bloated, it appeared to be in the advanced stages of pregnancy. Fluid-filled blisters ballooned beneath the skin, lifting it from the dermis in papery sheets. Skin was peeling away entirely from areas of the torso and had bunched like wrinkled parchment under the breasts.
Rizzoli noted that the fingerpads had been inked. “You’ve already taken prints.”
“Just before you got here,” said Dr. Isles, her attention focused on the tray of instruments that Yoshima had just wheeled to the table. The dead interested Isles more than the living did, and she was oblivious, as usual, to the emotional tensions vibrating in the room.
“What about the hands? Before you inked them?”
Agent Dean said, “We’ve completed the external exam. The skin’s been sticky-taped for fibers, and the nail clippings have been collected.”
“And when did
you
get here, Agent Dean?”
“He was here before me, too,” said Korsak. “I guess some of us rate higher on the food chain.”
If Korsak’s comment was meant to feed her irritation, it worked. A victim’s fingernails may harbor bits of skin clawed from the attacker. Hair or fibers may be clutched in a closed fist. The examination of the victim’s hands was a crucial step in the autopsy, and she had missed it.
But Dean had not.
“We already have a positive I.D.,” said Isles. “Gail Yeager’s dental X-rays are up on the light box.”
Rizzoli crossed to the light box and studied the series of small films clipped there. Teeth glowed like a row of ghostly headstones on the film’s black background.
“Mrs. Yeager’s dentist did some crown work on her last year. You can see it there. The gold crown is number twenty on the periapical series. Also, she had silver amalgam fillings in numbers three, fourteen, and twenty-nine.”
“It’s a match?”
Dr. Isles nodded. “I have no doubt these are the remains of Gail Yeager.”
Rizzoli turned back to the body on the table, her gaze falling on the ring of bruises around the throat. “Did you X-ray the neck?”
“Yes. There are bilateral thyroid horn fractures. Consistent with manual strangulation.” Isles turned to Yoshima, whose silent and ghostly efficiency sometimes made one forget he was even in the room. “Let’s get her into position for the vaginal swabs.”
What followed next struck Rizzoli as the worst indignity that could befall a woman’s mortal remains. It was worse than the gutting open of the belly, worse than the resection of heart and lungs. Yoshima maneuvered the flaccid legs into a froglike position, spreading the thighs wide for the pelvic exam.
“Excuse me, Detective?” Yoshima said to Korsak, who was standing closest to Gail Yeager’s left thigh. “Could you hold that leg in position?”
Korsak stared at him in horror. “Me?”
“Just keep the knee flexed like that, so we can collect the swabs.”
Reluctantly Korsak reached for the corpse’s thigh, then jerked back as a layer of skin peeled off in his gloved hand. “Christ. Aw, Christ.”
“The skin’s going to slip, no matter what you do. If you could just hold the leg open, okay?”
Korsak let out a sharp breath. Through the stench of the room, Rizzoli caught a whiff of Vicks menthol. Korsak, at least, had not been too proud to dab it on his upper lip. Grimacing, he grabbed the thigh and rotated it sideways, exposing Gail Yeager’s genitalia. “Like this is gonna make sex real appealing from now on,” he muttered.
Dr. Isles directed the exam light onto the perineum. Gently she spread apart the swollen labia to reveal the introitus. Rizzoli, stoic as she was, could not bear to watch this grotesque invasion, and she turned away.
Her gaze met Gabriel Dean’s.
Up till that moment, he had been observing the proceedings with quiet detachment. But at that instant, she saw anger in his eyes. It was the same rage she now felt toward the man who had brought Gail Yeager to this ultimate degradation. Staring at each other in shared
Rizzoli noted that the fingerpads had been inked. “You’ve already taken prints.”
“Just before you got here,” said Dr. Isles, her attention focused on the tray of instruments that Yoshima had just wheeled to the table. The dead interested Isles more than the living did, and she was oblivious, as usual, to the emotional tensions vibrating in the room.
“What about the hands? Before you inked them?”
Agent Dean said, “We’ve completed the external exam. The skin’s been sticky-taped for fibers, and the nail clippings have been collected.”
“And when did
you
get here, Agent Dean?”
“He was here before me, too,” said Korsak. “I guess some of us rate higher on the food chain.”
If Korsak’s comment was meant to feed her irritation, it worked. A victim’s fingernails may harbor bits of skin clawed from the attacker. Hair or fibers may be clutched in a closed fist. The examination of the victim’s hands was a crucial step in the autopsy, and she had missed it.
But Dean had not.
“We already have a positive I.D.,” said Isles. “Gail Yeager’s dental X-rays are up on the light box.”
Rizzoli crossed to the light box and studied the series of small films clipped there. Teeth glowed like a row of ghostly headstones on the film’s black background.
“Mrs. Yeager’s dentist did some crown work on her last year. You can see it there. The gold crown is number twenty on the periapical series. Also, she had silver amalgam fillings in numbers three, fourteen, and twenty-nine.”
“It’s a match?”
Dr. Isles nodded. “I have no doubt these are the remains of Gail Yeager.”
Rizzoli turned back to the body on the table, her gaze falling on the ring of bruises around the throat. “Did you X-ray the neck?”
“Yes. There are bilateral thyroid horn fractures. Consistent with manual strangulation.” Isles turned to Yoshima, whose silent and ghostly efficiency sometimes made one forget he was even in the room. “Let’s get her into position for the vaginal swabs.”
What followed next struck Rizzoli as the worst indignity that could befall a woman’s mortal remains. It was worse than the gutting open of the belly, worse than the resection of heart and lungs. Yoshima maneuvered the flaccid legs into a froglike position, spreading the thighs wide for the pelvic exam.
“Excuse me, Detective?” Yoshima said to Korsak, who was standing closest to Gail Yeager’s left thigh. “Could you hold that leg in position?”
Korsak stared at him in horror. “Me?”
“Just keep the knee flexed like that, so we can collect the swabs.”
Reluctantly Korsak reached for the corpse’s thigh, then jerked back as a layer of skin peeled off in his gloved hand. “Christ. Aw, Christ.”
“The skin’s going to slip, no matter what you do. If you could just hold the leg open, okay?”
Korsak let out a sharp breath. Through the stench of the room, Rizzoli caught a whiff of Vicks menthol. Korsak, at least, had not been too proud to dab it on his upper lip. Grimacing, he grabbed the thigh and rotated it sideways, exposing Gail Yeager’s genitalia. “Like this is gonna make sex real appealing from now on,” he muttered.
Dr. Isles directed the exam light onto the perineum. Gently she spread apart the swollen labia to reveal the introitus. Rizzoli, stoic as she was, could not bear to watch this grotesque invasion, and she turned away.
Her gaze met Gabriel Dean’s.
Up till that moment, he had been observing the proceedings with quiet detachment. But at that instant, she saw anger in his eyes. It was the same rage she now felt toward the man who had brought Gail Yeager to this ultimate degradation. Staring at each other in shared
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