Page 10 of Dirty Valentine
He wore no jewelry, not even a wedding ring, though there was a pale band of skin around his ring finger that showed he recently had.
“No wallet or identification left at the scene,” I said into the recorder.“Missing wedding ring indicates the ring could have been taken along with the wallet.Or victim could have been recently separated.”
Was someone wondering where he was right now, when he’d be coming home?I pushed the thought away and continued my examination.Emotion had no place during an autopsy.Pregnancy hormones had made autopsies challenging recently, and I’d found myself more than once crying over things I’d never shed a tear over before.
“No obvious external trauma visible,” I continued, moving the recorder closer as I worked.“No defensive wounds on hands or arms.No ligature marks on wrists or ankles.Subject appears to have been positioned postmortem rather than restrained prior to death.”
The lack of obvious injury was both a relief and a concern.Relief because it meant his death hadn’t involved prolonged suffering.Concern because it made determining cause of death infinitely more complicated.
I moved to the computer and pulled up the preliminary toxicology request form, checking off the standard panels.He had no traces of alcohol or any substances in his system.Not even over-the-counter medicine.If someone had poisoned him it wouldn’t show up here.The problem with poison was you had to know what the exact poison was before you tested for it, so you could order the right test.I hated deaths where poison was involved.It made my job much harder.
I took x-rays, but there was nothing out of the ordinary—a childhood break in his left ulna based on the remodeling, and a more recent break in his distal radius on the same side.
The Y-incision came next—the moment when external examination gave way to the deeper secrets held within.I picked up my scalpel, the familiar weight of it steady in my hand, and made the first cut from shoulder to sternum.
Norah Jones crooned softly about dreams and longing as I worked, her voice a gentle counterpoint to the clinical reality of blade meeting flesh.The music helped maintain the rhythm of the work, the meditative quality that allowed me to focus completely on what the body was telling me.
The heart told the story I’d been dreading.
“Significant cardiac abnormalities present,” I said into the recorder, leaning closer to examine the organ that had failed this man.“Heart shows evidence of acute cardiac arrest.Muscle tissue appears damaged in a pattern consistent with sudden, catastrophic failure.”
I photographed the heart from multiple angles, documenting the damage that had ended our victim’s life.
“No evidence of coronary artery disease,” I continued.“No blockages present.Subject’s cardiovascular system appears healthy for his age.”
That was the problem that would complicate everything.Healthy fifty-something-year-old men didn’t typically drop dead of heart attacks for no reason.
I continued the internal examination, checking liver, lungs, kidneys, brain—all the organs that might hold clues to what had killed him.Everything appeared normal, healthy, and consistent with a man who’d taken good care of himself.By all appearances he was fit, didn’t have wear on his liver from excessive drinking, and didn’t smoke.He’d obviously spent time outdoors and had the musculature of someone who spent time in the gym.By all appearances, he should have had years of life ahead of him.
A wave of nausea hit me suddenly, and I had to pause, gripping the edge of the examination table as my stomach churned.The antiseptic smell that usually didn’t bother me seemed overwhelming, mixing with the metallic scent of blood in a way that made my head spin.
I breathed through my mouth, waiting for the moment to pass.This was becoming a regular occurrence lately—my body’s reminder that I was no longer working for just myself.The life growing inside me was making its presence known in the most inconvenient moments.
After a few deep breaths, the nausea subsided enough for me to continue.I made a mental note to keep some crackers in the lab for moments like this.
The computer chimed softly as I was closing the incision, and I glanced over to see that the fingerprint analysis had completed.Results were already populating on the screen, pulling up records that would finally give our victim a name and a history.
“That was fast,” I said.“Victim’s prints readily available in AFIS.Thomas Andrew Whitman, age fifty-two.Resident of King George County.Married to Patricia Howe Whitman.No children.No criminal record, not even a parking ticket.”
The address made me pause.Whitman Lane, just outside Bloody Mary Proper.Whitman was an old King George family name—the kind that had roads and buildings named after them, whose ancestors were buried in the oldest sections of local cemeteries.Everyone in the county would recognize the name.
I printed out the identification results, my mind already turning over the implications.Thomas Whitman wasn’t just some random victim.He was local, with deep roots in the community.The question was whether that connection was coincidental or the very reason he’d been chosen.
I signed the autopsy report, listing the official cause of death as cardiac arrest under suspicious circumstances, and then I rolled Thomas into the refrigeration unit.
When I finally looked down at my phone, I saw that Jack had texted to let me know he was still at the cemetery.Perfect.I needed to see him in person, needed to share what I’d found and hear what else the team had discovered.
I secured the lab and grabbed my keys, the weight of unanswered questions heavy on my shoulders.
* * *
I was halfway to the mudroom when voices drifted from the front office—Lily’s laugh mixing with Sheldon’s earnest tenor in a way that suggested trouble was brewing.
“—telling you, she’s bad news,” Lily was saying as I rounded the corner.“Any woman who gets turned on by dead bodies has issues.”
It was rare to hear aggravation in Lily’s voice.She was one of the kindest and most even-tempered people I’d ever known.
“It’s not the dead bodies,” Sheldon protested, his voice taking on that defensive tone he used whenever someone questioned his judgment.“Leena appreciates the artistry of what we do here.She finds death fascinating.”
