Diana Rowland - Mark of the Demon

If an autopsy couldn’t stop me from thinking about sex with a demon, nothing could.

I stepped intothe outer office of the morgue, automatically wrinkling my nose as the distinctive odor of the place struck me—intense even a room away from the cutting room. Though this was my first homicide, I’d attended a number of autopsies. Captain Turnham liked his detectives to be familiar with all of the various procedures for all types of investigations, no matter what the detective’s permanent assignment was. Much bitching and moaning usually resulted, though never in the captain’s hearing. Personally, I thought autopsies were utterly fascinating and had never complained about being sent to one, even when my cases were stacked up.

Dr. Jonathan Lanza, the forensic pathologist for the St. Long Parish Coroner’s Office, glanced up from his desk as I entered. “Morning, Kara. You can leave the door open.”

I couldn’t help but smile. The smell was obviously a bit much for him as well. It didn’t have the stench of decomposition, as one normally would expect in a morgue, but that was due to Dr. Lanza’s morgue tech, Carl, a self-proclaimed OCD cleaning fanatic. So instead of the vague odor of rotted flesh and formalin, it had the often-overpowering aroma of Pine-Sol and bleach and any other industrial-strength cleaner Carl could dig up. Doc often said that he was prepared for the day when he came into the morgue to find that Carl had died from some toxic combination of cleaning supplies.

“Morning, Doc,” I said as I propped the outer door open with a rock that seemed to be just for that purpose. “Is this the only one you have today?”

He shook his head. “Nah, I have a probable overdose in the cooler, but I’ll do him this afternoon.” He made a sour face. “I was actually on vacation this week. First real vacation I’ve taken since I started working here.” Then he gave a shrug. “But I’m glad they called me to ask if I was willing to come back in town for this. Otherwise it would have been sent to New Orleans, and that office is pretty overloaded.”

I understood completely. Even years after Katrina, the city and its surroundings were still getting everything put back in place. And some things would never be the same again.

“I took a look at your girl when I came in,” he continued. “It sure does look like another Symbol Man victim, doesn’t it?”

Unease rippled through me. “Sure does, Doc. Not too many people know the details of the symbol. I just can’t see it being a copycat.”

I watched as he began writing the case numbers on stickers and affixing them to empty vials and plastic containers. “So when are you going to join the twenty-first century and get a printer to do that for you?” I asked, laughing.

He made a rude noise. “I’ll be glad to just get into the twentieth.” The morgue for the parish reflected the shockingly low budget that the office worked with. The space to perform the autopsies was loaned from an area hospital, which meant that maintenance issues were seldom addressed.

A couple of decades ago the walls probably had been white, but now they were a sickly beige mottled with stains and spots of dubious origin. When I’d first started attending autopsies, one of the morgue techs had warned me to wear gloves whenever I came into the autopsy room, since blood got everywhere and even leaning against a wall could be an exercise in contamination. After the first time I saw an autopsy and watched the bone dust scatter through the room during the skull-cutting portion, I’d taken the advice to heart and worn shoe covers and gloves every time I came in.

“Well, let’s get to it,” Doc said, standing and donning a blue plastic smock and disposable apron. Dr. Lanza was a slender man, about my height, with dark hair and eyes and a friendly smile beneath a distinctly Grecian nose. He was also incredibly experienced, having spent several years working for the coroner’s office in Las Vegas, as well as a few years in Houston. I wasn’t sure how the little podunk parish of St. Long had managed to snag someone with his credentials, but, like most everyone else, I wasn’t about to complain.

The room where the autopsies were performed looked like something out of a B movie from the forties. A metal table was flush against a long metal sink, with the body of the victim already laid out on the table, cleaned and ready for Doc to begin. The cutting board and the array of nightmare-inducing implements were set out neatly on the counter next to the sink—scalpel, scissors, a long knife, and other devices that I knew had friendly names like “skull-crackers.”

I stepped in and took a closer look at my victim—easier now, after she’d been cleaned up. Easier to see the damage that had been done to her, the torture she’d had to endure. With the blood and dirt washed off, I could see her features, see that she’d most likely never been accused of being beautiful, or probably even pretty. She had a hooked nose and weak chin and eyebrows that had never known the sting of waxing. Her eyes were a flat brown, but death could dull even the brightest of eyes. Her body was skinny in the legs and flabby in the midsection. I automatically glanced at the woman’s torso, looking for stretch marks or other outer signs that she’d had children, but it was impossible to tell amid the many parallel cuts. Doc would be able to tell with more certainty later on, after examining the cervix. Which would be worse , I wondered, for her to have had children and left them motherless, or to have no one to wonder what had happened to her, no close kin to care?

Carl snapped pictures of the body, starting with overall shots, then focusing in more closely on face and hands. The pictures of the injuries took a while, but I knew how important it was that all of this was documented thoroughly, and I didn’t mind waiting. Finally he unslung the camera and set it aside, then retrieved a syringe from the table by the sink. He glanced at me with a questioning look and the barest flicker of amusement in his eyes. “Ready to give it a try?”

He did this to me every time. It was the only evidence of a sense of humor I’d ever seen in the placid tech. “No way,” I replied, shuddering.

He twitched his shoulders in a shrug, then moved to the body and plunged the needle into the side of one eye. I cringed and stepped back as he slowly drew the vitreous fluid out, filling the syringe. Even though I knew that vitreous was very useful when running toxicology tests on the victims, it still gave me a shiver to see a needle stuck into an eye, and Carl loved to tease me about my squeamishness.

I turned away and looked at Doc. “Do you have an ID on her yet?” It was the office of the Coroner that was responsible for making identification and then the subsequent notification of next of kin, though of course law enforcement always worked hand in hand with them.

A pained expression crossed Doc’s face. “Not yet. We’ll take dentals and make a DNA card for comparison in case anyone comes forward, but Jill said that her prints didn’t come up with anything. If this is anything like the other Symbol Man cases, it’s going to be hard as shit to ID the victim.” He sighed. “And his previous victims were usually too decomposed to get prints from. We were lucky on this one, except for the fact that she’d never been arrested and wasn’t in the system.”

I echoed his sigh. “No missing-persons reports match her so far. She probably wasn’t somebody who was missed.”

“Just like the others,” said Doc. “What was it, twelve? Thirteen?”

“Thirteen. The skulls were sent to a forensic anthropologist at Tulane, who did facial reconstructions on all of them. IDs were made on four, so I guess it was worth the effort.” I’d spent several fruitless hours poring over the photographs of those clay faces, trying to see if there was any possible link between the victims, other than their social status.