Mike Omer - In the Darkness

“It’s freezing here, Curly.” Foster rubbed his hands together. “How can you work like this?”

“I wear warm socks,” the man said. His eyes crinkled, and Tatum guessed he was smiling under the mask.

The door to the autopsy room opened, and Zoe strode briskly inside. She paused two steps in, presumably as the smell hit her, her face gaining a slightly sickly look. Tatum wondered if Zoe’s nose, which was a bit longer than most, made her more vulnerable to the surrounding aroma.

Before he could remember that he was furious at her, he gestured at the box by the door. “There are face masks over there.”

She turned back and quickly retrieved a face mask.

Foster motioned at Tatum. “Curly, this is Agent Gray and Dr. Bentley. They’re consulting on the Medina case. And this”—he pointed at the medical examiner—“is our medical examiner, Curly.”

The medical examiner rolled his eyes and turned to Tatum. “Curly is my school nickname. I’m Dr. Clyde Prescott. Nice to meet you.”

Foster turned to Zoe. “Curly was just about to walk us through the autopsy report.”

Curly picked up a clipboard from the counter and scanned it. “Nicole Medina, aged nineteen. The cause of death is almost certainly asphyxia due to environmental suffocation—”

“Almost certainly?” Foster asked.

“There is no evidence of any serious trauma to the body, and considering the location where the body was found, environmental suffocation is the reasonable conclusion. However, to be sure, you’ll need to wait for the toxicology report.”

He pointed at the body’s hip, which had a greenish-black hue. Tatum looked away after a quick glance at it. “The early putrefaction started on the iliac fossa. This, combined with the potassium concentration in the vitreous humor, led me to deduce that the victim died approximately eighty hours before discovery.”

“How approximate?” Foster asked.

“The victim was young and healthy, and the body was kept in a relatively clean environment, protected from insects and heat. So it’s accurate within four hours.”

This was actually a much better approximation than Tatum had assumed they would get. He made a quick calculation. “Between six a.m. and two p.m. on September third.”

“That’s right. Lividity marks over the back of the body indicate the deceased died lying on her back and that the body wasn’t moved after death.”

He walked around the autopsy table, looking down at Medina’s body. “Multiple scratches and bruises on her knees, palms, elbows, and feet all seem to be consistent with repeatedly hitting and kicking a hard wooden lid. There were three old fractures, probably from early childhood. Two on the left leg, one across her right wrist. All three fractures healed well. The stomach was empty, which is not surprising, since it’s likely she didn’t have access to food in the last twelve hours of her life.”

“Any signs of a sexual encounter, either forced or consensual?” Zoe asked.

“I swabbed the mouth, vaginal and anal cavities, and checked for foreign elements, but there were none. There is a large stain on the victim’s trousers, but it’s urine, not sperm.”

He pointed at the body’s neck, and Tatum craned forward. A thin long scratch marred the skin.

“This scratch is fairly new,” Curly said. “Examined closely, it looks like a sharp and smooth object cut the skin. It didn’t cut deep.”

“Someone cut her with a blade?” Tatum asked.

“Yes, but I don’t think the intention was to kill her. My guess is someone held a blade to her throat, and it cut her. See the angle? This probably indicates whoever did it stood behind her. If you look at her left arm, you’ll see a bruise there. That’s where he grabbed her.”

Tatum pictured it in his mind. Nicole getting out of the car in her home’s driveway. The street is dark. She starts walking toward the entrance when someone grabs her left arm fiercely, and holds a knife to her throat.

“The man who did this is right handed.” Foster echoed Tatum’s own conclusion. This wasn’t a big surprise. The man on the video was right handed as well. “Any signs of struggle?”

“Nothing visible. I clipped her fingernails and sent them for testing.”

“No sign she was tied either?”

“No.”

Tatum considered this. “Make sure the toxicology test includes date-rape drugs. It could explain why the victim didn’t struggle, even when he put her in a box.” Date-rape drugs weren’t always in the standard toxicology test to save costs. It was best to make sure.

Curly made a note. “I’ll make sure they test for it. Ketamine and Flunitrazepam would definitely show traces in the hair samples.”

Tatum couldn’t wait to leave the autopsy room, but he forced himself to take one last look at the victim. Nicole Medina had probably lost consciousness before she died, and her eyes were shut, face serene.

But there was no question regarding the terror she’d felt shut in the dark, cramped space. It must have seemed to her that no one could hear her as she screamed. Ironically, her screams had been heard by many people, but no one could help her in time.

“I wasn’t sure how you drink your coffee.”

Zoe raised her eyes from her laptop, looking at the speaker. It was Detective Lyons. She held two cups of coffee in one hand, balancing a pink pastry box in the other, looking as if it required no effort. Zoe knew if she tried this acrobatic feat, she’d end up with a large coffee stain on her crotch and a bunch of pastries on the floor.

Lyons stepped into the room, putting the cups and the box on the table. She then took one cup and drank from it. “I didn’t add sugar.”

“That’s fine, thanks.” Zoe took the other cup. She sipped from it and kept her face carefully blank. The coffee was so weak that it was nearly like drinking tepid water.

Lyons opened the box. It had four doughnuts in it, two chocolate frosted and two vanilla frosted with sprinkles. She took one of the chocolate ones and motioned for Zoe to dig in.

“Thanks,” Zoe said again, taking a vanilla doughnut.

“A young woman disappeared in San Angelo six weeks ago,” Lyons said. “Her name is—”

“Maribel Howe, aged twenty-two.”

“How did you—”

Zoe turned her laptop around so Lyons could see the screen. It displayed the NamUs missing persons database. “I looked through some databases, searching for missing persons in Texas,” Zoe explained. “Of all the people who were reported missing in San Angelo in the past six months, Maribel Howe is the only one still missing.”

“I’m investigating the Howe case,” Lyons said. “Though I hit a dead end early on. She went out to see a film with some friends on Saturday evening . . . you don’t want the other chocolate doughnut?”

“I’m good.”

“I’m addicted to chocolate doughnuts. I really should stop, but when the craving hits me, my stomach takes the steering wheel. Cops and their doughnuts, right?”

“Right.” Zoe didn’t recall ever working with a cop who regularly ate doughnuts. But someone probably had to perpetuate the myth.

“Anyway,” Lyons continued, taking the second doughnut, “she disappeared in a similar fashion. She’d gone to see a movie with a friend. They shared an Uber ride on the way home—they live on the same street, just a few houses apart. The driver dropped them by the friend’s house, about thirty yards from Howe’s home. Howe said goodbye to her friend and walked to her own house. In the morning she didn’t show up for work. Her boss called her several times, got worried, sent one of her coworkers to check up on her. There was nobody in her home, and after a few hours of repeatedly phoning her, they called the police.”