waist.
“He’s a John Doe,” Skitch said, reading from a file. “His
body washed ashore down at the Pelican Street Pier. His wallet was missing and
there’s been no sign of his fishing gear, either. The cops have labeled his
death a robbery-homicide.” He looked up with a glitter of amusement in his eyes.
“Get that. Piracy on the high seas.”
“Let’s do the external.” Emma kept her voice low so Skitch
wouldn’t hear the quaver in it. “The deceased is a white male, approximately
sixty years old. Weight is…” She glanced at the scale. “Two-hundred-ten pounds.”
“No marks on his chest or arms.” Sober once more, Skitch put
the file on a side table. “His torso appears swollen, though and his flesh is
discolored. Looks like he was in the water a while so that weight probably isn’t
accurate.”
Emma took a deep breath. Nothing unusual had happened. She’d
been in the autopsy suite with the body for almost five minutes now and nothing
had happened. Nothing was going to happen.
She gestured toward the neck of the deceased man. “There’s
bruising along both sides of the throat. Looks like it might extend around the
back. Let’s take a look.”
As Skitch lifted the man’s head, Emma adjusted one of the
overhead lights and then leaned down. “Trauma to the back of the head. See the
bleeding? The blow was obviously a precursor to death.”
Studying the wound, Skitch nodded. “Could have been
accidental or intentional.”
“We’ll get back to it after we finish the external body
check.” Straightening, Emma pulled the sheet further down and did a visual
inspection of the front of the dead man’s body.
“No obvious signs of anything else abnormal.” She placed one
hand on the man’s left ankle to examine the suppleness of his skin.
“Of course not. I slipped, that’s all.”
The hoarse voice snapped Emma’s head up. She stumbled back
several steps, her gaze riveted on the middle-aged man standing on the other
side of the autopsy table.
Raising both hands to her chest, she choked out, “Skitch!”
Still standing near the dead man’s head, Skitch looked up at
her and frowned. “Something wrong, Doc?”
Emma’s heart slammed into her ribs and she gave her
assistant a disbelieving stare. “Is something wrong?”
“He can’t see me, Dr. St. Clair,” the man said. “I’m here to
talk to you.”
Emma’s stare swung back to the stocky figure standing less
than two feet from Skitch. Garbed in baggy, faded blue jeans and a lightweight,
long-sleeved cotton shirt with a fishing vest and hat, he looked like a
weathered old fisherman.
She looked back at the corpse on the table. This weathered old fisherman, she realized with another jolt of panic.
“My name is Robert Harris.”
As he spoke again, Emma tried to calm down. She forced
herself to study the figure, to determine if he was more than a figment of her
imagination. Although she could see every detail of his form and features—down
to the feathers on the lures attached to his vest—there was something
insubstantial about him. She realized abruptly that she could see through him.
The temperature of the air around her dropped several
degrees, chilling her to the deepest marrow of her bones.
“Doc?” Skitch moved down the table and his right arm swung
through the figure.
Emma pushed up her face shield, squeezed her eyes shut and
then opened them again. The man—the image—still stood to the left of Skitch.
“Doc, you don’t look good.” Skitch rubbed his right arm. “Of
course that could be because it’s so dang cold in here.”
“I want someone to know what happened.” The faint figure of
the man settled his arms across his chest. “There ain’t nobody to blame for
this ’cept me.”
Skitch came around the table to where Emma stood, still
staring. “Maybe you ought to sit down,” he said.
“I had a few beers,” the figure went on, talking slower and
with a little difficulty. “I stood up to
“He’s a John Doe,” Skitch said, reading from a file. “His
body washed ashore down at the Pelican Street Pier. His wallet was missing and
there’s been no sign of his fishing gear, either. The cops have labeled his
death a robbery-homicide.” He looked up with a glitter of amusement in his eyes.
“Get that. Piracy on the high seas.”
“Let’s do the external.” Emma kept her voice low so Skitch
wouldn’t hear the quaver in it. “The deceased is a white male, approximately
sixty years old. Weight is…” She glanced at the scale. “Two-hundred-ten pounds.”
“No marks on his chest or arms.” Sober once more, Skitch put
the file on a side table. “His torso appears swollen, though and his flesh is
discolored. Looks like he was in the water a while so that weight probably isn’t
accurate.”
Emma took a deep breath. Nothing unusual had happened. She’d
been in the autopsy suite with the body for almost five minutes now and nothing
had happened. Nothing was going to happen.
She gestured toward the neck of the deceased man. “There’s
bruising along both sides of the throat. Looks like it might extend around the
back. Let’s take a look.”
As Skitch lifted the man’s head, Emma adjusted one of the
overhead lights and then leaned down. “Trauma to the back of the head. See the
bleeding? The blow was obviously a precursor to death.”
Studying the wound, Skitch nodded. “Could have been
accidental or intentional.”
“We’ll get back to it after we finish the external body
check.” Straightening, Emma pulled the sheet further down and did a visual
inspection of the front of the dead man’s body.
“No obvious signs of anything else abnormal.” She placed one
hand on the man’s left ankle to examine the suppleness of his skin.
“Of course not. I slipped, that’s all.”
The hoarse voice snapped Emma’s head up. She stumbled back
several steps, her gaze riveted on the middle-aged man standing on the other
side of the autopsy table.
Raising both hands to her chest, she choked out, “Skitch!”
Still standing near the dead man’s head, Skitch looked up at
her and frowned. “Something wrong, Doc?”
Emma’s heart slammed into her ribs and she gave her
assistant a disbelieving stare. “Is something wrong?”
“He can’t see me, Dr. St. Clair,” the man said. “I’m here to
talk to you.”
Emma’s stare swung back to the stocky figure standing less
than two feet from Skitch. Garbed in baggy, faded blue jeans and a lightweight,
long-sleeved cotton shirt with a fishing vest and hat, he looked like a
weathered old fisherman.
She looked back at the corpse on the table. This weathered old fisherman, she realized with another jolt of panic.
“My name is Robert Harris.”
As he spoke again, Emma tried to calm down. She forced
herself to study the figure, to determine if he was more than a figment of her
imagination. Although she could see every detail of his form and features—down
to the feathers on the lures attached to his vest—there was something
insubstantial about him. She realized abruptly that she could see through him.
The temperature of the air around her dropped several
degrees, chilling her to the deepest marrow of her bones.
“Doc?” Skitch moved down the table and his right arm swung
through the figure.
Emma pushed up her face shield, squeezed her eyes shut and
then opened them again. The man—the image—still stood to the left of Skitch.
“Doc, you don’t look good.” Skitch rubbed his right arm. “Of
course that could be because it’s so dang cold in here.”
“I want someone to know what happened.” The faint figure of
the man settled his arms across his chest. “There ain’t nobody to blame for
this ’cept me.”
Skitch came around the table to where Emma stood, still
staring. “Maybe you ought to sit down,” he said.
“I had a few beers,” the figure went on, talking slower and
with a little difficulty. “I stood up to
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