recommence in half an hour.”
“Perfect,” Ethan muttered to Lamond. “Time for at least one coffee.”
Lamond arched a brow. “Is Cold Case so dull that you are willing to aggravate that ulcer?”
“The ulcer is fine. Ever since I left Homicide,” Ethan said, throwing a dark look at his former partner. It was part jest, part truth. He missed Homicide, but he had been on a downward spiral. There had been too much stress, too much frustration, in the past twelve months. He had given up coffee, but as soon as his ulcer had settled, he had warmed up his espresso machine and was back to his usual habits.
After they grabbed a coffee and a muffin—Ethan couldn’t resist advising Lamond to eat something that wouldn’t stain his clothes if he brought it all up during the autopsy—Ethan bought a newspaper at the gift store while Lamond hit the men’s room. He hadn’t realized how bang on he had been about the phenomenon of the Body Butcher hangover until he saw the front page. The media were all over the titillating question of whether the bog body could be victim zero of the Body Butcher. Accompanying the article was a photo of Kate taken after the Body Butcher’s attack last year, her face battered, her eyes haunted. His gut clenched at the sight of it. God. A year later, and his heart still rushed into his throat when he thought about her lying in the parking lot, nearly dead.
She had almost died. And he had let her walk out of his life.
But he couldn’t keep living like this anymore.
One of them could die at any time—he could take a bullet in the head on his job, or she could develop CJD. Either way, life was too short. He would never be able to live with himself if he didn’t give things one more try.
Third time’s the charm.
He folded the paper, ensuring that the front cover was tucked inward, and stuck it under his elbow.
When they arrived back at the autopsy suite, the dregs of their coffees consumed in the elevator, the
X-rays had been loaded into the view box. Dr. Guthro hovered in front, his tall, gowned form hunched in concentration.
“Excellent news,” Dr. Guthro said, peering at an X-ray of the chest area. “Looks like there’s a bullet in there.” He pointed at the glowing white firefly lodged between two lower ribs.
Ferguson grinned at Ethan and Lamond. “We are in business, Dr. Guthro.”
“We certainly are.”
The rest of the X-rays showed no obvious signs of trauma or injury. “No skull fractures, no major bone fractures,” Dr. Guthro murmured. “Let’s take the mask off and see what we have under there. Dr. Hughes, would you like to hold the skull?” His request was an act of professional courtesy, a nod to the assistance that the forensic anthropologist had provided yesterday.
Dr. Hughes stood at the head of the table and gently held the top of the skull. Dr. Guthro gripped the bottom edges of the mask. As he peeled up the first inch, he nodded to himself. “A ligature,” he said. The rope, which they knew was attached to the neck, had been tied with a slipknot. It obviously had been very tight, because even with the shrinkage of the tissue, it was still taut around the throat.
The rubber was brittle, and it took some time for Dr. Guthro and Dr. Hughes to ease it off the skull. “The epidermis has slipped,” Dr. Guthro said, “hence the lack of hair and eyebrows. But there appears to be a considerable amount of hair on the interior of the mask.” He placed the mask on a tray, and with a pair of tweezers, removed a hair for the standard for the homicide team, which they would use as a benchmark for comparison and analysis with any other hairs found on the scene, then bagged and labeled it. The mask would be bagged and labeled later, and sent to the FIS lab for analysis.
As one, the team studied what remained of the face of the victim. Her eyes were long gone, her lips dried and shriveled. Both ears were still intact, as was her nose. The mask had obviously protected her face from
“Perfect,” Ethan muttered to Lamond. “Time for at least one coffee.”
Lamond arched a brow. “Is Cold Case so dull that you are willing to aggravate that ulcer?”
“The ulcer is fine. Ever since I left Homicide,” Ethan said, throwing a dark look at his former partner. It was part jest, part truth. He missed Homicide, but he had been on a downward spiral. There had been too much stress, too much frustration, in the past twelve months. He had given up coffee, but as soon as his ulcer had settled, he had warmed up his espresso machine and was back to his usual habits.
After they grabbed a coffee and a muffin—Ethan couldn’t resist advising Lamond to eat something that wouldn’t stain his clothes if he brought it all up during the autopsy—Ethan bought a newspaper at the gift store while Lamond hit the men’s room. He hadn’t realized how bang on he had been about the phenomenon of the Body Butcher hangover until he saw the front page. The media were all over the titillating question of whether the bog body could be victim zero of the Body Butcher. Accompanying the article was a photo of Kate taken after the Body Butcher’s attack last year, her face battered, her eyes haunted. His gut clenched at the sight of it. God. A year later, and his heart still rushed into his throat when he thought about her lying in the parking lot, nearly dead.
She had almost died. And he had let her walk out of his life.
But he couldn’t keep living like this anymore.
One of them could die at any time—he could take a bullet in the head on his job, or she could develop CJD. Either way, life was too short. He would never be able to live with himself if he didn’t give things one more try.
Third time’s the charm.
He folded the paper, ensuring that the front cover was tucked inward, and stuck it under his elbow.
When they arrived back at the autopsy suite, the dregs of their coffees consumed in the elevator, the
X-rays had been loaded into the view box. Dr. Guthro hovered in front, his tall, gowned form hunched in concentration.
“Excellent news,” Dr. Guthro said, peering at an X-ray of the chest area. “Looks like there’s a bullet in there.” He pointed at the glowing white firefly lodged between two lower ribs.
Ferguson grinned at Ethan and Lamond. “We are in business, Dr. Guthro.”
“We certainly are.”
The rest of the X-rays showed no obvious signs of trauma or injury. “No skull fractures, no major bone fractures,” Dr. Guthro murmured. “Let’s take the mask off and see what we have under there. Dr. Hughes, would you like to hold the skull?” His request was an act of professional courtesy, a nod to the assistance that the forensic anthropologist had provided yesterday.
Dr. Hughes stood at the head of the table and gently held the top of the skull. Dr. Guthro gripped the bottom edges of the mask. As he peeled up the first inch, he nodded to himself. “A ligature,” he said. The rope, which they knew was attached to the neck, had been tied with a slipknot. It obviously had been very tight, because even with the shrinkage of the tissue, it was still taut around the throat.
The rubber was brittle, and it took some time for Dr. Guthro and Dr. Hughes to ease it off the skull. “The epidermis has slipped,” Dr. Guthro said, “hence the lack of hair and eyebrows. But there appears to be a considerable amount of hair on the interior of the mask.” He placed the mask on a tray, and with a pair of tweezers, removed a hair for the standard for the homicide team, which they would use as a benchmark for comparison and analysis with any other hairs found on the scene, then bagged and labeled it. The mask would be bagged and labeled later, and sent to the FIS lab for analysis.
As one, the team studied what remained of the face of the victim. Her eyes were long gone, her lips dried and shriveled. Both ears were still intact, as was her nose. The mask had obviously protected her face from
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