Thomas Amo: An Apple for Zoë: Book One ~ The Forsaken

James didn't even want to speculate how many of those cases were homicides. He began to open the envelope and hesitated for a moment.

"Wayne, CSI dust any of this yet?"

Stevens looked up from his routine of measuring the height of the victim with a household tape measurer.

"I don't know Tom. Better put some gloves on. Plenty, in the big cabinet behind you," said Stevens as he hooked the end of the tape to the old man's shoe, dragging the other end to the top of his head. James' mind wandered into a lost fog as he watched Stevens. For a moment he seemed to forget where he was and what he was doing. "Oh, right."

James then opened the cabinet and retrieved a pair of latex gloves. Slipping them on he snapped them like a doctor preparing for surgery.

"Okay, let's find out exactly who you are," he said reaching inside the envelope until he found the worn brown leather wallet. He sat everything else inside the evidence pouch off to the side. Opening the wallet was the final act of solving the mystery of who the dead man on the table was. At last, a typical unflattering DMV photo revealed the face of the man on the table. It was definitely him. James also noticed the license was recently renewed.

"Richard Skylar of Hollywood, California." James furrowed his brow. You're a long way from home Mr. Skylar. What brings you to San Francisco? he wondered as he examined the driver's license intently. Date of birth, January 21, 1924. Height 5 foot 10 inches, weight 160 pounds, eyes blue, must wear corrective lenses.

"So where are your glasses?" questioned James, as his attention was turned to the old man's eyes. They were brown, not blue.

"Wayne, do eyes change color after death?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, if someone had blue eyes, would they turn brown from decomposition?"

"I don't know, I don't think so. Why?"

"This guy has brown eyes and his drivers license records them as being blue."

"Maybe it's a mistake. You done with that?" asked Stevens, holding out his hand, commanding that James hand over the wallet.

"Not really, do you need it now?" asked James.

"Yeah, I gotta document the contents for the doctor."

"Oh, sure thing Wayne, sorry," James said, handing over the wallet to him. The loud buzz of a door buzzer clanged in the next room.

"That must be Bobby," said Stevens as he left the room. Moments later Stevens returned with Bobby Stillwell and Kirkland. James smiled at the sight of his comrades.

"Hey about time there Detective Kirkland, I was starting to feel like I got stood up by my prom date," joked James.

"Oh baby, you know what I like," said Kirkland is his best Big Bopper impression.

Stevens shook his head as he helped Stillwell carry in his CSI kits. James crossed to Stillwell and put his hand on the young man's shoulder.

"Hey kid, you okay? I know this morning was a bit intense."

"Yeah, thanks Tom, I'm okay. But I have to tell you, I won't be sorry to have this case behind me."

"I know what you mean," replied James.

The young CSI began preparing his fingerprint kit. Taking a tube of ink and squeezing just the right amount on to a smooth steel plate. The ink had the look and texture of greasepaint. It reminded James of his days, as a young aspiring actor. Sitting in front of an old cracked mirror at the Palace melodrama theatre where the older actors taught him how to apply greasepaint makeup for maximum effect. He could still hear the director reminding him, "The guy in the back row needs to be able to see everything the guy in the front row sees." It was times like this that made James wish he had tried harder to make his living in the theatre instead of law enforcement. His daydreaming faded as he heard Stillwell talking to Stevens.

"Wayne, how soon can I print this guy?"

"After the doctor scrapes and clips the nails."

James walked back over to Kirkland, who was leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, looking as if a nap would better suit him than being the second official witness for the dead. Both men jumped with a start as Roberts stepped into the room. The boom of his hand against the swinging double doors could just as easily have been a gunfighter entering a saloon.

The tall man looked around the room briefly, his expression flat.

"Wayne! Where's the Carlyle girl?"

Stevens began to stutter as Roberts slapped his notepad down on the counter. "She's in the walk-in. I thought you wanted to do the John Doe first," said Stevens, trying to soften the news that he had made the wrong choice.

"NO! The Carlyle case is far more involved than any damn hanging," shouted Roberts.

Definitely Mr. Hyde today , mused James.

"I'm sorry doctor, I'll get her ready in five minutes," said Stevens as he dashed out of the room not waiting for an answer.

The tension in the room was ripe as Stillwell quickly tried to change the mood.

"Dr. Roberts, I can get a jump printing this guy, if you want to examine his nails?"

Roberts looked over his glasses at the young CSI.

"You're new here aren't you?"

"Yes sir."

James and Kirkland both grimaced at the thought that Stillwell was about to be torn a new one.

"If you want to be old here, never keep the man with knife waiting. You understand?" Roberts didn't wait for an answer, he only pressed harder.

"Did you get your shots of the hands yet?"

Stillwell trembled at the thought of saying no, but he responded with a quick concise answer.

"No sir, only because you hadn't had a chance to examine them yet, and I didn't want to contaminate the case by touching it before you could give me the all clear."

Roberts stared silently at the young CSI. Kirkland and James held their breath. Roberts then bellowed, "Good man, start snapping."

Both James and Kirkland blew out a sigh of relief as they watched Roberts go to work, talking rapidly into a small handheld voice recorder as Stillwell moved around him snapping photos. The flashing and clicking of the camera reminded James there would be reporters outside to deal with later.

As the two men wrapped up taking evidence from the old man's hands, Stevens returned with the body of Amanda Carlyle.

"Just let me get her on the table doctor and we're ready to go," said Stevens.

"No hurry," said Roberts as he placed the contents from the fingernails and clippings into a small pale evidence jar.

Dr. Jeykll has returned, thought James.

Stevens, stood ready as Stillwell got the all clear from Roberts to proceed with printing the old man.

Roberts began talking into his voice recorder, then stopped for a moment and pointed at Kirkland.

"What's your name?"

Kirkland felt a leap in his heart, and his voice faltered for a moment. "Michael Kirkland, San Francisco, homicide."

"Case number 5622, Amanda Marie Carlyle, 22-year-old female, victim of apparent homicide, Lawrence Roberts pathologist, witnesses Inspector Thomas James and Detective Michael Kirkland of San Francisco, homicide."

As Roberts delved into recording the details of the case, Stillwell finished printing the old man and quietly packed up his kit and started for the door.

James stopped him and whispered. "You gonna run those prints through the system?"

"I hadn't planned to. It was just routine," said Stillwell who froze as Roberts looked up from his recorder and in their direction. James pushed Stillwell out of the autopsy room and into the foyer of the morgue, "Run them anyway, I'd just feel better if you did."

Stillwell nodded to James and departed as quickly—and silently—as he could. James returned to the autopsy of Amanda Carlyle. As was the protocol, Stevens began to slowly remove each item of Amanda's clothing once Roberts was satisfied there was no further evidence to be gathered. Soon the young woman lay naked before the four men.