Portly and nearly bald, Charlie Brown, as one might imagine, had been harassed most of his life for having the same name as the dubious character in the comic section of every newspaper in the country. Charlie even looked like his namesake and shared the same small tuft of hair just above his forehead. Al wondered if his parents had even the slightest inkling how they’d cursed their only son. Charlie had more insecurities than a turkey two days before Thanksgiving. Whenever he spoke to Charlie, a selection of one-liners hung in the back of Al’s throat. The possibilities to mock him were endless. But to piss off Charlie, the guy in charge of every piece of evidence ever associated with a crime, would be a hugely consequential mistake.
“How they hangin’, Detective?”
“I need a little help, Charlie. I’m investigating the Foster homicide and need to sign out a small price tag that we found at the scene. It’s about this big.” Al referenced the approximate size with his fingers. “It’s from Saks Fifth Avenue.”
“Is this the gal we found at Mission Bay Park dressed like a prom queen?”
“I wouldn’t say ‘prom queen.’ More like someone on the cover of Vogue .”
Charlie did an about-face and looked over his shoulder at Al as he headed down one of the aisles. “Be back in a flash.”
Al felt that the price tag could yield something significant. After all, it did contain the store name, price, and UPC code. Besides, how many three-thousand-dollar dresses did they sell every day? Surely the salesperson would remember the perp. He likely paid for the dress with a credit card and this could prove to be a significant piece of information.
Charlie returned with a small sandwich bag, price tag inside. He set it on the counter and wrote something on a clipboard. “Sign right here, Detective, and it’s yours for twenty-four hours.”
Al just couldn’t help it. “Thanks, Charlie. Tell Lucy and Linus I said hi.”
“Bite me!”
Because of the exigency of the situation and the importance of determining Genevieve Foster’s cause of death, Maggie Fox, Medical Examiner, began the autopsy almost immediately after receiving Judge Foster’s written consent. Al made it a point whenever he could to observe the autopsies of homicide victims so he could view the body firsthand and ask questions that might give him a lead. He had intended to drive to Fashion Valley Mall and speak to the manager of women’s apparel at Saks, but the autopsy loomed more important. Besides, no matter how thorough or skilled the medical examiner, four eyes were always better than two—even considering his limited medical knowledge. In this particular instance, his presence might prove to be more critical. Doctor Fox had been part of the forensics team for only six months, and he wasn’t yet convinced that she possessed the same skills as her more experienced colleagues. She just didn’t look like a medical examiner. To Al, a medical examiner should look like Mr. Magoo. Doctor Fox was anything but Mr. Magoo.
Al walked into Exam Room 3, and as in the past, he felt uneasy. He wasn’t sure if it was the indescribable odor, what he was about to observe, or a little of both. From the outside looking in, one might believe that a seasoned homicide detective could witness an autopsy with casual indifference. But even though Al would never outwardly show his emotions, inside, his stomach felt like it was trying to digest itself.
Lying on a stainless-steel table, the curves and contours of Genevieve Foster’s body clung to the blood-stained white sheet. Her right foot stuck out from under the sheet and he could see the yellow ID tag on the victim’s big toe. Doctor Fox stood next to the body, latex gloves covering her hands, white lab coat neatly buttoned, an assortment of surgical instruments positioned on the table adjacent to the remains of the victim.
“Detective Diaz,” Doctor Fox said, more cheerful than what seemed
“How they hangin’, Detective?”
“I need a little help, Charlie. I’m investigating the Foster homicide and need to sign out a small price tag that we found at the scene. It’s about this big.” Al referenced the approximate size with his fingers. “It’s from Saks Fifth Avenue.”
“Is this the gal we found at Mission Bay Park dressed like a prom queen?”
“I wouldn’t say ‘prom queen.’ More like someone on the cover of Vogue .”
Charlie did an about-face and looked over his shoulder at Al as he headed down one of the aisles. “Be back in a flash.”
Al felt that the price tag could yield something significant. After all, it did contain the store name, price, and UPC code. Besides, how many three-thousand-dollar dresses did they sell every day? Surely the salesperson would remember the perp. He likely paid for the dress with a credit card and this could prove to be a significant piece of information.
Charlie returned with a small sandwich bag, price tag inside. He set it on the counter and wrote something on a clipboard. “Sign right here, Detective, and it’s yours for twenty-four hours.”
Al just couldn’t help it. “Thanks, Charlie. Tell Lucy and Linus I said hi.”
“Bite me!”
Because of the exigency of the situation and the importance of determining Genevieve Foster’s cause of death, Maggie Fox, Medical Examiner, began the autopsy almost immediately after receiving Judge Foster’s written consent. Al made it a point whenever he could to observe the autopsies of homicide victims so he could view the body firsthand and ask questions that might give him a lead. He had intended to drive to Fashion Valley Mall and speak to the manager of women’s apparel at Saks, but the autopsy loomed more important. Besides, no matter how thorough or skilled the medical examiner, four eyes were always better than two—even considering his limited medical knowledge. In this particular instance, his presence might prove to be more critical. Doctor Fox had been part of the forensics team for only six months, and he wasn’t yet convinced that she possessed the same skills as her more experienced colleagues. She just didn’t look like a medical examiner. To Al, a medical examiner should look like Mr. Magoo. Doctor Fox was anything but Mr. Magoo.
Al walked into Exam Room 3, and as in the past, he felt uneasy. He wasn’t sure if it was the indescribable odor, what he was about to observe, or a little of both. From the outside looking in, one might believe that a seasoned homicide detective could witness an autopsy with casual indifference. But even though Al would never outwardly show his emotions, inside, his stomach felt like it was trying to digest itself.
Lying on a stainless-steel table, the curves and contours of Genevieve Foster’s body clung to the blood-stained white sheet. Her right foot stuck out from under the sheet and he could see the yellow ID tag on the victim’s big toe. Doctor Fox stood next to the body, latex gloves covering her hands, white lab coat neatly buttoned, an assortment of surgical instruments positioned on the table adjacent to the remains of the victim.
“Detective Diaz,” Doctor Fox said, more cheerful than what seemed
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