Takeover - Lisa Black [30]
“What are you doing out here, chica?” the DNA analyst inquired. “Trying to get yourself blown up?”
“Risking heatstroke.”
“You’re doing okay?” The young man came closer, studying Theresa’s face, ready to provide comfort if it was wanted or put it aside if it wasn’t.
“Aside from the heatstroke.” She could not take time for sympathy. If she started to cry, she wouldn’t stop.
Don nodded. “You’ve brought company?”
She introduced Jason.
Don told them, “Come on in for a minute. I’ll tell you what I’ve got so far.”
Reluctantly Theresa abandoned the car a second time and followed her coworker. Jason went with them, pausing to stare at the array of cotton-draped gurneys in the dock area. “Don’t you refrigerate these things?”
“These people,” Theresa snapped. “People. Yes, of course we do. These folks are either on their way in or on their way out. I need to stop at autopsy. You can wait in the parking lot if you want to.”
Jason remained in step with Don and her. “No. I’ve seen dead bodies before. More than I care to think about.”
“I hope that’s not a reflection on Cavanaugh’s negotiating abilities.” She was being a total bitch, and she knew it—but felt powerless to stop. Being back in her own world loosened some inhibitions, and stress freed the rest.
“Nope. Gulf War.”
She let out a breath, moved past the door with letters spelling AUTOPSY on its frosted glass. “Sorry. I’m glad you’re not going to faint on me, though. I want to ask Dr. Johnson here about her victim. Okay if we take a detour, Don?”
“Always a pleasure to visit the good doctor.” He followed them through the door.
Mark Ludlow’s autopsy had just been completed. The diener, or autopsy assistant, had placed the victim’s partially dissected organs inside a red biohazard bag and then into the torso’s cavity. He’d sewn the flesh back into place, over the bag, with heavy black thread and not particularly neat stitches.
Christine Johnson stood near the head. The exposed skull lay in fragments, which she was piecing together on the stainless-steel table like a macabre jigsaw puzzle. She peered at Theresa with that all-seeing doctor gaze that can tell when you’re not sleeping well or haven’t touched a vegetable in a month. “How are you holding up?”
“Okay. Paul’s all right, so far.”
Christine, tall, black, and caring, stripped off a glove to reach out and put a hand on Theresa’s shoulder. Theresa remained rooted to the ground. As with Don, if Christine hugged her, she might collapse in her sympathy and hunker there for the rest of this crisis. “What can you tell me about this guy?”
Christine summarized, “The late Mr. Ludlow had deposits of cholesterol in some veins and a precancerous lump in his left testicle that might have become a bad scene in another few years. Otherwise he was perfectly healthy until someone hit him over the head with something heavy, three times.”
“Can you tell me what it was?”
“A piece of thin pipe, maybe. But one impression has more of a defined, oval shape to it, so there might be two different weapons, or two surfaces on the same weapon.” The doctor frowned. She didn’t often encounter a weapon she couldn’t immediately identify. Her interest in the instruments of death bordered on the unhealthy, or so Theresa occasionally pointed out.
“Metal?”
“I can’t be sure, but I haven’t found any wood splinters.” With blue-latex-gloved fingers, Christine turned the right wrist outward to display the victim’s palm. “He held up his hands to defend himself and got two fingers broken, but he also had some skin scraped off. Whatever they used, I’m betting it isn’t smooth.”
“I think I should wait in the hall,” Jason said. “If you don’t mind.”
Christine glanced at him. “Who’s this cutie?”
“His name’s Jason, he works with the negotiator.”
“So you met Chris Cavanaugh? What’s he like? Does he look as good in person as on TV?”
“No.”
“I don’t believe you,” the doctor said. “Jason, tell him I read his book.”
“Christine—”
“Okay, okay. That’s all I have, anyway. I wish it were more.”
Theresa continued