Rita Herron - Under His Skin

He sighed. Hadn’t he wondered the same thing? “You have a name?”

She shook her head. “Nothing definite, just hints here and there. Everyone is very hush-hush.”

“That’s no surprise. They’re probably concerned about lawsuits.”

“And criminal charges now with this man’s death,” she murmured.

“What do you think happened, Grace?” he asked bluntly.

Her troubled gaze met his, then she took a long sip of her coffee. “I’m not sure. We get the tissue from tissue banks. One of the physicians said he thinks that’s where the breakdown occurred. It was processed improperly, probably by a technician who didn’t know what he was doing.”

“But you have another theory?”

“His speculation makes perfect sense. But those missing corpses have me perplexed. I know some have been used in pranks for Halloween, but the others…”

His skin prickled. “What about them?”

“Sometimes we have live donors, but often tissue is taken from the deceased.”

Suspicion twitched at him. “You think the missing corpses are being used to extract tissue?”

“I don’t know, Parker, it’s just a thought.” She chewed her bottom lip. “There’s something else. When my brother was killed, his body went missing for two days. Eventually it turned up at a different morgue. The coroner said that it was a clerical error, but now I’m wondering…”

“Wouldn’t the autopsies show if tissue was removed?”

“Yes, although some tissue might be removed after the autopsy.”

“Didn’t the ME check the bodies after they were recovered?”

“Yes.” She sighed. “I guess I’m just going off on a tangent. Trying to find something that isn’t there.”

“Like the fact that you don’t believe your brother killed himself?”

She gave him a withering look. “I know Bruno wouldn’t take his own life. The bullet in the head sounds like a professional hit to me. Maybe he was investigating some kind of mob crime.”

“Grace, I saw Bruno’s file. He left a suicide note. They analyzed the handwriting and it matched your brother’s—”

“Someone could have forced him to write that, and you know it.” She knotted her hands in her lap so tightly her knuckles turned white. “And then for his body to go missing…”

“What did the coroner say after they recovered his body? Had it been mishandled?”

She reluctantly shook her head. “They said it hadn’t.”

Parker twisted his mouth in thought. Unless the police hadn’t told her. Sometimes they withheld details of a crime from the family and press to use later in case of an arrest.

Besides, if she was right and her brother hadn’t committed suicide, then she might also be correct about the hit.

“My partner thinks there’s a group of teens stealing the bodies,” Parker said. “He found a pentagram painted on the lawn of a local church, and dead animals left around it. They may be using the corpses in some kind of ritualistic ceremony.”

“I read something about that in the paper,” she admitted. “Sounds feasible.”

Parker wanted to console her, but didn’t know how. Not unless he found the truth. “I’ve requested the police reports on your brother’s death.”

Her gaze jerked to his. “Did you find anything?”

“Not yet,” he said quietly. “But I’ll find out what happened to him, Grace. I promise.”

The relief in her eyes made his chest squeeze, although guilt plagued him. Family members always wanted to deny that one of their loved ones would commit suicide, but it happened. Men, even cops, folded under pressure.

He wanted to reach out and touch her, but he didn’t dare. Because touching her once wouldn’t be enough.

And he had no illusions that she wanted anything from him but answers about her brother’s case. After all, he was weak. A scarred man.

Lying in bed helpless he might have fantasized about having a woman in his life on a permanent basis.

But when he returned to the job, that was not an option.

THUNDER POPPED OUTSIDE, and lightning crackled, streaking the dark sky with jagged lines that jarred Grace from her seat.

She wrapped her arms around her waist, then glanced at Parker and saw him watching her. Good heavens, she must look like a ninny.

Still she moved away from the window. Tried to forget that all week she’d felt as if someone was following her. That she wondered if the man she’d seen in the woods at the graveyard might be after her.

If the person who’d killed her brother might want her dead because she wouldn’t leave the case alone.

She wanted to confide in Parker, but the man had enough on his plate right now. He would probably think she was paranoid if she confessed her fears.

At least he was going to look into her brother’s death.

Not that he could do a lot while recovering, but he could ask questions, maybe convince his partner to help him. She certainly hadn’t gotten anywhere on her own.

Curious about the tissue banks and the possibility of a cover-up, she decided to dig around a little after she walked Parker back to his room. She’d subtly questioned other nurses and Dr. Whitehead again, but he assured her that the hospital administrator was investigating the matter and would inform them of the results when he found the source of the problem.

So why did she sense they were hiding the truth?

Having a cop for a brother and father must have made her suspicious of everything. She didn’t trust anyone.

Parker’s face materialized, but she reminded herself that he was a detective, as well. Cops kept secrets, even from people they cared about. Her brother had. And so had her father.

Those secrets had gotten them killed.

Remembering the body she’d seen in the graveyard and the figure in the woods, she shivered. He’d been painted so grotesquely that he was probably part of a prank, but still the police weren’t sure. And they weren’t telling her anything.

Maybe she could sneak into records and find the man’s autopsy. Maybe she’d find Bruno’s and check it out, as well. She especially wanted to see the report the coroner had filed after Bruno’s body had been recovered.

Unable to rest for the questions needling her, she headed toward the records department. A crowd filled the elevator, so she waited for another. But the power blinked off, then on again, and she panicked. No way she’d get trapped in the elevator, so she darted into the stairwell.

She’d made it to the second-floor landing when the sound of something scraping broke the silence. She froze, her breathing vibrating in the quiet. Was someone in the stairwell with her? Maybe behind her?

She turned to look, but the lights blinked off again, pitching her into darkness. She swallowed hard as thunder roared, and prayed the lights would be restored immediately. But the stairwell remained cloaked in a black fog. The scent of some kind of chemical and stale air permeated the space. Then the sound of a shoe padding softly on cement broke the silence. Someone was in the stairwell with her, and they were coming toward her.

“Who’s there?” she called.

No answer.

The hair on the nape of her neck stood on end, and she called out, but again no answer. The footsteps drew closer, louder. Ominous.

Panicking, she gripped the handrail and began to feel her way down the steps. One step, two, three, her heel caught the edge and she stumbled. Her heart pounding, she grabbed the rail and steadied herself, breathing heavy. The footsteps sped up.

She had to hurry. But the whisper of a breath bathed her neck, then someone shoved her from behind.

She screamed, clawing for the railing, but her hands connected only with air.

Then she lost her balance and went careening down the staircase.