Robert Walker - Extreme Instinct

She left the side of the body, grabbing hold of her valise for something solid to hold on to, and she again stepped from the room to retrieve some air from the hallway. It was the worst condition she'd ever seen a human body in, and working over such a fire-desiccated body was no simple task. It would take several takes.

Everyone watched her. She even saw some pity in McEvetty's stony eyes. "Like a Pepsi, maybe?" he asked. "Or maybe a boilermaker?" he joked.

This only sent her back into the room sooner. She now placed her valise on the soupy mattress of the bed and snatched open a second pocket to pull forth a pair of fresh rubber gloves, indicating that if anyone needed a fresh pair, she had plenty to spare. She then located a notepad from deep within her valise, and on the ruled and printed pages of her autopsy report pad she began the tedious work of checking boxes for cause of death, condition of the body and premises.

It's going to be a long and difficult autopsy, she thought, and somehow she couldn't help but feel partially responsible for Melvin Martin's death, despite consoling words to the contrary from J. T. or anyone else. That in some sick, twisted gyration of logic Chris Lorentian and Melvin Martin had to die because of her, because of who she was, because of some morbid and as yet undetermined connection between the Phantom and the M.E., because this killer, in fixating on her, had somehow made her his accomplice, his confederate. The cruel, sadistic bastard.

She at once wondered how many other law enforcement agents and agencies across the country would soon be viewing it the same way. She wondered if perhaps she'd become a liability for the FBI since becoming the serial killer hunter celebrity that Dr. Coran had evolved into. Maybe J. T. was wrong; maybe she did cause this storm, due the publicity she'd been receiving on the sensational cases she had been involved in over the years. And if that held true…

"Why's this sicko fire freak calling you on the telephone, Dr. Coran?" asked McEvetty, who returned to the room with his partner beside him. The question was posed in so casual a manner, as if he might be asking after her preference in dishware, as if he actually expected her to have a full-blown, informed answer.

J. T. suddenly returned with the photographer and proceeded to give him orders to "shoot everything."

Now McEvetty stared across from where he stood on the other side of the bed and body. Beside him, his partner, Kaminsky, held an eager look on his face as well, also anxious for an answer to McEvetty's question when suddenly he seemed to realize the foolishness of both his partner's question and his expectant stare.

Kaminsky stood Abe Lincoln tall, bony, angular, lean, a sure ad for the Marlboro man, but somehow he fit into his white shirt and suit with a quiet grace lacking in McEvetty altogether. Both men gave off the appearance and aura of native Arizonans, mostly via the ruddy complexions, averted eyes, and wrinkles cut like scars, but whereas McEvetty weighed in large and bullish, Kaminsky was-while just a hairbreadth taller-much thinner and more light-footed. In a coarse way, McEvetty appeared always to be sporting a perpetual, scowling frown, whereas Kam maintained a quiet if cynical elegance.

"No doubt you two've already exhausted any off-color remarks or dark humor you most assuredly needed to get out of your systems before my arrival? Where's the usual detectives' banter, boys?" She'd heard laughter coming from within the black hole of this place when she and J. T. had first been guided here by the night clerk and the state patrol officer.

"Kam's working hard on getting in touch with his feminine side these days," joked McEvetty. "Ain'tcha, pard?"

"Shut up, Mac." Kam turned his full attention on Jessica. "Don't mind McEvetty and his stupid questions, Dr. Coran," Kaminsky said in a conspiratorial whisper. "His feet were so big when he was born that-''

"Shut up, Kam."

"— that there just wasn't no other place to put them but in his mouth, and he's gotten so used to the condition. Well, it just comes natural to him."

Jessica smiled in return and began going over the body with a handheld magnifying glass, complaining of the poor light. Still, she easily saw what she needed to see. Like Chris Lorentian's nearly cremated, baked body, there were wounds to the head, but no bullet holes, no quick and painless death, unfortunately. Poor old Melvin had died a torturous, horrendous death as a living marshmallow, and for no other reason than to satisfy some sick bastard's idea of kicks.

It was then that Dr. Karl Repasi stepped into the room. Jessica didn't at first see him, although she heard J. T. asking someone, "How did you get here? When did you arrive?" And Jessica hoped it was Warren, but when she looked from the cadaver, she saw that it was Repasi.

"I'm here to assist in any way possible," he informed Jessica. "I got word from Bishop about the killing here and got a plane out of Vegas."

"This takes you some distance out of your way, Dr. Repasi," she replied, keeping her eyes on her work, wondering what his game was.

"Arizona's my territory. Now this bastard's come to my home state," Repasi answered and stepped closer for a professional look over her shoulder as Jessica examined the crinkled, crumpled, fire-blackened outer layers of the body, a kind of brittle-to-the-touch, breakaway armor.

Jessica and J. T. exchanged a glance, accepting Repasi's reasoning for the moment. He was the M.E. for Phoenix, Arizona. Still, Phoenix was a long way from Page.

Repasi found a question lurking in his head that he had to ask: "What do you think, Jessica? Same MO? Fingerprints in the written message? Identical scene, except this one's a man?"

"Cause of death is often hidden by fire, as you know, and as you've said many times, Doctor, we have to be sure, but on the surface, yes."

"The way I heard it from Vegas is that you heard this one's dying words on the phone? That he-"

"That he was smoked while I listened in."

"Then you know he was, like Chris Lorentian, conscious when he got it; burned alive."

"What is it you want here, Karl?" she asked point-blank.

"Just to offer my services. That's all. Everyone knows you've got your hands full with this. That you need help, more help than Thorpe can give you. So, tell me, what can I do to help?"

She glanced up at J. T., seeing that he was not pleased, and she said, "All right, Karl."

"Whatever you need, Jess," he replied.

"Witness the fact I find no puncture wounds, no blunt-object wounds, no knife or bullet wounds."

"What about track marks?" asked McEvetty. "You know, drugs?"

Kaminsky tried to soften the question by adding, "Isn't it true the one killed like this in Vegas was using?"

"That was never established, was it, Dr. Repasi?" she asked.

"As a matter of fact, there were some high concentrations of an over-the-counter sedative found in the blood, Dr. Coran. But no needle tracks or hard drugs, no."

"Well, if I'm to locate that kind of information, gentlemen, I'll need a lab, I'll need seven hundred thousand times the light and a powerful magnifying glass, an electronic comparison microscope, blood and serum samples, a gas chromatography setup. Do you see a possibility for any of that happening here in this room?'' Instantly, Jessica felt apologetic for her outburst, for sounding off, and coming off, as so officious and bitchy, but the past two days and nights weighed heavily, a damnable burden and strain on her nerves, and these men seemed only to be adding to her stress.

McEvetty's unrestrained, snaking smile created a new mask of his face, and he sputtered in an infectious schoolboy fashion now, saying, ''But Dr. Coran, on our way up here, we heard you were some kinda-what, Mac? — miracle worker. That you could see like a cat in the dark. That the dead whisper in your ear? Isn't that right, Ed?"