Heavner awaited their eager reaction. They only stared at her, confused. Then the elf launched a somewhat listless volley of questions. Others tagged along.
“The labels were cut off?”
“That appears to be the case.”
“What’s that mean?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why no prints on the can?”
“I don’t know. The outer surfaces are smooth, and the can was protected from the elements inside a pants pocket.”
“Did the man die where his body was found?”
“I can’t comment on that at this time.”
“Why not?”
“If the guy was mugged, why leave the two hundred bucks?”
“Why, indeed.”
“How’d he get out to this creek?”
“That, too, is a mystery. Thank you for your patience.” Heavner flicked a wave, turned, and disappeared through the glass doors at her back.
The FOX 46 reporter spoke into a camera, probably handing over to her anchor.
My bullshit monitor was banging like a kettledrum.
Heavner had called a presser. Before I’d arrived, she’d explained where the body was found. Was she really engaging the media in the hope someone would come forward? Was I again being paranoid? Misjudging her motives?
Or were my instincts correct? The grisly allure of feral hogs and a faceless corpse. The high drama of missing labels and strangely absent prints. Was Dr. Morgue at it again? Had her performance been Act I in a limelight-grab leading up to a new book launch?
Screw that.
Ignoring a voice screaming that this was a bad idea, I entered the front door, dropped my purse in my office, threw on a lab coat, and hurried through additional security and down the bio-vestibule to the large autopsy room.
One table was occupied. I crossed to it and drew back the blue paper sheeting covering the body.
The faceless man lay naked on the stainless steel, his flesh jarringly pale under the cruel fluorescents.
Wasting no time, I pulled my iPhone from my pocket and, beginning at his head and working toward his feet, started snapping pics. When I’d finished with the corpse, I moved to the counter and took a series of shots of the man’s clothing and belongings. Then I laid down my phone and pulled on latex gloves.
Hawkins arrived as I was digging a swab kit from a drawer. He looked his usual zombie self—tall and skeletal, with dead-black hair oiled back from a face centering on a bony nose, gaunt cheeks, and wire-thin lips. I couldn’t have guessed his age. Sixty? Eighty? For years, the joke at the MCME was that Hawkins had died in the eighties and no one had noticed.
Cocking one quizzical brow, Hawkins watched without comment as I scraped a sample from the open thorax of the faceless man.
“You really didn’t text me pics of this guy?” I asked, voice low.
“Nope.”
“Any idea who might have sent them?”
Hawkins wagged his head no.
“Who had access to him?”
“A few folks.”
I knew that was true. I’d been running through a mental Rolodex of suspects. An MCME pathologist. Another death investigator. A first responder at the scene. A tech manning the transport vehicle. The kids who discovered the body. But none of those felt right. And the sender had to be someone with access to my mobile number.
“Appears the boss lady’s angling for a spot on Dateline.” Hawkins also spoke mezza voce.
“Not if I can block her.” Placing the swab in a tube.
“Maybe I can smoke out your mole.”
“You’ll ask around?”
“Diplomatically.”
I glanced at Hawkins. “I don’t want to jam you up.”
“Won’t happen.”
I’d barely tightened the vial’s cap when a voice spoke at our backs, nasal and whiny. As I slipped the sealed specimen into my pocket, Hawkins discreetly palmed my mobile from the counter.
We both turned. I forced myself to smile.
“What are you doing here?” Heavner was wearing an expression like she’d just soiled her Gucci’s in dog shit.
“I was driving nearby and caught the start of your press conference.” Not wanting to out whoever had sent the text. “Hearing you had a decomp, I diverted over.”
“My understanding is that you consult to this office only upon specific verbal or written request.”
“Dr. Larabee and I—”
“I am not Dr. Larabee.”
I said nothing.
“Do you seriously think this office cannot function without you, Dr. Brennan? That I am incapable of determining when specialty expertise is required?”
Our eyes met for a long, cold moment.
“Should I require your services, I will contact you. Now, please leave.”
I did, chest burning as though I’d just run a marathon.
As I walked to my car, Paulette Youngman’s words came zinging from long ago. The ant always loses.
* * *
I’d just entered the annex when my landline rang.
After checking caller ID, I picked up the handset.
“Sweetie, are you all right?” Mama, vowels broader and more honeyed than Scarlett at Tara.
“Of course, I’m all right.”
“Why aren’t you answering your mobile?”
“I’m having battery issues.” True, but unrelated to her query.
“Where are you?”
“Home.”
“Are you feeling poorly?”
“Not at all. I’m going out later.” Regretted as soon as the words left my lips.
Surprisingly, Mama didn’t pounce. “Sinitch arrived today.” Mama’s fiancé was named Clayton Sinitch. For some reason, she never used his first name. “He’ll be here until Wednesday.”
“That’s nice.”
“I suppose so.” Wistful, begging me to inquire.
I didn’t. “Do you two have big plans?”
“I must do something about the man’s feet.”
“His feet.”
“They smell like soup made from dirty shorts.”
No way I was touching that.
“I’m thinking I should buy one of those foot-odor products they sell at the grocery. Maybe shake some into his shoes when he’s in the shower. You’d think soap and water should resolve the situation.”
“Mm.”
“He’s in there now, splashing away. One upside to showering is it gets him naked.”
Snapshot image I’ll never unsee.
“Sinitch is a lovely man, but some days I still do miss your daddy.”
“I know, Mama. So do I.”
My early childhood was a happy time. I wasn’t abused, or bullied, or made to adhere to a set of crazy-strict religious mores. I never broke a bone, needed surgery, stitches, or counseling. My sister, Harry, and I got along reasonably well. Mama suffered from what would now be called bipolar swings. She’d disappear into rehab for periods but always came home. Then my baby brother died of leukemia, and it all went to hell. Mama fell into a dark place that she couldn’t escape for years. Daddy turned to drinking hard, ended up dead on a highway in the family Buick. Decades later, I still missed my father terribly.
“I called because I’m lying in bed and just watched some very interesting television.” Mama’s tone dropped to a confidential half whisper. “You working on this corpse got gnawed by hogs?”