“I don’t think so.” Riggs shook her head emphatically. “You were going stir-crazy, remember? Too much time on your hands. You’re a strong person, McKenna. Don’t let any of those jackals out there tear you down.”
“I’ll be okay. It’s just going to take time.”
“I’m here, sister,” Riggs reassured her.
“Thank you. This damn story. It’s huge. And there is more to come. I’ve been in the business long enough to get a feel for things. Instincts. They almost never let me down.” She stirred her smoothie thoughtfully for a moment, then asked, “Do you have the autopsy report finished for Mr. Delano? The fire victim?”
Riggs raised her brows at the sudden change of subject. “The preliminary, pending tox. You said you’re talking with his wife?”
“Yeah. Had a long chat with her this morning, and I’m meeting with her tomorrow. She’s adamant that someone killed her husband. Anything substantiate that?”
Riggs shifted in her seat. “Nothing I can share right now, but I wouldn’t rule it out either.”
“So my Spidey senses are getting the right signals? There’s something, isn’t there?”
She frowned, brushing aside blonde bangs, and opened her mouth to say something, then thought better of it.
“What?”
“Just that you need to be careful out there. As you know, it’s a dangerous world.”
“That’s funny. Stu just gave me the same advice.”
“It’s good advice.”
Suddenly uneasy, Whit leaned forward. “Is there something I should know about?”
Riggs looked thoughtful, sipping her smoothie and taking her time. “You’re investigating the story of a woman who was murdered. You need to respect the fact that the killer is still out there, and he may not appreciate you poking around in his business. There are lots of reporters in town now, but he’s reading your name this morning.” Riggs’s phone buzzed. She read the text. “Dr. Weldon is expecting me at the morgue. We’d better head back.”
Whit thanked her for the drinks and they hurried to their cars, both absorbed in their coming day.
Back in her car, Whit sat replaying their conversation. Something important had gone unsaid. Frowning, she cracked her fingers, replaying the dialogue in her head. Riggs’s warning came after she asked about Mr. Delano. She hadn’t seemed the least bit shocked to hear that Mrs. Delano thought her husband had been murdered. In fact, Katie had advised her not to rule it out. Could Niki Francis’s murder be connected somehow with Delano? Maybe he wasn’t the drug addict she suspected. Perhaps Mrs. Delano was right and something else was going on. But what? What could tie Delano to Francis? If only she could get her hands on those autopsy reports. She couldn’t … but maybe someone else could.
CHAPTER
15
RAIN AND HAIL pounded the roof, and frequent claps of thunder sent tremors through the single-level building as Riggs and Dr. Weldon worked wordlessly together on Isabel’s autopsy. Riggs had tried but failed to think of her as a “vic.” An anonymous victim that she could remain detached from, with no regard for the physical remains. This woman had been part of their social circle. She flinched at another resounding bang above them. The continuous pounding rain and booming thunder unraveled her nerves even further.
“Hell of a storm,” Weldon commented as he biopsied the right lung, his loud voice strident in the small room. “I don’t think I recall such an unrelenting heat wave in the valley.”
For want of sanity, Riggs decided that casual conversation was better than her thoughts. “I’ve lived here for eight years, and this has to be a record,” she agreed.
“Did a stint once with Doctors Without Borders back in the eighties in Haiti. Port-au-Prince. Treating cholera. Pretty, but full of death. Satan’s playground if there ever was one. Boy, I’ll tell you what. Those storms down there will put some hair on your chest! Scared the livin’ daylights out of me.”
“Oh? I didn’t know you were affiliated with Doctors Without Borders.”
“Thought I had to do penance. I have a dark and twisted past.”
A sudden thunderous boom shook the building, followed by what sounded like an explosion, and the lights flickered and died, enveloping the room in pitch-black.
Riggs jumped, her hand clutching her throat.
“Holy Mother!” Weldon bellowed right next to her. “Bloody thing was close!”
The storm continued to rage outside, but in the sudden stillness, Riggs could hear her own heart banging against her chest. The dark was a childhood fear that she’d never outgrown. After her mother died when she was nine, she had pictured her trapped in a casket, lowered into the ground, dirt piled on, lost in an inescapable darkness. She had obsessed about the image, developing a habit of reading under the covers with a flashlight to escape her tortured thoughts, as she shared a room with her younger brother. Over time the worrisome images faded, but not her dislike of the dark. Richard had grown accustomed to having a nightlight in the bedroom.
She’d had only a few hours’ sleep last night, so she was jumpy. Striving for normalcy, she said, “I bet lightning struck one of the power poles in the alley.”
“I daresay. Our generator will kick on soon.”
Even as he spoke, they heard the whir of a distant engine, and the lights flickered back on. Not every light. The far recesses of the room were shadowed now, the hallway to the locker rooms dark, but the surgical lights overhead were bright again. In the eerie light Dr. Weldon’s hulking frame was still poised over the corpse, scalpel puncturing the flesh. She glanced up and caught him studying her.
He grinned. “If it would help, I could do a maniacal laugh right about now.”
Riggs let out a breath and laughed. “Thank you. I appreciate your natural gift for drama, but I don’t think that’s necessary.”
He wiped a big, bloody gloved hand on the front of his surgical gown. “We’re safe enough in here.” He turned back to the biopsy table. “Well, both lungs are free of fluid. She probably had a laryngospasm. Happens in about ten percent of drowning victims. We’ll order the diatom test.”
Riggs worked with enough drowning victims to be familiar with the diatom test. Water contained tiny silica-covered plant bodies called diatoms that adhered to tissues like the lungs, liver, and kidneys. They tested the lungs for traces of diatoms.
Weldon tapped the corpse on the shoulder. “You, young lady, should not have been swimming alone.”
“Drowning seems like such an unnecessary death,” Riggs said. “Apparently she went for a late-night swim. I’m not so sure this was an accident.”
“What did you see during your inspection this morning to make you say that?”
“It’s more of a hunch. I didn’t know her well, but she was so driven.”
Weldon nodded. “The few times I saw her out and about at events, she struck me as a very strong-minded woman. So I agree with you.”
“I just can’t picture her drinking to excess like that. Sure, occasionally she may have had a night out or something, but the evidence was more of a habitual heavy drinker. I just don’t buy it.”
“We’ll be thorough here; no worries.”
“I also find it odd that for some reason the DA put a rush on it. Maybe they suspect foul play.”
“Speaking of foul play, you know Ruth and I have season tickets to the Shakespeare Festival in Ashland. You should come with us sometime.”
Weldon peeled off his gloves and tossed them into a trash bin. “Saw Othello last week. Fabulous young actress by the name of Rita Fredinburg, played Desdemona. However, the bloke that played Othello didn’t strike me as talented enough to robustly play the part. A bit weak for a soldier.”
“You’re quite the Shakespeare fan.”
“Indeed. Those gloves felt too tight.” Weldon wiggled his fingers into another set of gloves. “Anyway, I played Hamlet once in college. Probably would have become a stage actor, but my friend and I got drunk one night after the final s
how and wrecked my car into a tree. I spent months recovering and lost a year of college. Turned my attention to medicine after that. Fascinating business, as you know.”
After applying a few drops of the fluid from the vic’s eye on an analysis strip to test for the presence of alcohol, dehydration, and glucose levels, Riggs turned to face Weldon. “Sounds like the accident was very serious.”
“I’m afraid so. It changed my life forever. Both of our lives. I lost my driver’s license and the hearing in my left ear, but my friend was paralyzed from the waist down. Ronald Brady. Ronnie became an English teacher. The stage had lost its appeal for both of us.”
“It must have been devastating at the time.” That kind of guilt could last a lifetime. He had in fact just mentioned doing penance.
“It could have been much worse. We were lucky to be alive. And I’ve managed to stay involved with theatre in my own way.” He sighed heavily. “Strange how in a moment life takes a hairpin turn.”
She nodded. “We know that firsthand. We see it here every day. One minute you’re alive and well, and the next …”
“On the slab, like this young lady.” Weldon leaned over and studied the vic’s face. “We may have an error.”
“What is it?”
“Her stats say she’s sixty-one years old, but that’s not what my eyes are saying.”
“I thought she was younger as well. Facelift? She’s certainly had everything else.”
Weldon scrutinized her through his bifocals. “I’d say she doesn’t look a day over forty. I expected to see signs of a facelift, but low and behold, nothing. Maybe she’s just loaded up on Botox. What is your secret, Ms. Isabel Rodriguez?”
Peering at the corpse, Riggs carefully studied the bloated face. Last summer, she and Richard had visited with her at the Britt Festival in Jacksonville while listening to Kenny G perform. At the time, Riggs had looked up into Isabel’s face and thought she looked much older in person than on her television show. But here, now, she appeared so much younger. The bloat in her face smoothed out some of the wrinkles, but there was something more to this. Definitely no scars from a facelift. Nothing about this case was right. Isabel was a perfectly healthy, career-driven woman.
Riggs shook her head. Her sleep-deprived brain was not functioning at its best. “The DA’s rush on this seems strange.”
“They also put a gag order on the report until further notice. Makes me wonder what sinister plot is afoot.”
Yes, Riggs thought. What is that about?
Ready to stitch the Y-incision, Weldon worked quickly, using wide stitches, and finished a few minutes later. He then traded places with Riggs and inserted the scalpel behind the left ear of the victim’s head, pausing as hail beat with great velocity on the door a few feet away. They braced as if expecting the door to fly off its hinges.
Weldon mumbled, “Hell of a storm.”
More focused now, Riggs shut out the darkened hall and disquieting thunder. For her, the autopsy was an opportunity to write the last chapter in Isabel’s life. She’d always appeared bold and confident, a woman in command of her fate. Richard had called her a “live wire.” She had a reputation as an advocate for the underprivileged. She certainly deserved to have her death explained to her family and friends and to the community as well. Life didn’t end with death for the loved ones; it was simply the last chapter.
Weldon sliced through the skin on the back of the vic’s head, then went on around to the other ear. With expert efficiency, he pulled the skin from the skull, like deboning a chicken, and peeled it over the top of the head, laying it inside out just above the brows. The woman’s shoulder-length brown hair fanned out across the sagging skin on her face.
Riggs picked up the Stryker saw from the counter and handed it to Dr. Weldon. When she’d first transferred to the department, the saw had given her nightmares. That was when Richard insisted she had developed a morbid interest in death, and though she had argued with him, she wasn’t altogether sure he was wrong.
The high-pitched whine of the saw pierced the air like a shrill dentist’s drill, bringing her back to the moment. Weldon cut a circular hole in the victim’s head. The unpleasant odor of burning bone permeated the room. He paused to form a triangular notch at the back of the skull, for proper future replacement after the brain examination.
He returned the saw to Riggs, who wordlessly replaced it with a hammer and chisel. Poor Isabel had never imagined when she arose from her bed yesterday that she’d be a corpse by midnight. Riggs studied the tattoo on her own arm, the cross and rosary, a symbol of hope. She believed there was a heaven and she hoped Isabel Rodriguez had found it.
Weldon tapped on the chisel and lifted the top of the skull, which pried loose with a sucking sound. He laid it aside on a nearby table. She handed him a pair of dura strippers—a type of forceps, so called because they helped peel away the thick membrane layer of dura that covered the brain. Weldon first used a scalpel to puncture the dura mater, then cut through it with a pair of scissors, following the edge of the skull opening. With a firm grip on the dura strippers, he tore it loose, tugging gently.
He slashed the spinal cord, cutting through the arteries that surrounded it. Next, he cut the cranial nerves to free the brain.
“Hmmm … a bit soft,” he mumbled. “Ms. Rodriguez, we need to toughen you up.”
Since the brain, as sometimes happened, was too fragile for immediate dissection, he set it gently into a brain bucket filled with formalin to soak for a day or two. The formalin would help stiffen the tissue for proper slicing. The DA would not be happy about the wait, but it couldn’t be helped.
As Riggs picked up the bucket to set it on the scale, the brain rotated to its side.
Goose bumps chilled her spine, and she shuddered.
“Dr. Weldon?”
“Yes?” He replaced the top of the skull, aligning the triangular notch.
“You need to see this.”
“What is it?” Intent on his task, he pulled the skin back over the top of the head, and the corpse once again had a face.
Holding the bucket as level as possible, she crossed the short space until she stood directly under the surgical lights.
Weldon adjusted his glasses and peered in. “I’ll be damned.”
Protruding from the brain was a mass with bits of hair and bone.
“Three teratoma victims in less than twenty-four hours?” Riggs asked. “What are the odds of that?”
“Impossible.”
She stared down at the tumor, her thoughts crisscrossing with all the information she knew of each victim. All three had been in apparent good health. Better than good, actually—exceptional. And they all had money. Did they know each other? Medford had about eighty thousand people, and probably only a tenth of them were affluent. Presumably they all belonged to the same social circles.
Under the glaring light, they stared at the nude body of Isabel Rodriguez. She lay on the table where her skin had been sliced open, bones crunched apart, organs biopsied, fluids taken, just like the others. Yet the cause of death for all three victims remained a mystery.
She turned to Weldon. “What could cause these teratomas?”
“Hmmm.” He pondered the question, drumming his gloved fingers together. “That’s a question for the pathologist, Dr. Kessler. I sent the other two teratomas over this morning. We’ll incise this one, and you can hand-deliver it as soon as we’re finished here.”
“Okay. And Blackwell needs to be informed immediately.”
Weldon leaned over the body. “My question to you, Ms. Rodriguez … what is the source?”
“That’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it? Now none of them can answer.” Riggs stripped off her gloves and tossed them in the trash. “These vics were murdered, Dr. Weldon.”
“If that’s true, wouldn’t the killer know that autopsies would be performed and the teratomas exposed?”
She shook her head. “Not necessarily. The body of Niki Francis
was never intended to be found. The fire victim was no doubt expected to burn up, leaving no evidence. Isabel came in as a drowning. So we find a teratoma. It happens. But the killer never planned on us finding the bodies of the other two and discovering three teratomas.”
Weldon nodded in agreement. “With the possibility of murder and the lack of fluid in Ms. Rodriguez’s lungs, I’d say she was dead before she hit the water. We’ll see what the diatom test says.”
“Maybe there’s something in the tox report that links all three victims.”
“Possibly, but that will take a good four weeks, even on a rush.”
Reaching for her cell phone, she said, “Detective Panetta needs to witness the rest of the autopsy. Now that it’s a criminal investigation. This is not a serial killer in the traditional sense of the word, but a serial killer nonetheless.”
“Indeed.” Ever dramatic, Weldon tapped the brain bucket with his scalpel. “With a teratoma for a calling card.”
CHAPTER
16
WHIT HUNG UP the phone on her desk and grabbed her leather bag. “George, come on. You’re getting a massage.”
His brows lifted curiously. “A massage?”
Thankfully, she’d finished her last media interview for the day before Bradshaw called. A call well worth a new tub of licorice.
“Yes, Bradshaw, the business writer, just shared a solid lead. She was at a chamber of commerce foray at Eden Retreat and, eagle eye that she is, spotted our target.”
George ran a comb through his short dark hair. Frowning, Whit watched him flick imaginary dust off his pale-blue dress shirt, sleeves rolled up to his forearms. He was a far cry from a typical print journalist. Most were a rugged lot with more guts and determination than etiquette. Georgie could have stepped directly off the pages of GQ magazine. She’d done a bit of probing and discovered he’d interned last summer at the Seattle Times. He’d probably never made it past writing the obituaries. No doubt he’d chosen the Chronicle for a chance at decent bylines.
A Desperate Place Page 13
