Grimes led us through a point-by-point description of the morphological characteristics, oral hygiene, and entire dental history of CCC-2006020277. Smoker. Negligent brusher. Nonflosser. Fillings. Untreated cavities and massive tartar buildup, hadn’t seen a dentist in several years preceding death. I hardly listened. I was anxious to get to the bones.
Finally, Grimes finished, and he and Emma left to begin filling out an NCIC case form. One by one, I examined the full-body films. Skull. Upper limbs. Lower limbs. Pelvis.
Zip. That didn’t surprise me. I’d noticed nothing obvious while handling the bones.
I moved on to the torso.
Since no flesh remained to hold the ribs in place, the technician had spread them flat and shot from above. I saw nothing suspicious in the right arcade. I was finishing with the left when I spotted a dark crescent near the vertebral end of the twelfth rib.
Moving to the gurney, I selected that rib and took it to a scope. Under magnification the imperfection appeared as a tiny gash bordered by a curl of bone on the rib’s lower edge. Though small, the defect was real.
Had the gash been caused by a knife blade? Had our unknown been stabbed? Or was the nick a postmortem artifact? From a trowel? A snail or crustacean? No matter how much I angled and reangled the rib, no matter how high I kicked the magnification or adjusted the fiber optic light, I just couldn’t tell.
Returning to the X-rays, I inspected the breast-and collarbones, the shoulder blades, then the rest of the ribs. Nothing looked amiss.
I moved on to the spine. The vertebrae had been filmed separated and placed flat, like the ribs, then articulated and lying on their sides.
In a stabbing, it’s often the posterior arch or the back of the vertebral body that takes the hit. I moved through the vertebral films. None gave a clear view of these surfaces.
Returning to the skeleton, I began a bone-by-bone inspection, rotating and scrutinizing every element under a magnifying lens surrounded by a fluorescent bulb.
I found nothing until I started on the spine.
Every one’s a specialist. Even the vertebrae. The seven cervicals support the head and allow for neck mobility. The twelve thoracics anchor the rib cage. The five lumbars throw in a lower-back curve. The five sacrals form the tail side of the pelvic girdle. Different jobs. Different shapes.
It was the sixth cervical that got my attention.
But I oversimplify. The neck vertebrae have tasks other than head support. One of their jobs is to provide safe passage for arteries traveling to the back of the brain. The transit route involves a small hole, or foramen, in the transverse process, a tiny bone platform between the body of the vertebra and its arch. CCC-2006020277 had a vertical hinge fracture snaking across the left transverse process, on the body side of the hole.
I brought the bone closer to the lens. And found a hairline fracture on the arch side of the hole.
No signs of healing. Hinging. No question here. Both fractures had involved trauma to fresh bone. The injury had occurred around the time of death.
I sat back, considering.
C-6. Lower neck.
Fall? Falls cause sudden excessive impaction. Such impaction can lead to vertebral fracture. But fractures due to falls are generally compressive in nature, and usually involve the vertebral body. This was a hinge fracture. Of the transverse process.
Strangulation? Strangulation most often affects the hyoid, a small bone in the front of the throat.
Whiplash? Not likely.
Blow to the chin? Head?
I could think of no scenario that fit the pattern I was seeing.
Frustrated, I moved on.
And found more.
The twelfth thoracic vertebra sported a pair of nicks similar to the one I’d spotted on the twelfth rib. The first and third lumbar vertebrae had a single nick each.
Like the neck fracture, the pattern of the nicks was confusing. All were located on the belly side.
Knife marks? To penetrate to the front of a lumbar vertebra you’d have to thrust hard enough to pass through the entire abdomen. That’s a mighty big thrust.
And these were very small nicks. Made with a very sharp tool.
What the hell had gone on?
I was still speculating when Emma returned.
“Grimes gone?” I asked.
Emma nodded. What color she’d shown earlier had ebbed from her face, accentuating the dark circles under her eyes. “Form’s done. Now it will be up to the sheriff.”
Though NCIC is operational 24/7, year-round, only members of federal, state, and local law enforcement can input data.
“Gullet will shoot it through right away?”
Emma raised both hands in a “who knows” gesture. Pulling a chair from the wall, she dropped and leaned her elbows on her thighs.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
Emma shrugged. “Sometimes it just seems so hopeless.”
I waited.
“Gullett’s not going to slap this case with a priority sticker. And when he does enter our guy into the system, what are the chances we’ll get a hit? To submit a missing adult into the database under the new regs, the person’s got to be disabled, a disaster victim, abducted or kidnapped, endangered—”
“What does that mean?”
“Missing in the company of another under circumstances suggesting his or her physical safety is in danger.”
“So a lot of MP’s never get entered? Our guy may not have made it into the computer when he vanished?”
“The thinking is that most missing adults take off on their own. Husbands skipping town with their mistresses. Smothered wives looking for something more. Deadbeats cutting out on debt.”
“The runaway bride.” I referred to a case wrung dry in a recent media frenzy.
“It’s head cases like that one that nurture the mind-set.” Emma threw out her feet and leaned back. “But it’s true. The vast majority of missing adults are people just trying to escape their lives. There’s no law against that, and entering them all overloads the system.”
Emma closed her eyes and tipped her head back against the wall.
“I doubt this guy simply went missing,” I said, turning back to the gurney. “Take a look at this.”
I was lining up the vertebrae when I heard movement, then a heart-stopping crack.
I whipped around.
Emma lay crumpled on the tile floor.
8
EMMA HAD LANDED ON THE CROWN OF HER head. Her back was humped and her neck and limbs were in-kinked like the legs of a sun-fried spider.
I rushed over and pressed two fingers to her throat. The pulse was steady, but weak.
“Emma!”
She didn’t respond.
Lowering Emma, I gently eased her cheek to the tile. Then I bolted to the corridor.
“Help! I need medical help!”
A door opened and a face appeared.
“Emma Rousseau’s collapsed. Call the ER.”
The brows rocketed and the mouth went round.
“Now!”
The face withdrew. I raced back to Emma. Seconds later two paramedics blasted into the room. They fired questions as they loaded Emma onto a gurney.
“What happened?”
“She collapsed.”
“Did you move her?”
“I rolled her to clear the windpipe.”
“Medical problems?”
I blinked and looked at him.
“Was she taking medication?”
I felt helpless. I hadn’t a clue.
“Out of the way, please.”
I heard the whine of rubber wheels on tile. A soft squeaking.
Then the autopsy room door clicked shut.
* * *
Emma’s eyes were closed. A tube ran from her left arm to an IV bag above her head. The tube was taped with white adhesive. Its color was little different from that of Emma’s skin.
This woman had always been a firestorm of energy, a force of n
ature. Not now. In her hospital bed she looked small and fragile.
I tiptoed across the cubicle and took my friend’s hand.
Emma’s eyes opened.
“I’m sorry, Tempe.”
Her words surprised me. Wasn’t it I who should be apologizing? Wasn’t it I who had ignored the signs of distress?
“Rest, Emma. We’ll talk later.”
“Non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma.”
“What?” Reflex. Denial. I knew what Emma was saying.
“I have non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma. NHL. And I’m not talking hockey.” Weak smile.
“How long?” Something cold started to congeal in my chest.
“Awhile.”
“How long is awhile?”
“A couple of years.”
“What type?” Stupid. I knew next to nothing about lymphoma.
“Nothing exotic. Diffuse large B-cell lymphoma.” Rote, as though she’d heard or read the words a thousand times. Dear God, she probably had.
I swallowed hard. “You’re in treatment?”
Emma nodded. “I was in remission, but I’ve relapsed. I’m getting the CHOP regime on an outpatient basis. Vincristine, prednisolone, doxorubicin, and cyclophosphamide. My biggest worry is infection. The cytotoxic drugs leave me wide open to infection. One good staph offensive could lay me flat.”
I wanted to close my eyes, to make this all go away. I kept them open.
“You’re a hellcat.” Forced smile. “You’ll be fine.”
“I learned Saturday that I’m not responding as well as my doctor had hoped.”
The bad-news phone call. Was that what Emma had started to share outside the hospital? Had I been too preoccupied with the skeleton to listen? Had I done something to discourage her confidence?
“Have you told anyone?”
Emma shook her head.
“That wasn’t a migraine on Saturday.”
“No.”
“You should have leveled with me, Emma. You could have trusted me.”
Emma shrugged. “You can’t help. Why worry you?”
“Does your staff know?”
A look flared in Emma’s eyes. “I’ve lost some weight and some hair, but I can still do my job.”
“Of course you can.”
I stroked Emma’s hand. I understood my friend. But only in part.
Emma cared fiercely about her duties, and would let nothing interfere with her performance of them. She and I were clones in that way.
But something else drove Emma Rousseau. Something I’d never fully grasped. A desire for power? Recognition? Some manic need to outshine? Emma marched to drumbeats I didn’t hear.
“They’re having a lot of success with lymphoma these days.” Lousy at nurturing, I fell back on cliché.
“Damn right.”
Emma raised a palm. I high-fived it. Her hand dropped back to the bed.
Diffuse large B-cell. A high-grade lymphoma. The cancer was destructive and moving fast.
I felt burning behind my eyes. Again, I managed to keep them open. To keep my lips smiling.
The muffled sound of “Bad Boys” floated from a bedside locker.
“My cell,” Emma said.
“Is that the COPS theme?”
Emma gestured impatiently. “It’s in the plastic bag with my clothes.”
By the time I extracted the phone the music had ended. Emma checked the caller ID and hit redial.
I knew I should protest, should advise rest and stress avoidance, but it was pointless. Emma would do what Emma would do. In that, we were also clones.
“Emma Rousseau.”
I heard a tinny voice on the other end of the line.
“I’ve been tied up,” Emma said.
Tied up? I mouthed.
Emma shushed me with a hand.
I rolled my eyes. Emma pointed a warning finger.
“Who phoned it in?”
The tinny voice answered, but I couldn’t make out the words.
“Where?”
Emma pantomimed writing. I dug a pen and tablet from my purse. The IV tubing rattled as Emma scribbled.
“Who’s on it?”
The tinny voice spoke at length.
“Give me the particulars.”
Emma shifted the phone and the voice was cut off. As she listened, her eyes flicked to her watch. It wasn’t there. She pointed at mine. I held out my wrist.
“Don’t touch the body. I’ll be there in an hour.”
Clicking off, Emma threw back the blanket and swung her legs over the side of the bed.
“No way,” I said, placing a hand on each of her knees. “Unless I’m mistaken, you lost consciousness a few hours back.”
“The ER doc says it’s fatigue brought on by the meds. All my vitals are good.”
“Fatigue?” Even for Emma, this was a stretch. “You collapsed and nearly left your brains on the floor.”
“I’m OK now.” Emma stood, took a step, and her knees buckled. Bracing against the headboard, she closed her eyes, willing her body to work.
“I’m fine,” she whispered.
I didn’t bother to argue. Prying loose her fingers, I eased Emma back onto the bed, and pulled the blanket to her waist.
“I have too much to do,” she resisted weakly.
“You’re not going anywhere until a doctor releases you,” I said.
Emma’s eye roll left mine in the dust.
I looked at my friend. She had no husband or children. No lover that I knew of. She’d spoken once of an estranged sister, but that had been years ago. As far as I knew Emma had no one close in her life.
“Do you have friends who can look in on you?”
“Whole squadrons.” Emma flicked at a nonexistent something on the blanket. “I’m not the freakoid loner you think I am.”
“I don’t think that at all,” I lied.
At that moment, an ER resident stepped into the cubicle. He had greasy black hair and looked like he’d been up since Reagan held the White House. A plastic rectangle on his scrubs said his name was Bliss.
Or was the badge some sort of subliminal greeting? I wish you bliss.
Bliss began flipping through the pages of Emma’s chart.
“Tell her you’re not eyeing me as today’s organ donor,” Emma said.
Bliss looked up. “You’re fine.”
“Two hours ago she was passed out cold,” I said.
“The treatment she’s undergoing can be debilitating.” Bliss turned to Emma. “You shouldn’t run a marathon, but otherwise you’re good to go. Assuming you contact your regular physician.”
Emma gave a thumbs-up.
“She’s planning to go straight back to work,” I said.
“That’s not a great idea,” Bliss said. “Go home. Take some time to recover your strength.”
“It’s not like I play tackle for the Carolina Panthers,” Emma said.
“What do you do?” Weary, making notes in the chart.
“She’s the coroner,” I said.
Bliss stopped writing and looked at Emma. “That’s why the name seemed familiar.”
A nurse appeared. Bliss instructed her to disconnect Emma’s IV.
“Your friend’s right.” Bliss flipped back the pages of the chart. “Take the day off. If you don’t get rest there could be a repeat performance.”
Seconds after Bliss’s departure, Emma was on the phone to Gullet. The sheriff was out. Emma said she would personally drop off the NCIC forms.
Disconnecting, she dressed and strode from the cubicle. I trailed behind, determined to talk her into going home. Or, failing that, to stay close in the event she took another header.
Together, we zipped CCC-2006020277 into his body bag and asked a tech to return him to the cooler. Then we stored his X-rays and gathered his paperwork. Throughout, I pushed my plan for bed rest.
Throughout, Emma repeated, “I’m OK.”
Leaving the hospital felt like walking into a vat of warm honey. Emma fired down t
he ramp, as though trying to put space between us.
Catching up, I tried one last salvo.
“Emma.” Sharper than I’d intended. I was frustrated and out of arguments. “It’s ninety-five. You’re exhausted. No case is so important it can’t wait until tomorrow.”
Emma let out her breath in annoyance.
“The call I just took was from one of my investigators. Couple of boys found a body in the woods this afternoon.”
“Let your investigator handle it.”
“The case could be sensitive.”
“Every death is sensitive.”
“Damn, Tempe. First two, three thousand cases I’ve worked, I guess I didn’t see that.”
I just looked at her.
“Sorry.” Emma pushed the hair from her forehead. “About three months back an eighteen-year-old kid vanished. History of depression, no money, passport, or possessions missing.”
“The cops suspected suicide?”
Emma nodded. “No note or body was ever found. My investigator thinks this could be him.”
“Let your investigator handle the recovery.”
“There’s no margin for error on this one. Daddy’s a local politico. Guy’s angry, vocal, and hangs with the power boys. That’s a dangerous combination.”
I wondered again if blowback from the cruise ship incident was affecting Emma more than I knew.
“What tipped your investigator?”
“The remains are hanging from a tree. The tree’s less than a mile from the kid’s last known address.”
I pictured the scene. That picture was all too familiar.
“Has Daddy been told?”
Emma shook her head.
Plan B.
“How about this?” I proposed. “Tell Daddy that his son’s disappearance is being given top priority. A body has been found, but three months’ exposure complicates analysis. Outside expertise is needed to make an identification.”
As usual, Emma got it right off. “The coroner’s office wants the best, and cost is no obstacle.”
“I like the way you think.”
Emma smiled a weak smile. “You’ll really do it?”
“You have the authority to bring me into the case?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll do it if you promise to go straight home to bed.”
“How about this?” Emma counterproposed. “I deliver the NCIC forms to the sheriff, get him working on the Dewees skeleton. You supervise recovery of my hanging victim. We keep in touch by phone.”