Karin Slaughter - Faithless

She asked, “Did you get X-rays upstairs?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Weight?”

“A hundred thirteen pounds,” he told her. “Five feet three inches.”

Sara made a note of this on the dry erase board bolted to the wall. She capped the marker before saying, “Let’s get her on the table.”

At the scene, Carlos had placed the girl in a black body bag, and together, they grabbed the corners of the bag and lifted her onto the table. Sara helped him with the zipper, working quietly alongside him as they prepared her for autopsy. After putting on a pair of gloves, Carlos cut through the brown paper bags that had been placed over her hands to preserve any evidence. Her long hair was tangled in places, but still managed to cascade over the side of the table. Sara gloved herself and tucked the hair around the body, aware that she was studiously avoiding the horror-stricken mask of the girl’s face. A quick glance at Carlos proved he was doing the same.

As Carlos began undressing the girl, Sara walked over to the metal cabinet by the sinks and took out a surgical gown and goggles. She laid these on a tray by the table, feeling an almost unbearable sadness as Carlos exposed the girl’s milk-white flesh to the harsh lights of the morgue. Her small breasts were covered with what looked like a training bra and she was wearing a pair of high-legged cotton briefs that Sara always associated with the elderly; Granny Earnshaw had given Sara and Tessa a ten-pair pack of the same style every year for Christmas, and Tessa had always called them granny panties.

“No label,” Carlos said, and Sara went over to see for herself. He had spread the dress on a piece of brown paper to catch any trace evidence. Sara changed her gloves before touching the material, not wanting to cross-contaminate. The dress was cut from a simple pattern, long sleeves with a stiff collar. She guessed the material to be some kind of heavy cotton blend.

Sara checked the stitching, saying, “It doesn’t look factory made,” thinking this might be a clue in its own right. Aside from an ill-fated home economics course in high school, Sara had never sewn more than a button. Whoever had sewn the dress obviously knew what they were doing.

“Looks pretty clean,” Carlos said, placing the underwear and bra on the paper. They were well-worn but spotless, the tags faded from many washings.

“Can you black light them?” she asked, but he was already walking over to the cabinet to get the lamp.

Sara returned to the autopsy table, relieved to see no signs of bruising or trauma on the girl’s pubis and upper thighs. She waited as Carlos plugged in the purple light and waved it over the clothes. Nothing glowed, meaning there were no traces of semen or blood on the items. Dragging the extension cord behind him, he walked to the body and handed Sara the light.

She said, “You can do it,” and he slowly traced the light up and down the girl’s body. His hands were steady as he did this, his gaze intent. Sara often let Carlos do small tasks like this, knowing he must be bored out of his mind waiting around the morgue all day. Yet, the one time she had suggested he look into going back to school, Carlos had shaken his head in disbelief, as if she had proposed he fly to the moon.

“Clean,” he said, flashing a rare smile, his teeth purple in the light. He turned off the lamp and started winding the cord to store it back under the counter.

Sara rolled the Mayo trays over to the table. Carlos had already arranged the tools for autopsy, and even though he seldom made mistakes, Sara checked through them, making sure everything she needed would be on hand.

Several scalpels were lined up in a row beside various types of surgically sharpened scissors. Different-sized forceps, retractors, probes, wire cutters, a bread-loafing knife and various probes were on the next tray. The Stryker saw and postmortem hammer/hook were at the foot of the table, the grocer’s scales for weighing organs above. Unbreakable jars and test tubes were by the sink awaiting tissue samples. A meter stick and a small ruler were beside the camera, which would be used to document any abnormal findings.

Sara turned back around just as Carlos was resting the girl’s shoulders on the rubber block in order to extend her neck. With Sara’s help, he unfolded a white sheet and draped it over her body, leaving her bent arm outside the cover. He was gentle with the body, as if she was still alive and could feel everything he did. Not for the first time, Sara was struck by the fact that she had worked with Carlos for over a decade and still knew very little about him.

His watch beeped three times, and he pressed one of the many buttons to turn it off, telling Sara, “The X-rays should be ready.”

“I’ll take care of the rest,” she offered, though there wasn’t much left to do.

She waited until she heard his heavy footsteps echoing in the stairwell before she let herself look at the girl’s face. Under the overhead spotlight, she looked older than Sara initially had thought. She could even be in her early twenties. She could be married. She could have a child of her own.

Again, Sara heard footsteps on the stairs, but it was Lena Adams, not Carlos, who pushed open the swinging doors and came into the room.

“Hey,” Lena said, looking around the morgue, seeming to take in everything. She kept her hands on her hips, her gun sticking out under her arm. Lena had a cop’s way of standing, feet wide apart, shoulders squared, and though she was a small woman, her attitude filled the room. Something about the detective had always made Sara uncomfortable, and they were rarely alone together.

“Jeffrey’s not here yet,” Sara told her, taking out a cassette tape for the Dictaphone. “You can wait in my office if you want.”

“That’s okay,” Lena answered, walking over to the body. She gazed at the girl a moment before giving a low whistle. Sara watched her, thinking something seemed different about Lena. Normally, she projected an air of anger, but today, her defenses felt slightly compromised. There was a red-rimmed tiredness to her eyes, and she had obviously lost weight recently, something that didn’t suit her already trim frame.

Sara asked, “Are you okay?”

Instead of answering the question, Lena indicated the girl, saying, “What happened to her?”

Sara dropped the tape into the slot. “She was buried alive in a wooden box out by the lake.”

Lena shuddered. “Jesus.”

Sara tapped her foot on the pedal under the table, engaging the recorder. She said “Test” a couple of times.

“How do you know she was alive?” Lena asked.

“She clawed at the boards,” Sara told her, rewinding the tape. “Someone put her in there to keep her… I don’t know. He was keeping her for something.”

Lena took a deep breath, her shoulders rising with the effort. “Is that why her arm’s sticking up? From trying to claw her way out?”

“I would imagine.”

“Jesus.”

The rewind button on the recorder popped up. They were both quiet as Sara’s voice played back, “Test, test.”

Lena waited, then asked, “Any idea who she is?”

“None.”

“She just ran out of air?”

Sara stopped and explained everything that had happened. Lena took it all in, expressionless. Sara knew the other woman had trained herself not to respond, but it was unnerving the way Lena could distance herself from such a horrific crime.

When Sara had finished, Lena ’s only response was to whisper, “Shit.”

“Yeah,” Sara agreed. She glanced at the clock, wondering what was keeping Carlos just as he walked in with Jeffrey.

“ Lena,” Jeffrey said. “Thanks for coming in.”

“No problem,” she said, shrugging it off.