Page 26 of Deadly Lineage
Franklin
I hated going to the coroner’s office. I hadn’t felt that way when I worked in Illinois. I wasn’t sure what was different about Dr. McCallister’s space. I only knew that it had an unwelcome feeling I couldn’t shake. That unpleasant feeling latched on and clung to me all day. Sometimes even a hot shower didn’t wash it away.
Regardless of my feelings, I needed to speak with the doctor—the sooner, the better. The autopsy report I’d gotten on Rebecca Mosely was boring as sin.Heart failure. That was the recorded cause of death.
Bull-fucking-shit. Maybe it was heart failure, but something caused a young woman’s heart to fail and that was where the key lay. I needed more from McCallister and I planned on getting it.
Striding down the air-conditioned hall, my dress shoes echoed with every step I took. Bucking an age-old trend, the coroner’s rooms weren’t in the basement, but on the first floor. Windows dotted every room I walked past, throwing muted, natural light into the hallway. That should have made the journey more enjoyable. It didn’t.
I turned a corner and nearly ran into Detective Harrison.
“Shit, sorry O’Hare.”
Given her diminutive size, had we truly connected, I’d have been helping Harrison off the floor. Don’t get me wrong, Harrison could kick my ass inside a boxing ring. But in the hall, unprepared and unsuspecting, I would have run her over like a semi.
“No worries.” I held up both hands and scooted around her, giving Harrison the breadth of the hall. She looked deep in thought. She also appeared cold. With a file clasped in one hand, she ran the other up and down her arm. I figured she had short sleeves on beneath her jacket but wasn’t sure. Either way, the jacket wasn’t doing enough to warm her.
Watching my gaze, Harrison shook her head. “It’s always so damn cold in here. I don’t care how many layers I wear.” Her gaze flicked down the hall to a door with the word MORGUE etched into the window.
A deep shiver racked her body before her feet started again. “I’ve got to get going, O’Hare. Good luck with your case. Let me know if you want or need to bounce any ideas around. I’m always good for it if an ear would help.”
I appreciated the offer. “Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.”
Harrison slapped my arm with her folder before quickstepping down the hall. The sound of her hasty footfalls faded as she moved further away.
I stood there watching Harrison’s back until she turned another corner. My phone chimed with a text which I ignored. It wasn’t Captain Cicely’s ringtone. It wasn’t Boone’s either. My mind immediately translated that it wasn’t important enough to answer immediately.
Spinning on my heel, I headed back down the hall. The air grew cooler with every step. Every morgue was cold, but Dr. McCallister’s professional home was a degree or ten lower than most.
Not bothering to knock, I pushed the door open and headed inside. I hadn’t given the good doctor a heads-up. He had no idea I was on my way and, depending on his workload, might be a bit miffed, especially after Harrison had just left. I wasn’t up to date on her latest case but figured if she had walked all the way down to the morgue, it must be for something important.
The small reception area was silent as a…well, morgue.
“McCallister?” I raised my voice but not enough that one would consider it a yell. Hopefully, I didn’t sound unduly rude.
When no one answered, I stepped further inside and spoke a little louder. “Doc, you in here?” Harrison hadn’t said he wasn’t. If McCallister were out, she would have told me to turn around and not waste my time. That meant the man had to be here somewhere.
I was contemplating heading into the morgue proper when McCallister slammed his hand into the glass door, shoving it open. Eyes narrowed and mouth twisted into a thin, drawn line, he said, “I’m trying to work, Detective. These interruptions aren’t conducive to that process.”
I raised an eyebrow but kept my immediate, highly sarcastic remark to myself. “Sorry for the interruption, Doc.”
McCallister waved me off. It was odd, seeing him without his glasses. I realized it made his face a little unrecognizable, or maybe just different enough that it wasn’t familiar. The sleeves of his white work jacket were rolled up. McCallister removed his gloves, making asnapas they released his flesh.
“Did you get a new jacket?” I asked, suddenly preoccupied with how his white work jacket no longer swamped his slender body. McCallister had always struck me as a little boy playing dress-up in his father’s lab jacket. Given the tightness around his exposed forearm, that no longer appeared to be the case.
Tugging the sleeve down, McCallister gave a hasty nod. “Yes. I do have a clothing allowance written within my contract. I can get new work clothes when necessary.”
My left eyebrow rose to meet my right one. I’d always found Dr. Morgan McCallister a bit on the prickly side, but this was a new level of agitation I wasn’t used to.
Deciding small talk wasn’t the path to success, I got to the point. “I received your autopsy report on Rebecca Mosely.”
Finally pushing through the door and standing fully in the reception area, McCallister shoved his hands into his deep pockets. If anything, he appeared even more irritated than before.
“And?” he asked, tapping his foot.
“AndI find it difficult to believe that’s all there is to it. Heart failure?” I flipped through the folder containing the report. I’d brought it with me as evidence. It was woefully short. “What caused the heart failure?”
McCallister shrugged as his gaze drifted to the side. “No idea,” he answered.
