The Hundredth Man by Jack Kerley

autopsy, I was the de facto body man, and headed to the morgue for Deschamp’s procedure. I knew Dr. Davanelle was to be the prosector; I’d spoken to Vera Braden about the time of the procedure and offhandedly asked who was scheduled.
    I planned to ask Ava Davanelle out. I wasn’t sure why. And had no idea how to do it.
    Will Lindy was at the front door as I arrived, diddling with the lock, a screwdriver in his mouth, tiny parts scattered across the floor. I was always impressed by anyone with mechanical prowess; I relied on duct tape or super glue. If either failed, I was up the creek.
    â€œCan’t you hire people to do that, Will? A locksmith?”
    â€œUrn er bubdit?” he replied. “Pap chat.”
    â€œCome again?”
    He took the screwdriver from his mouth. “On our budget? Fat chance. If I save a hundred bucks here, I’ll put it toward something we actually need.”
    â€œI thought you guys got wheelbarrows full of bucks when theplace was redone. Put in the new gear, furniture, security cameras, and whatnot.”
    â€œGovernment dollars,” he said, smiling. “Spend ’em or lose ’em.”
    I went inside, waved to Vera, and ambled back to the autopsy suite. Be humble, be charming, be professional, I told myself. And be them all while keeping your mouth shut.
    The procedure was under way as I entered, Ava Davanelle bent low over Deschamps’s groin, speaking the inscription into the air for the recording system. She knew one of the things I needed to see and nodded at a table against the wall.
    I found a stack of photos taken by Chambliss, his usual excellent work. The words above Deschamps’s pubic hair were displayed beside a ruler, block lettering between three and four millimeters tall, lavender, precise. I waved the photos at Dr. Davanelle.
    â€œThanks,” I said, smiling her direction. “Good seeing you again, Doctor. How’s it going with—”
    I caught me before she could. I winced, mouthed, Sorry, and turned back to the photos, shuffling them through my palms. There was a variety, from shots of the full inscription down to individual letters. I couldn’t fathom why anyone making a statement would choose such a hard-to-read color and write in microtype, but it would be as logical as subtraction to the mind behind these crimes.
    I sat and studied the photographs until seeing them with closed eyes. Now and then I’d shift my attention to Dr. Davanelle. Her voice was monotonic, her eyes focused on her tasks. She was gowned in blue from crown to knees. I tried to discern the shape of her calves within her beige slacks, and concluded they were slender but not skinny.
    The task took three hours. It would soon determine Peter Deschamps had been murdered by some form of head trauma, the head removed by a blade similar to that used to behead Jerrold Nelson, if not the identical one. I walked over as Ava Davanelle stripped off her mask and head cover. I popped the question before she could escape.
    â€œWould you care to do something this evening, Dr. Davanelle? Something quiet and simple? Get a bite to eat, take in a—”
    The door opened and Walter Huddleston appeared. He launched a pair of scarlet flares my way, then ignored me completely. In less than a minute Deschamps was carted and rolling away. I returned my attention to Ava Davenelle, now shutting off the table’s irrigation system. Without the gentle trickling of water through pipes and across the metal table, the room was blank with silence.
    â€œI was about to ask if . . .”
    My words trailed off when I realized she was staring at me. Not the glare I’d come to know, but something more akin to a gentle perplexity.
    She said, “You phoned my house the other night, didn’t you, Detective?”
    My heart seized up. Busted.
    â€œI, ah . . .”
    â€œThis is a technical age. Even answering machines can have Caller