wire fence abutted against the post at the right of the entrance. Ignoring a faded NO TRESPASSING sign, he climbed to the other side. The rickety barrier swayed under him, suggesting the whole thing might soon collapse, maintenance obviously no longer a priority.
He started along the center hump between two little-used ruts, resuming the same jogging pace as before. The falling snow disappeared as soon as it hit the bare earth, and in the brittle undergrowth of wild grasses that lined a shallow ditch on either side it collected around the roots like frizzy bits of fluff before melting. The sight made him feel slightly forlorn, not an unusual emotion at this time of year; he preferred it when everything finally turned white and Christmassy. Lately, though, as the change of season drove away the summer crowd and emptied the countryside, instead of enjoying the drop in his workload, he sometimes felt left behind. The sensation, when it occurred, puzzled him. He had nowhere else he wanted to live or work. No matter. Whatever it was that disquieted him, he figured it couldn’t be what he’d seen happen to Dan and others. He just wasn’t the type to get bushed.
Deeper into the woods the russet foliage of ancient giant oaks intertwined to form a thatched arch high above his head and cast a further layer of shadow over the thickening dusk, forcing him to watch his step.
In the far distance he heard the “Boom! Boom! Boom!” of rifle shots.
“God, I hate hunting season,” he said out loud. He’d not worn the prescribed orange vest or gaudy cap, so he began to whistle at full volume between breaths, figuring that making a lot of noise was his best protection against being mistaken for a deer. Every November he and Dan hauled out some poor Joe who had a stray bullet or crossbow arrow in him. He medevacked the living by helicopter to the nearest trauma center, usually Albany; but sometimes, when patient volume at local facilities made them too busy, he had to ride with the victim, fighting to keep him stable all the way to New York City and his old alma mater, NYCH. The dead they body-bagged and sent to Blair’s.
He rounded a bend and stepped out of the shadows into a clearing the size of a baseball field. At its center stood the lifeless hulk of the building. Made of stone and four stories tall, it had the dimensions of a medium-sized apartment block and had most of its windows punched out. Not even falling snow in twilight could soften the dreariness.
He hadn’t been here since sneaking in with friends when they were kids. They’d deemed it “haunted” back then and prowled the dark corridors as a rite of passage. Even a few of the broken panes were their doing. The rest had been target practice for the crowd that roamed the woods at this time each year.
Might as well take a look,
he thought, not that he expected the reason for his father’s interest in the place to jump out at him. But as coroner he’d learned the value of visiting a site. Every place had a feel to it, and sometimes the physical layout of a building spoke to him. It didn’t necessarily give answers, but often begged specific questions – Who was here? And why? What were they doing? How did their presence relate to the death under investigation? And in forensics, like medicine, the first step in solving a problem was asking the right question.
He started across the open space, pushing through the bare branches of bushes and saplings that were waist high. These soon gave way to a field of spindly grass up to his knees. Dormant like everything else and beige in color, it appeared to have once been a lawn that had long since gone to seed. Several medium-sized trees dotted the area.
He mounted a half dozen stone steps and stood in front of a massive wooden door suitable for a cathedral. He gave the ornate handle a jerk. Locked solid, just as it always had been.
No matter,
he thought, walking over to the broken window he and his pals had used.
He started along the center hump between two little-used ruts, resuming the same jogging pace as before. The falling snow disappeared as soon as it hit the bare earth, and in the brittle undergrowth of wild grasses that lined a shallow ditch on either side it collected around the roots like frizzy bits of fluff before melting. The sight made him feel slightly forlorn, not an unusual emotion at this time of year; he preferred it when everything finally turned white and Christmassy. Lately, though, as the change of season drove away the summer crowd and emptied the countryside, instead of enjoying the drop in his workload, he sometimes felt left behind. The sensation, when it occurred, puzzled him. He had nowhere else he wanted to live or work. No matter. Whatever it was that disquieted him, he figured it couldn’t be what he’d seen happen to Dan and others. He just wasn’t the type to get bushed.
Deeper into the woods the russet foliage of ancient giant oaks intertwined to form a thatched arch high above his head and cast a further layer of shadow over the thickening dusk, forcing him to watch his step.
In the far distance he heard the “Boom! Boom! Boom!” of rifle shots.
“God, I hate hunting season,” he said out loud. He’d not worn the prescribed orange vest or gaudy cap, so he began to whistle at full volume between breaths, figuring that making a lot of noise was his best protection against being mistaken for a deer. Every November he and Dan hauled out some poor Joe who had a stray bullet or crossbow arrow in him. He medevacked the living by helicopter to the nearest trauma center, usually Albany; but sometimes, when patient volume at local facilities made them too busy, he had to ride with the victim, fighting to keep him stable all the way to New York City and his old alma mater, NYCH. The dead they body-bagged and sent to Blair’s.
He rounded a bend and stepped out of the shadows into a clearing the size of a baseball field. At its center stood the lifeless hulk of the building. Made of stone and four stories tall, it had the dimensions of a medium-sized apartment block and had most of its windows punched out. Not even falling snow in twilight could soften the dreariness.
He hadn’t been here since sneaking in with friends when they were kids. They’d deemed it “haunted” back then and prowled the dark corridors as a rite of passage. Even a few of the broken panes were their doing. The rest had been target practice for the crowd that roamed the woods at this time each year.
Might as well take a look,
he thought, not that he expected the reason for his father’s interest in the place to jump out at him. But as coroner he’d learned the value of visiting a site. Every place had a feel to it, and sometimes the physical layout of a building spoke to him. It didn’t necessarily give answers, but often begged specific questions – Who was here? And why? What were they doing? How did their presence relate to the death under investigation? And in forensics, like medicine, the first step in solving a problem was asking the right question.
He started across the open space, pushing through the bare branches of bushes and saplings that were waist high. These soon gave way to a field of spindly grass up to his knees. Dormant like everything else and beige in color, it appeared to have once been a lawn that had long since gone to seed. Several medium-sized trees dotted the area.
He mounted a half dozen stone steps and stood in front of a massive wooden door suitable for a cathedral. He gave the ornate handle a jerk. Locked solid, just as it always had been.
No matter,
he thought, walking over to the broken window he and his pals had used.
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