supposed to be routine anyway.”
McGee gives me a nod with a rare and crooked grin, displaying two decades of military dentistry.
SEVEN
A T THREE O ' CLOCK we drive out to the county coroner's office in the basement of Ivinson Memorial Hospital. The coroner himself, Dr. Jim Gustavson, meets us in the narrow lobby. Apparently the job in a small town like Laramie doesn't require a receptionist. Nor does it require a full-time coroner—on the way over, McGee told me that Gustavson works part-time as a mortician. He is a small, bald man with the sort of pasty complexion you would expect from someone whose professional life is spent among the dead. The white hospital smock he wears is stained with dried blood and other unidentifiable bits of gore. There is a nauseating chemical smell about him. He introduces himself to me without offering a hand and hellos McGee in a casual way. They've apparently met before. It sounds to me as if they are professional acquaintances rather than friends.
“Come on around, gentlemen. I'm finishing up a little project in back.”
I follow them past the unmanned counter and through a pair of metal doors into a room with a single stainless-steel table. The air in it is cold. It stinks of death. Cluttered shelves line the walls above long counters except for one side, where the entire wall is taken up by large, square doors, each about the size of a coffin. It looks like some sort of enormous filing cabinet. McGee had warned me that the coroner would want to talk in the cutting room. “The prick likes to keep you off-balance . . . when you question his incompetence. . . . A typical friggin' ghoul's ploy.”
A twisted corpse lies naked on the table. I look away from it quickly, but McGee limps right up and examines it with a critical eye.
“Car accident?” he asks, puffing hard from the short walk.
“Right. The boy was sixteen. He lost control of his car out on 287—driving far too fast, of course. He was sideways across the highway when the eighteen-wheeler caught him. See the bumper imprints where it came through the top of the door and crushed his chest? You can read the license-plate number there. His parents will never have to ask if anyone got the number of the truck that hit him.” The coroner chuckles as he makes the feeble joke. Neither McGee nor I join in.
I spot a counter along the wall that doesn't look as if it has any body parts or blood spatters on it and place my briefcase there. Opening it, I take out the file on Kate Danning and spread it on the counter. I don't want to be in the same room with the corpse any longer than I have to, so I interrupt McGee and the coroner as they study the body.
“Dr. Gustavson, I'm hoping you can answer a couple of questions about Kate Danning's autopsy. You did the cut on her Monday, right?”
“Oh yes, just three days ago. She was a pretty girl, at least before she landed on those rocks. I actually know her parents.”
“As Sheriff Willis probably told you, I'm looking into it as a routine inquiry. There's a potential conflict of interest because the County Attorney's son is the primary witness. Do you know him?”
Gustavson chuckles. “Who, the County Attorney? I see him almost every day.”
I suppress the urge to roll my eyes. I can already tell this guy's going to jerk me around. “The kid, Dr. Gustavson.”
“Sure, I've met the boy several times over the years. Nice young man. I saw him just the other day at the funeral. He looked devastated.”
That doesn't quite match with how I'd seen him at the bar. I remember him ignoring my wave when Lynn pointed him out. He was with the other climbers at the table, laughing and spraying beer from his mouth, just one day after his girlfriend's funeral.
“I just wanted to ask you about the injury to the back of her skull. Do you know what caused it?”
The coroner looks at me as if I'm dim-witted, and then looks at McGee and smiles. “She fell off a cliff, Agent Burns.”
I'm
McGee gives me a nod with a rare and crooked grin, displaying two decades of military dentistry.
SEVEN
A T THREE O ' CLOCK we drive out to the county coroner's office in the basement of Ivinson Memorial Hospital. The coroner himself, Dr. Jim Gustavson, meets us in the narrow lobby. Apparently the job in a small town like Laramie doesn't require a receptionist. Nor does it require a full-time coroner—on the way over, McGee told me that Gustavson works part-time as a mortician. He is a small, bald man with the sort of pasty complexion you would expect from someone whose professional life is spent among the dead. The white hospital smock he wears is stained with dried blood and other unidentifiable bits of gore. There is a nauseating chemical smell about him. He introduces himself to me without offering a hand and hellos McGee in a casual way. They've apparently met before. It sounds to me as if they are professional acquaintances rather than friends.
“Come on around, gentlemen. I'm finishing up a little project in back.”
I follow them past the unmanned counter and through a pair of metal doors into a room with a single stainless-steel table. The air in it is cold. It stinks of death. Cluttered shelves line the walls above long counters except for one side, where the entire wall is taken up by large, square doors, each about the size of a coffin. It looks like some sort of enormous filing cabinet. McGee had warned me that the coroner would want to talk in the cutting room. “The prick likes to keep you off-balance . . . when you question his incompetence. . . . A typical friggin' ghoul's ploy.”
A twisted corpse lies naked on the table. I look away from it quickly, but McGee limps right up and examines it with a critical eye.
“Car accident?” he asks, puffing hard from the short walk.
“Right. The boy was sixteen. He lost control of his car out on 287—driving far too fast, of course. He was sideways across the highway when the eighteen-wheeler caught him. See the bumper imprints where it came through the top of the door and crushed his chest? You can read the license-plate number there. His parents will never have to ask if anyone got the number of the truck that hit him.” The coroner chuckles as he makes the feeble joke. Neither McGee nor I join in.
I spot a counter along the wall that doesn't look as if it has any body parts or blood spatters on it and place my briefcase there. Opening it, I take out the file on Kate Danning and spread it on the counter. I don't want to be in the same room with the corpse any longer than I have to, so I interrupt McGee and the coroner as they study the body.
“Dr. Gustavson, I'm hoping you can answer a couple of questions about Kate Danning's autopsy. You did the cut on her Monday, right?”
“Oh yes, just three days ago. She was a pretty girl, at least before she landed on those rocks. I actually know her parents.”
“As Sheriff Willis probably told you, I'm looking into it as a routine inquiry. There's a potential conflict of interest because the County Attorney's son is the primary witness. Do you know him?”
Gustavson chuckles. “Who, the County Attorney? I see him almost every day.”
I suppress the urge to roll my eyes. I can already tell this guy's going to jerk me around. “The kid, Dr. Gustavson.”
“Sure, I've met the boy several times over the years. Nice young man. I saw him just the other day at the funeral. He looked devastated.”
That doesn't quite match with how I'd seen him at the bar. I remember him ignoring my wave when Lynn pointed him out. He was with the other climbers at the table, laughing and spraying beer from his mouth, just one day after his girlfriend's funeral.
“I just wanted to ask you about the injury to the back of her skull. Do you know what caused it?”
The coroner looks at me as if I'm dim-witted, and then looks at McGee and smiles. “She fell off a cliff, Agent Burns.”
I'm
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