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Authors: J.T. Ellison
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figured he had some sort of osteoarthritis or a minor congenital dysplasia, something that could be fixed by a total hip arthroplasty, or perhaps even the lesser hemiarthroplasty if one had the time and inclination to be off your feet and away from work for a while. This man didn’t strike her as the sitting-around type.
“Dr. Owens, I presume? I am Amado Nocek, assistant chief medical examiner. It is truly my pleasure to meet you.”
“And you, as well. Italian?” she asked.
His face lit up, making his homeliness more appealing. “Hungarian on my paternal side, Italian on my maternal. You have a good ear for languages, I presume?”
Sam smiled and shook his hand. “Not really. I knew an Amado once. He was from Naples.”
“A beautiful area. The land of the Sirens.” He put a large, bony hand to his chest. “‘Winged maidens, virgin daughters of Gaia, the Seirenes, may you come to my mourning with Libyan flute or pipe or lyre, tears to match my plaintive woes; grief for grief and mournful chant for chant, may Persephone send choirs of death in harmony with my lamentation, so that she may receive as thanks from me, in addition to my tears, a paean for the departed dead beneath her gloomy roof.’”
Sam looked at him in surprise. “Euripides?”
Nocek gave her a wide smile. “Very good, Dr. Owens. Most around here would not understand such things.”
“We read Helen in school. She was always a favorite of mine.”
“As she is of mine. Her words are fitting, I think, for a day like today.” He gestured to a door and she followed him through, the familiar scents of cold and chemicals and death meeting her. She immediately relaxed. Home. She felt more at home among complete strangers dead than she did in her own house.
Nocek began to gather familiar blue-and-white garb. “Why do you wish to repeat the postmortem examination on this particular shooting victim, may I ask?”
“You may. The victim’s mother is a personal friend. She isn’t convinced the shooting was random.”
He glanced at her, as if assessing how proper it was for her to be the one running this secondary protocol, but instead of saying anything, smiled sadly. “Ah. If only that were the case. We try to find understanding in that which is not understandable. It is human nature.”
“Yes, it is.”
“Well, then. We have prepared the body for your arrival. Will you require assistance? I personally would be happy to lend my expertise.”
“Thank you. I would like a second set of eyes. Did you do the initial post?” Sam asked, setting her purse down on the counter. She washed her hands— one Mississippi, two— trying hard not to count aloud, then dried off and took the proffered gear from Nocek’s bony grip. Booties, mask, hair cover, gloves. She got the pieces in place quickly, actions born of repetition.
She hated every minute of this.
“It was not my day to work. I will not be influenced by the previous autopsy.”
“Excellent.” Sam would be. She’d see the incisions, the already dissected organs in their plastic shroud, the crusted blood that dried upon contact with the air. She’d look at the body of a homicide victim, and do everything in her power not to see Donovan. Her Donovan.
She took a deep breath, ignored the interested look Nocek gave her and nodded briskly. “I’m ready when you are.”
Nocek was already dressed for the autopsy suite: he simply slipped a new mask around his neck and pulled gloves from the box above the stainless-steel sink. Without speaking, he held the door for her.
Blessed Mary, full of grace. Give me strength.
She bit her tongue to contravene the overwhelming compulsion to get her hands under running water.
The body was on the first table, nearest the door. There was a buzz of activity—unlike the Nashville office, D.C. didn’t have the luxury of finishing up the day’s four or five posts at noon. There were so many more deaths, so many more murders, that the machine churned
“Dr. Owens, I presume? I am Amado Nocek, assistant chief medical examiner. It is truly my pleasure to meet you.”
“And you, as well. Italian?” she asked.
His face lit up, making his homeliness more appealing. “Hungarian on my paternal side, Italian on my maternal. You have a good ear for languages, I presume?”
Sam smiled and shook his hand. “Not really. I knew an Amado once. He was from Naples.”
“A beautiful area. The land of the Sirens.” He put a large, bony hand to his chest. “‘Winged maidens, virgin daughters of Gaia, the Seirenes, may you come to my mourning with Libyan flute or pipe or lyre, tears to match my plaintive woes; grief for grief and mournful chant for chant, may Persephone send choirs of death in harmony with my lamentation, so that she may receive as thanks from me, in addition to my tears, a paean for the departed dead beneath her gloomy roof.’”
Sam looked at him in surprise. “Euripides?”
Nocek gave her a wide smile. “Very good, Dr. Owens. Most around here would not understand such things.”
“We read Helen in school. She was always a favorite of mine.”
“As she is of mine. Her words are fitting, I think, for a day like today.” He gestured to a door and she followed him through, the familiar scents of cold and chemicals and death meeting her. She immediately relaxed. Home. She felt more at home among complete strangers dead than she did in her own house.
Nocek began to gather familiar blue-and-white garb. “Why do you wish to repeat the postmortem examination on this particular shooting victim, may I ask?”
“You may. The victim’s mother is a personal friend. She isn’t convinced the shooting was random.”
He glanced at her, as if assessing how proper it was for her to be the one running this secondary protocol, but instead of saying anything, smiled sadly. “Ah. If only that were the case. We try to find understanding in that which is not understandable. It is human nature.”
“Yes, it is.”
“Well, then. We have prepared the body for your arrival. Will you require assistance? I personally would be happy to lend my expertise.”
“Thank you. I would like a second set of eyes. Did you do the initial post?” Sam asked, setting her purse down on the counter. She washed her hands— one Mississippi, two— trying hard not to count aloud, then dried off and took the proffered gear from Nocek’s bony grip. Booties, mask, hair cover, gloves. She got the pieces in place quickly, actions born of repetition.
She hated every minute of this.
“It was not my day to work. I will not be influenced by the previous autopsy.”
“Excellent.” Sam would be. She’d see the incisions, the already dissected organs in their plastic shroud, the crusted blood that dried upon contact with the air. She’d look at the body of a homicide victim, and do everything in her power not to see Donovan. Her Donovan.
She took a deep breath, ignored the interested look Nocek gave her and nodded briskly. “I’m ready when you are.”
Nocek was already dressed for the autopsy suite: he simply slipped a new mask around his neck and pulled gloves from the box above the stainless-steel sink. Without speaking, he held the door for her.
Blessed Mary, full of grace. Give me strength.
She bit her tongue to contravene the overwhelming compulsion to get her hands under running water.
The body was on the first table, nearest the door. There was a buzz of activity—unlike the Nashville office, D.C. didn’t have the luxury of finishing up the day’s four or five posts at noon. There were so many more deaths, so many more murders, that the machine churned
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