outrage, their rivalry was temporarily forgotten.
Dr. Isles inserted a cotton swab into the vagina, smeared it across a microscope slide, and set the slide on a tray. Next she took a rectal swab, which would also be analyzed for the presence of sperm. When she’d completed the collection and Gail Yeager’s legs were once again lying straight on the table, Rizzoli felt as though the worst was over. Even as Isles started the Y incision, cutting diagonally from the right shoulder down to the lower end of the sternum, Rizzoli thought that nothing could surpass the indignity of what had already been done to this victim.
Isles was just about to cut a matching incision from the left shoulder when Dean said, “What about the vaginal smear?”
“The slides will go to the crime lab,” said Dr. Isles.
“Aren’t you going to do a wet prep?”
“The lab can identify sperm perfectly well on a dry slide.”
“This is your only chance to examine the fresh specimen.”
Dr. Isles paused, scalpel tip poised over the skin, and gave Dean a puzzled look. Then she said to Yoshima, “Put a few drops of saline on that slide and slip it under the microscope. I’ll take a look in just a second.”
The abdominal incision came next, Dr. Isles’s scalpel slicing into the bloated belly. The stench of decomposing organs was suddenly more than Rizzoli could bear. She lurched away and stood gagging over the sink, regretting that she had so foolishly tried to prove her own fortitude. She wondered if Agent Dean was watching her now and feeling any sense of superiority. She had not seen Vicks glistening on
his
upper lip. She kept her back turned to the table and listened, rather than watched, as the autopsy proceeded behind her. She heard the air blowing steadily through the ventilation system and water gurgling and the clang of metal instruments.
Then she heard Yoshima call out, in a startled voice, “Dr. Isles?”
“Yes?”
“I’ve got the slide under the scope, and…”
“Is there sperm?”
“You really need to see this for yourself.”
Her nausea fading, Rizzoli turned to watch as Isles peeled off her gloves and sat down at the microscope. Yoshima hovered over her as she gazed into the eyepiece.
“Do you see them?” he asked.
“Yes,” she murmured. She sat back, looking stunned. She turned to Rizzoli. “The body was found around two P.M.?”
“About then.”
“And it’s now nine P.M.—”
“Well, is there sperm or not?” cut in Korsak.
“Yes, there’s sperm,” said Isles. “And it’s motile.”
Korsak frowned. “Meaning what? Like it’s
moving
?”
“Yes. It’s moving.”
A silence dropped over the room. The significance of this finding had startled them all.
“How long does sperm stay motile?” asked Rizzoli.
“It depends on the environment.”
“How long?”
“After ejaculation, they can remain motile for one or two days. At least half of the sperm under that microscope are moving. This is fresh ejaculate. Probably no more than a day old.”
“And how long has the victim been dead?” asked Dean.
“Based on her vitreous potassium levels, which I drew about five hours ago, she’s been dead at least sixty hours.”
Another silence passed. Rizzoli saw the same conclusion register on everyone’s faces. She looked at Gail Yeager, who now lay with torso split open, organs bared. Hand clapped to her mouth, Rizzoli spun toward the sink. For the first time in her career as a cop, Jane Rizzoli was sick.
“He knew,” said Korsak. “That son of a bitch
knew
.”
They stood together in the parking lot behind the M.E.‘s building, the tip of Korsak’s cigarette glowing orange. After the chill air of the autopsy room, it almost felt good to be bathed in the steam of a summer night, to escape the harsh procedure lights and retreat into this cloak of darkness. She had been humiliated by her display of weakness, humiliated most of all that Agent Dean was there to see it. At least he’d
Dr. Isles inserted a cotton swab into the vagina, smeared it across a microscope slide, and set the slide on a tray. Next she took a rectal swab, which would also be analyzed for the presence of sperm. When she’d completed the collection and Gail Yeager’s legs were once again lying straight on the table, Rizzoli felt as though the worst was over. Even as Isles started the Y incision, cutting diagonally from the right shoulder down to the lower end of the sternum, Rizzoli thought that nothing could surpass the indignity of what had already been done to this victim.
Isles was just about to cut a matching incision from the left shoulder when Dean said, “What about the vaginal smear?”
“The slides will go to the crime lab,” said Dr. Isles.
“Aren’t you going to do a wet prep?”
“The lab can identify sperm perfectly well on a dry slide.”
“This is your only chance to examine the fresh specimen.”
Dr. Isles paused, scalpel tip poised over the skin, and gave Dean a puzzled look. Then she said to Yoshima, “Put a few drops of saline on that slide and slip it under the microscope. I’ll take a look in just a second.”
The abdominal incision came next, Dr. Isles’s scalpel slicing into the bloated belly. The stench of decomposing organs was suddenly more than Rizzoli could bear. She lurched away and stood gagging over the sink, regretting that she had so foolishly tried to prove her own fortitude. She wondered if Agent Dean was watching her now and feeling any sense of superiority. She had not seen Vicks glistening on
his
upper lip. She kept her back turned to the table and listened, rather than watched, as the autopsy proceeded behind her. She heard the air blowing steadily through the ventilation system and water gurgling and the clang of metal instruments.
Then she heard Yoshima call out, in a startled voice, “Dr. Isles?”
“Yes?”
“I’ve got the slide under the scope, and…”
“Is there sperm?”
“You really need to see this for yourself.”
Her nausea fading, Rizzoli turned to watch as Isles peeled off her gloves and sat down at the microscope. Yoshima hovered over her as she gazed into the eyepiece.
“Do you see them?” he asked.
“Yes,” she murmured. She sat back, looking stunned. She turned to Rizzoli. “The body was found around two P.M.?”
“About then.”
“And it’s now nine P.M.—”
“Well, is there sperm or not?” cut in Korsak.
“Yes, there’s sperm,” said Isles. “And it’s motile.”
Korsak frowned. “Meaning what? Like it’s
moving
?”
“Yes. It’s moving.”
A silence dropped over the room. The significance of this finding had startled them all.
“How long does sperm stay motile?” asked Rizzoli.
“It depends on the environment.”
“How long?”
“After ejaculation, they can remain motile for one or two days. At least half of the sperm under that microscope are moving. This is fresh ejaculate. Probably no more than a day old.”
“And how long has the victim been dead?” asked Dean.
“Based on her vitreous potassium levels, which I drew about five hours ago, she’s been dead at least sixty hours.”
Another silence passed. Rizzoli saw the same conclusion register on everyone’s faces. She looked at Gail Yeager, who now lay with torso split open, organs bared. Hand clapped to her mouth, Rizzoli spun toward the sink. For the first time in her career as a cop, Jane Rizzoli was sick.
“He knew,” said Korsak. “That son of a bitch
knew
.”
They stood together in the parking lot behind the M.E.‘s building, the tip of Korsak’s cigarette glowing orange. After the chill air of the autopsy room, it almost felt good to be bathed in the steam of a summer night, to escape the harsh procedure lights and retreat into this cloak of darkness. She had been humiliated by her display of weakness, humiliated most of all that Agent Dean was there to see it. At least he’d
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