Page 20 of Evil Bones
“And?”
“We took videos and stills and the techs collected everything that looked suspicious. I did the overseeing. Which was about as much fun as fuc—”
“Where are the remains now?”
“Making their way to the morgue.”
“Thanks, detective. You did good.”
Not at all sure that he had.
The Mecklenburg County Medical Examiner used to be housed in uptown Charlotte, an easy ten-minute drive from the Annex. The facility is now located farther out on Reno Avenue, so the trip from Weddington took almost an hour.
That’s where my mind was. Tallying lost minutes like a taximeter tallies up miles.
Anyway, it was after four by the time I pulled in behind the building, a featureless box with all the architectural whimsy of a Stalinist apartment block. One upside. The structure is surrounded by enough asphalt to pave Cincinnati, so I lost no time searching for a parking place.
I killed the engine, and we got out of my car.
Yeah, we. To my surprise, Balodis had offered to accompany me.
During the trip, I’d explained that the cops were now involved in investigating the animal killings. Balodis nodded sadly, then asked if the lab would allow him access to a laptop and scanner.
Assuring him those items would be available, I asked why they might be needed. He responded with a single word. “Chip.”
My car’s AC tries hard but often fails to live up to its job description. Nevertheless, emerging from the semi-cooled auto interior was like entering a plasma field around a black hole. Heat rose from the pavement in rippling waves, creating the illusion that my sneakers were underwater.
The lot held few vehicles that late in the day. An ancient black Chevy suggested that Joe Hawkins, the oldest of the death investigators, was still clocked in. Nguyen’s Volvo was nowhere to be seen.
Balodis and I mounted a few stairs and entered the eco-friendly brick building through centrally positioned doors and crossed to a reception window on the left. A woman, aptly named Mrs. Flowers, beamed us all the way to the glass. Her over-bleached hair was permed into curls tight enough to cushion the reentry of a Titan 2 missile. Her teeth weren’t great.
Mrs. Flowers had been a fixture at the MCME for as long as I’d worked there. When first we’d met, I’d guessed that she was pushing sixty. The severe perm. The wonky dentition. Actually, she hadn’t yet closed out her forties.
Of late, Mrs. Flowers was in what I thought of as her “blush” phase. Today’s cardigan was a shade of pink that matched the rosy flamingos in her shirtwaist dress. Her nails featured a polish probably named Miami Beach Sunset.
“Dr. Brennan.” Vowels broader than grits and pecan pie. “What a lovely surprise.”
“Something came up unexpectedly.”
“Involving another unfortunate pooch?”
“Mm.”
“My goodness, it’s hot out today.”
“It is,” I agreed.
Mrs. Flowers’s eyes drifted to Balodis. Returned to me.
I asked what number had been assigned to my new case.
The Beach Sunset nails worked a keyboard.
“MCME-727-25.”
“Joe is still here?”
“He is, but I believe he’s preparing to depart.”
