The Soul Catcher - Alex Kava [5]
While dozens of agents and Justice Department officials combed the woods and the cabin for answers to those questions, Cunningham had been asked to start a criminal analysis of the suspects. He had sent Maggie’s partner, Special Agent R.J. Tully, to the scene and Maggie—because of her forensics and premed background—had been sent here into the city morgue where the dead—five young men and one agent—were waiting to tell their tale.
As she came to the open door at the end of the hall, she could see them. The black body bags lined up on steel tables one after another, looking like a macabre art exhibit. It almost looked too strange to be real, but then, wasn’t that the way so many recent events in her life had been? Some days it was difficult to distinguish what was real and what was simply one of those routine nightmares.
Maggie was surprised to find Stan Wenhoff gowned up and waiting for her. Usually Stan left the early morning call-ins to his competent and able assistants.
“Good morning, Stan.”
“Humph.” He grunted his familiar greeting as he kept his back to her and held up slides to the fluorescent light.
He would pretend the urgency and stature of this case weren’t the reason he had crawled out of bed to be here, when his normal method would have been to call one of his assistants. It wasn’t that Stan would want to make certain everything was carried out by the book as much as he wouldn’t want to miss an opportunity to be the point man for the media. Most pathologists and medical examiners Maggie knew were quiet, solemn, sometimes reclusive. However, Stan Wenhoff, the chief medical examiner for the District, loved being in the limelight and in front of a TV camera.
“You’re late,” he grumbled, this time glancing over at her.
“I got here as quickly as I could.”
“Humph,” he repeated, his fat, stubby fingers rattling the slides back into their container to signal his discontent.
Maggie ignored him, took off her jacket and helped herself to the linen closet, knowing there would be no invitation issued. She wanted to tell Stan that he wasn’t the only one who didn’t want to be here.
Maggie looped the plastic apron’s strings around her waist. She found herself wondering how much of her life had been dictated by killers, getting her out of bed in the middle of the night to hunt them down in moonlit woods, along churning black rivers, through pastures of sandburs or fields of corn? She realized that this time, she might actually be the lucky one. Unlike Agent Tully’s, at least this morning her feet would be warm and dry.
By the time she returned from the linen closet, Stan had unzipped their first customer and was peeling back the bag, careful that any contents—including liquid contents—didn’t fall or run out. Maggie was startled by how young the boy looked, his gray face smooth, having never yet experienced a razor. He couldn’t be more than fifteen or sixteen years old. Certainly not old enough to drink or vote. Probably not old enough to own a car or even have a driver’s license. But old enough to know how to obtain and use a semiautomatic rifle.
He looked peaceful. No blood, no gashes, no abrasions—not a single mark that explained his death.
“I thought Cunningham told me they committed suicide? I don’t see any gunshot wounds.”
Stan grabbed a plastic bag off the counter behind him. He handed it to her across the boy’s body.
“The one who survived spit his out. I’m guessing arsenic or cyanide. Probably cyanide. Seventy-five milligrams of potassium cyanide would do the trick. Eat through the stomach lining in no time.”
The bag held one ordinary red-and-white capsule. Maggie could easily see the manufacturer’s name stamped on the side. Though intended to be an over-the-counter headache medication, someone had replaced the contents, using the capsule as a convenient container.
“So they were well prepared for suicide.”
“Yeah, I