Read Online Blind Sight (A Mallory Novel) by Carol O'Connell - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Carol O'Connell
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Chief Medical Examiner Edward Slope said to the young detective, “As you can see . . . you’re late.”
Kathy Mallory had come without her partner, the peacekeeper. And so Dr. Slope braced himself for warfare. He welcomed it. What fun.
The gun in her holster was a jump up from the razorblades confiscated in her childhood, but not much else had changed. She was still cold of heart, assuming she had one. Edward Slope felt honor bound to love the child that his old friend had left behind. However, the doctor took pains to make it known that he had to work at this obligation. And, in that spirit—on with the fight; he anticipated knives and guns, trip wires and torture. At times like this, he always felt nostalgia for their first battle when she was only a baby card shark in the Louis Markowitz Floating Poker Game. The little girl had insisted that, if hecould not prove cheating, she must be innocent. And her foster father, the cop of cops, had backed her up on this rule of evidence. That may have been the start of the bond between Lou and Kathy—that assist in stealing the doctor’s money. And years later, Edward Slope saw payback when Lou got the heart-attack news that his little felon, a born thief, was quitting college to join the NYPD.
It was a balanced universe.
Today, doctor and cop squared off across the first dead body. Out of respect for the calling of Sister Michael, hers was the only corpse to lay under the protection of a sheet. He had arranged the cloth to cover all but the nun’s wound, though every inch of her had been photographed for the police. But the detective had not yet seen those pictures, and it should have been predictable that Kathy Mallory would sense something hidden and—
She whipped off the dead woman’s sheet to expose the snow-white skin—and a colorful aspect of Sister Michael. Inked red roses encircled her thighs in a spiral climb to the hips. “These cloistered nuns . . . they just get more interesting all the time.”
“Kathy, that—”
“Mallory,” she said, reminding him to keep the professional distance of her surname. She had rules.
And he always ignored them.
However, her interruption had spared him a point lost for mentioning the obvious thing—that the roses had certainly preceded a religious calling. Catholic nuns so seldom visited tattoo parlors. And now Sister Michael’s apologist added, “It is rather beautiful work.” Late in life, he had found that he was something of a romantic, and he had privately rechristened the dead woman as She Who Lay in Chains of Roses. “I can’t name the tattoo artist. We’ve got nothing like this on file.”
“She didn’t have tattoos when she was arrested for prostitution.” The detective raised her eyes in time to see his rare moment ofconfusion. Too pleased with herself, she said, “I’m sure that was before Sister Michael became a nun . . . but I could check.”
Without rising to this bait, he said, “Red roses. That might suggest the lady fell in love.”
“The lady?” Kathy moved to the head of the dissection table and picked up a photograph taken with his instant camera prior to the autopsy. “A Polaroid? You wanted a souvenir?”
Of course she would see no other reason for this archaic form of photography in an age of digital everything. However, she was actually right. She had nailed him.
Kathy stared at the picture. “The nun’s smile. . . . That still bothers you, doesn’t it?”
Yes, but he was loath to admit this. “It’s rare, but facial expression can survive the primary relaxation after death.” Sister Michael’s smile had not survived the second laxity of rigor mortis passing off, but it had not vanished until he was done with her. The woman had smiled at him all through the brutality of her autopsy, the cuts that had laid her open from breastbone to Venus mound. And all the while, he had known that he was missing something here.
Something vital?
“Those
Chief Medical Examiner Edward Slope said to the young detective, “As you can see . . . you’re late.”
Kathy Mallory had come without her partner, the peacekeeper. And so Dr. Slope braced himself for warfare. He welcomed it. What fun.
The gun in her holster was a jump up from the razorblades confiscated in her childhood, but not much else had changed. She was still cold of heart, assuming she had one. Edward Slope felt honor bound to love the child that his old friend had left behind. However, the doctor took pains to make it known that he had to work at this obligation. And, in that spirit—on with the fight; he anticipated knives and guns, trip wires and torture. At times like this, he always felt nostalgia for their first battle when she was only a baby card shark in the Louis Markowitz Floating Poker Game. The little girl had insisted that, if hecould not prove cheating, she must be innocent. And her foster father, the cop of cops, had backed her up on this rule of evidence. That may have been the start of the bond between Lou and Kathy—that assist in stealing the doctor’s money. And years later, Edward Slope saw payback when Lou got the heart-attack news that his little felon, a born thief, was quitting college to join the NYPD.
It was a balanced universe.
Today, doctor and cop squared off across the first dead body. Out of respect for the calling of Sister Michael, hers was the only corpse to lay under the protection of a sheet. He had arranged the cloth to cover all but the nun’s wound, though every inch of her had been photographed for the police. But the detective had not yet seen those pictures, and it should have been predictable that Kathy Mallory would sense something hidden and—
She whipped off the dead woman’s sheet to expose the snow-white skin—and a colorful aspect of Sister Michael. Inked red roses encircled her thighs in a spiral climb to the hips. “These cloistered nuns . . . they just get more interesting all the time.”
“Kathy, that—”
“Mallory,” she said, reminding him to keep the professional distance of her surname. She had rules.
And he always ignored them.
However, her interruption had spared him a point lost for mentioning the obvious thing—that the roses had certainly preceded a religious calling. Catholic nuns so seldom visited tattoo parlors. And now Sister Michael’s apologist added, “It is rather beautiful work.” Late in life, he had found that he was something of a romantic, and he had privately rechristened the dead woman as She Who Lay in Chains of Roses. “I can’t name the tattoo artist. We’ve got nothing like this on file.”
“She didn’t have tattoos when she was arrested for prostitution.” The detective raised her eyes in time to see his rare moment ofconfusion. Too pleased with herself, she said, “I’m sure that was before Sister Michael became a nun . . . but I could check.”
Without rising to this bait, he said, “Red roses. That might suggest the lady fell in love.”
“The lady?” Kathy moved to the head of the dissection table and picked up a photograph taken with his instant camera prior to the autopsy. “A Polaroid? You wanted a souvenir?”
Of course she would see no other reason for this archaic form of photography in an age of digital everything. However, she was actually right. She had nailed him.
Kathy stared at the picture. “The nun’s smile. . . . That still bothers you, doesn’t it?”
Yes, but he was loath to admit this. “It’s rare, but facial expression can survive the primary relaxation after death.” Sister Michael’s smile had not survived the second laxity of rigor mortis passing off, but it had not vanished until he was done with her. The woman had smiled at him all through the brutality of her autopsy, the cuts that had laid her open from breastbone to Venus mound. And all the while, he had known that he was missing something here.
Something vital?
“Those
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