to acknowledge the compassion I see in his eyes, not only for the woman lying on the gurney, but for me.

“You sure you’re up to this?” he asks.

“You know I’m not going to give you a straight answer, right?”

His smile is subdued. “If it makes you feel any better, your aversion to all of this isn’t necessarily a bad thing. Means you’re human.”

He peels away the sheet cover.