sight of this victim, in the
scope of his experience, was not particularly shocking. He saw only a single entry wound that
tunneled into the left cheek; otherwise the features were intact. The man was in his thirties, with
neatly clipped dark hair and a muscular jaw. His brown eyes, exposed to air by partially open
lids, were already clouded. A name tag with PERRIN was clipped to the breast pocket of the
uniform. Staring at the table, what disturbed Gabriel most was not the gore or the sightless
eyes; it was the knowledge that the same weapon that had ended this man’s life was now
threatening Jane’s.
“We waited for you,” said Dr. Abe Bristol. “Maura thought you’d want to watch this from the
beginning.”
Gabriel looked at Maura, who was gowned and masked, but standing at the foot of the table,
and not at her usual place at the corpse’s right side. Every other time he’d entered this lab, she
had been the one in command, the one holding the knife. He was not accustomed to seeing her
cede control in the room where she usually reigned. “You’re not doing this postmortem?” he
asked.
“I can’t. I’m a witness to this man’s death,” said Maura. “Abe has to do this one.”
“And you still have no idea who he is?”
She shook her head. “There’s no hospital employee with the name Perrin. And the chief of
security came to view the body. He didn’t recognize this man.”
“Fingerprints?”
“We’ve sent his prints to AFIS. Nothing’s back on him so far. Or on the shooter’s
fingerprints, either.”
“So we’ve got a John Doe and a Jane Doe?” Gabriel stared at the corpse. “Who the hell are
these people?”
“Let’s get him undressed,” Abe said to Yoshima.
The two men removed the corpse’s shoes and socks, unbuckled the belt, and peeled off the
trousers, laying the items of clothing on a clean sheet. With gloved hands Abe searched the
pants pockets but found them empty. No comb, no wallet, no keys. “Not even any loose
change,” he noted.
“You’d think there’d be at least a spare dime or two,” said Yoshima.
“These pockets are clean.” Abe looked up. “Brand-new uniform?”
They turned their attention to the shirt. The fabric was now stiff with dried blood, and they had
to peel it away from the chest, revealing muscular pectorals and a thick mat of dark hair. And
scars. Thick as twisted rope, one scar slanted up beneath the right nipple; the other slashed
diagonally from abdomen to left hip bone.
“Those aren’t surgical scars,” said Maura, frowning from her position at the foot of the table.
“I’d say this guy’s been in a pretty nasty fight,” said Abe. “These look like old knife wounds.”
“You want to cut off these sleeves?” said Yoshima.
“No, we can work them off. Let’s just roll him.”
They tipped the corpse onto its left side to pull the sleeve free. Yoshima, facing the corpse’s
back, suddenly said: “Whoa. You should see this.”
The tattoo covered the entire left shoulder blade. Maura leaned over to take a look and seemed
to recoil from the image, as though it were alive, its venomous stinger poised to strike. The
carapace was a brilliant blue. Twin pincers stretched toward the man’s neck. Encircled by the
coiled tail was the number 13.
“A scorpion,” said Maura softly.
“That’s a pretty impressive meat tag,” Yoshima said.
Maura frowned at him. “What?”
“It’s what we called them in the army. I saw some real works of art when I was working in the
morgue unit. Cobras, tarantulas. One guy had his girlfriend’s name tattooed on . . .” Yoshima
paused. “You wouldn’t get a needle anywhere near mine. ”
They pulled off the other sleeve and returned the now-nude corpse to its back. Though still a
young man, his flesh had already amassed a record of trauma. The scars, the tattoo. And now
the final insult: the bullet wound in the left cheek.
Abe moved the magnifier over the
scope of his experience, was not particularly shocking. He saw only a single entry wound that
tunneled into the left cheek; otherwise the features were intact. The man was in his thirties, with
neatly clipped dark hair and a muscular jaw. His brown eyes, exposed to air by partially open
lids, were already clouded. A name tag with PERRIN was clipped to the breast pocket of the
uniform. Staring at the table, what disturbed Gabriel most was not the gore or the sightless
eyes; it was the knowledge that the same weapon that had ended this man’s life was now
threatening Jane’s.
“We waited for you,” said Dr. Abe Bristol. “Maura thought you’d want to watch this from the
beginning.”
Gabriel looked at Maura, who was gowned and masked, but standing at the foot of the table,
and not at her usual place at the corpse’s right side. Every other time he’d entered this lab, she
had been the one in command, the one holding the knife. He was not accustomed to seeing her
cede control in the room where she usually reigned. “You’re not doing this postmortem?” he
asked.
“I can’t. I’m a witness to this man’s death,” said Maura. “Abe has to do this one.”
“And you still have no idea who he is?”
She shook her head. “There’s no hospital employee with the name Perrin. And the chief of
security came to view the body. He didn’t recognize this man.”
“Fingerprints?”
“We’ve sent his prints to AFIS. Nothing’s back on him so far. Or on the shooter’s
fingerprints, either.”
“So we’ve got a John Doe and a Jane Doe?” Gabriel stared at the corpse. “Who the hell are
these people?”
“Let’s get him undressed,” Abe said to Yoshima.
The two men removed the corpse’s shoes and socks, unbuckled the belt, and peeled off the
trousers, laying the items of clothing on a clean sheet. With gloved hands Abe searched the
pants pockets but found them empty. No comb, no wallet, no keys. “Not even any loose
change,” he noted.
“You’d think there’d be at least a spare dime or two,” said Yoshima.
“These pockets are clean.” Abe looked up. “Brand-new uniform?”
They turned their attention to the shirt. The fabric was now stiff with dried blood, and they had
to peel it away from the chest, revealing muscular pectorals and a thick mat of dark hair. And
scars. Thick as twisted rope, one scar slanted up beneath the right nipple; the other slashed
diagonally from abdomen to left hip bone.
“Those aren’t surgical scars,” said Maura, frowning from her position at the foot of the table.
“I’d say this guy’s been in a pretty nasty fight,” said Abe. “These look like old knife wounds.”
“You want to cut off these sleeves?” said Yoshima.
“No, we can work them off. Let’s just roll him.”
They tipped the corpse onto its left side to pull the sleeve free. Yoshima, facing the corpse’s
back, suddenly said: “Whoa. You should see this.”
The tattoo covered the entire left shoulder blade. Maura leaned over to take a look and seemed
to recoil from the image, as though it were alive, its venomous stinger poised to strike. The
carapace was a brilliant blue. Twin pincers stretched toward the man’s neck. Encircled by the
coiled tail was the number 13.
“A scorpion,” said Maura softly.
“That’s a pretty impressive meat tag,” Yoshima said.
Maura frowned at him. “What?”
“It’s what we called them in the army. I saw some real works of art when I was working in the
morgue unit. Cobras, tarantulas. One guy had his girlfriend’s name tattooed on . . .” Yoshima
paused. “You wouldn’t get a needle anywhere near mine. ”
They pulled off the other sleeve and returned the now-nude corpse to its back. Though still a
young man, his flesh had already amassed a record of trauma. The scars, the tattoo. And now
the final insult: the bullet wound in the left cheek.
Abe moved the magnifier over the
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