Killing Hour - Lisa Gardner [42]
Dr. Corben moved up to assist her. He worked the first joint of the girl’s index finger until with a faint popping sound, the rigor broke. Nitsche started inking, and Dr. Corben methodically worked his way through both hands, each popping sound echoing faintly in the cold tile room and bringing up bile in the back of Kimberly’s throat.
I will not be sick, she promised herself. And then—Oh God, this is only the external exam.
Fingerprinting done, Dr. Corben moved down the body to between the girl’s—the deceased’s—legs. While the condition of her clothing had been inconsistent with rape, he still had to examine the body itself.
“No bruising of the inner thighs, no lacerations of the labia majora or labia minora,” Dr. Corben reported. He combed the pubic hair and Nitsche collected the loose strands in another bag. Then he picked up three swabs.
Now Kimberly had to look away. The young girl was dead. Far beyond insult or injury. But Kimberly couldn’t watch. Her fingers were knotted, her breathing shallow. She was once more aware of the strong smell of the room, and the feel of sweat on her back. She noticed out of the corner of her eye that Kaplan was now intently studying the floor.
“From the external exam,” Dr. Corben concluded shortly, “there is no evidence of sexual assault. Now then, let’s get her cleaned up.”
Kimberly’s eyes flew open. Nitsche had just moved into position and she and Dr. Corben were now hosing down the body. Kimberly’s bewilderment must have shown on her face, because Dr. Corben spoke up above the spray of water: “After concluding the external exam, we wash the body before making the first incision. You don’t want factors from the outside—dirt, fiber, debris—contaminating the internal organs and confusing your findings. The outside had its stories to tell. Now, it’s the inside’s turn.”
Dr. Corben matter-of-factly turned off the hose, passed out plastic goggles, and picked up a scalpel.
Kimberly went green. She was trying hard. She had seen crime-scene photos, dammit. She wasn’t a novice to violent death.
But she felt herself sway on her feet anyway. She told herself to hold it together, but then she looked at the young girl’s face, and that did it completely.
“Oh my God,” she gasped, “what is in her mouth?”
It was there, unmistakable now, the shadow of the thing Dr. Corben had sensed earlier. First the girl’s left cheek bulged, pale and waxy. Then with dazzling speed, her right cheek went, until it looked like she was puffing up her mouth while staring at them with her dead brown eyes.
Kaplan was fumbling with his holster. Kimberly was fumbling, too. He brought out a gun. She brought out a red plastic toy. Shit, damn. She dropped down to her ankle, without ever taking her gaze off the girl’s face.
“Stand back,” Kaplan said.
Dr. Corben and his attendant needed no urging. Nitsche’s gaze was wide and fascinated. Dr. Corben had that pale tight look from earlier in the day. “It could be gases from decomp,” he tried vainly. “She was out in intense heat.”
“The body just achieved full rigor. It’s not that far along,” Kaplan muttered tightly.
The cheeks bulged again. Moved from side to side.
“I think . . .” Kimberly’s voice came out too faintly. She licked her lips, tried again. “I think there’s something in there. In her mouth. That’s why he stitched it shut.”
“Holy shit!” Nitsche said with awe.
“Mother of God,” Kaplan murmured.
Kimberly stared at Dr. Corben. His right hand was shaking badly. She was pretty sure nothing like this had ever happened in one of his postmortems before. The look on his face said he’d retire before letting it happen again. “Sir,” she said as calmly as she could, “you have the scalpel. You need . . . You need to cut the stitching.”
“I will not!”
“Whatever’s in there has gotta come out. It’s better on our terms than its.”
Kaplan was nodding slowly. “She has a