lane?”
As they followed Treborn down two flights of steps, he began filling them in: “The victim’s a male. Midsixties. No semen on the body or in the anus, and his genitals are intact, so we can rule out the sexual angle.”
“You have a better estimate of the time of death?” Mason asked.
“The last few days the temperatures haven’t gone above freezing, so that makes it harder to pinpoint by body temperature. He was virtually bled out, so lividity is minimal.”
They reached the subbasement floor and proceeded down a long corridor. Treborn continued, “The same goes for putrefaction. Cold temperatures screw that all up.” He turned to Wolski when they stopped in front of a wide steel door. “You been to one of these before?”
Wolski shook his head. He managed to maintain a neutral expression, but Mason could see his neck and jaw muscles bulge from tension.
Treborn said, “If you have to vomit, make sure you do it in the sink.” He pulled a metal lever and opened the door.
Despite the cold, the pungent odors of formaldehyde and disinfectant assaulted their nostrils. The large, rectangular room had white concrete walls, though the white was now tinged in shades ranging from ocher to tobacco-stain brown. They passed rows of shelves containing various boxes of laboratory supplies and bottles of chemicals, followed by two overloaded desks and two long workbenches laden with lab glassware, microscopes, and X-ray photographs. Then, beyond these chaotic trappings of any research lab, came the defining objects of a morgue: four porcelain autopsy tables flanked by large sinks on one side and three rows of six refrigerated storage lockers for the deceased.
Mason and Wolski followed Treborn to the first autopsy table. Mason and Treborn took opposite sides, while Wolski chose the foot of the table as if thinking a little more distance might lessen the shock.
After one quick glance at Wolski, Treborn pulled away the whitecovering, the disturbance of air bringing up the scent of decaying meat like a butcher’s shop on a hot day. Beneath lay the head and torso of the victim. Wolski stepped back as if pushed by an invisible force. Mason remained where he was, though icy fingers squeezed his stomach. Dead bodies he was used to—the clouded eyes, the marbled flesh—but this man had died in midscream, his eyes and mouth wide in agony and terror. The Y cut from the shoulders down to the pelvis was now sewn closed with coarse thread. There was a sewn incision from ear to ear around the top of the head, where Treborn had removed, examined, and measured the brain.
“I’d put the time of death at between eighteen and thirty-six hours before the time the engineers were able to bring the body down, and approximately four hours before being hung up on the column.”
Mason looked up at Treborn. “It would have taken him a good hour or two to rig the body.”
“Assuming he was working alone,” Wolski said.
“Oh, this guy is working alone,” Mason said. “Psycho killers rarely share, and definitely not one who makes such a spectacle of his handiwork.”
“He could have rigged the whole thing beforehand; then it’d be a matter of an hour or so to tie it up there.”
“It’s possible. Even with that, to rig the body to the column, place the limbs on the floor above, cover his tracks, then set the booby trap. That’s two to three hours. That means the place where he killed was a maximum of an hour or two from the factory.”
Treborn said, “Before you get too carried away, remember the four hours is just an estimate.” Treborn turned the victim’s head slightly and pointed to the back of its neck. “I did find a contusion on the basal ganglion from a blunt instrument. This occurred hours before death. A blow like this could have rendered the victim unconscious or semiconscious.”
“What are those purple bands across the shoulders, hips, and forehead?” Mason asked.
“They’re also on the arms and
As they followed Treborn down two flights of steps, he began filling them in: “The victim’s a male. Midsixties. No semen on the body or in the anus, and his genitals are intact, so we can rule out the sexual angle.”
“You have a better estimate of the time of death?” Mason asked.
“The last few days the temperatures haven’t gone above freezing, so that makes it harder to pinpoint by body temperature. He was virtually bled out, so lividity is minimal.”
They reached the subbasement floor and proceeded down a long corridor. Treborn continued, “The same goes for putrefaction. Cold temperatures screw that all up.” He turned to Wolski when they stopped in front of a wide steel door. “You been to one of these before?”
Wolski shook his head. He managed to maintain a neutral expression, but Mason could see his neck and jaw muscles bulge from tension.
Treborn said, “If you have to vomit, make sure you do it in the sink.” He pulled a metal lever and opened the door.
Despite the cold, the pungent odors of formaldehyde and disinfectant assaulted their nostrils. The large, rectangular room had white concrete walls, though the white was now tinged in shades ranging from ocher to tobacco-stain brown. They passed rows of shelves containing various boxes of laboratory supplies and bottles of chemicals, followed by two overloaded desks and two long workbenches laden with lab glassware, microscopes, and X-ray photographs. Then, beyond these chaotic trappings of any research lab, came the defining objects of a morgue: four porcelain autopsy tables flanked by large sinks on one side and three rows of six refrigerated storage lockers for the deceased.
Mason and Wolski followed Treborn to the first autopsy table. Mason and Treborn took opposite sides, while Wolski chose the foot of the table as if thinking a little more distance might lessen the shock.
After one quick glance at Wolski, Treborn pulled away the whitecovering, the disturbance of air bringing up the scent of decaying meat like a butcher’s shop on a hot day. Beneath lay the head and torso of the victim. Wolski stepped back as if pushed by an invisible force. Mason remained where he was, though icy fingers squeezed his stomach. Dead bodies he was used to—the clouded eyes, the marbled flesh—but this man had died in midscream, his eyes and mouth wide in agony and terror. The Y cut from the shoulders down to the pelvis was now sewn closed with coarse thread. There was a sewn incision from ear to ear around the top of the head, where Treborn had removed, examined, and measured the brain.
“I’d put the time of death at between eighteen and thirty-six hours before the time the engineers were able to bring the body down, and approximately four hours before being hung up on the column.”
Mason looked up at Treborn. “It would have taken him a good hour or two to rig the body.”
“Assuming he was working alone,” Wolski said.
“Oh, this guy is working alone,” Mason said. “Psycho killers rarely share, and definitely not one who makes such a spectacle of his handiwork.”
“He could have rigged the whole thing beforehand; then it’d be a matter of an hour or so to tie it up there.”
“It’s possible. Even with that, to rig the body to the column, place the limbs on the floor above, cover his tracks, then set the booby trap. That’s two to three hours. That means the place where he killed was a maximum of an hour or two from the factory.”
Treborn said, “Before you get too carried away, remember the four hours is just an estimate.” Treborn turned the victim’s head slightly and pointed to the back of its neck. “I did find a contusion on the basal ganglion from a blunt instrument. This occurred hours before death. A blow like this could have rendered the victim unconscious or semiconscious.”
“What are those purple bands across the shoulders, hips, and forehead?” Mason asked.
“They’re also on the arms and
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