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Authors: Noreen Ayres
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it’s personal. Up close on all three, the doer was having a conversation. No graffiti around. None of these are Santa Ana, after all.”
Will dragged the end of his pen down to Doe Three, yesterday’s victim. “What’s this with the condoms?”
I said, “Found in a coffee bag, under a bush.”
Boyd said, “Maybe they’re one-fifth a rubber glove.”
I took a hard candy out of my jacket pocket and picked red lint from it. “Can we go back to Doe Two, Nellie Gail, the grocery store coupons we found in the wallet.”
“Juan Two?” Boyd said. He sang the melody of an old tune, “Juan-Two-Three, look at Mr. D.,” in a surprisingly pleasant voice.
“Okay, what about the coupons?” Boyd said, finding his notation on a small notepad.
“I was wondering if you wanted to take them back to the store along with the sketch of the victim, see if any of the checkers might remember him.”
“A thought,” Boyd said.
Will said, “I’m surprised you didn’t do that already.”
Boyd’s forehead reddened.
It went on like that, Will like a nettle under the skin, Boyd impatient in his own way to get this meeting over with. We ended it with no better feel for the cases, but at least we made a pass at communication that our respective management could note as progress.
In the hallway, Boyd said to me, “I’ll have that guy for lunch.”
“You’re taking him to lunch?”
“Hah!” he said. “Fucking Adam-Henry.”
“That’s what I called him.”
“To his face?” Boyd asked, ready to offer respect.
“Not yet,” I said. I was nearly out the front door when I heard him call my name.
He hustled over, his jacket back on. “Your boss called. Doe One and Two, guests of honor.”
“Now? They’re doing the autopsies now?”
“Hey, I’m just the messenger. Want a ride over?”
“I’ve got my car, thanks.”
He looked at me a second longer. “Sure?”
I remembered Joe’s warning about Boyd’s wandering ways.
“See you there,” I said, and moved along.
EIGHT
T he room smelled strongly of meat. On the table near the door lay a large man discolored to a grayish-purple around the shoulders, sporting an erection coincident with his size.
A male coroner’s assistant stood holding a twisted paper towel high in the air. With a lighter, he ignited the lower end. The paper caught, sending a ring of char creeping above the yellow flame as it climbed the torch. He held it over the corpse and plunged a knife downward into the dead man. Released gases flared like a barbecue coming on.
On the next gurney was an old woman waiting her turn, a “medical misadventure,” then another male. He looked to be of Hispanic descent. The two at the end I recognized.
As I walked to meet Boyd standing at the back, assistants wearing plastic goggles and blue paper gowns, white booties, and pink masks were sectioning organs or weighing them in hanging scales, the women with their hair folded into clear plastic satchels.
Boyd was into a full yawn as I approached, perhaps from boredom, or perhaps from the discomfort most of us feel when in this room. He nodded toward the nearest gurney where a tech had her hands deep in the ditch of human organs. “X-rays show the bullet’s still inside,” he said. “Big guy on the end was found in a motel bathtub, meth smoker. Next guy drowned off Aliso Beach. Why is it Mexicans can’t swim? They got an ocean same as us.”
One of the techs gave Boyd a look, her dark eyes unreadable above her mask.
“Maybe we better look at that ankle,” Boyd told Dr. Margolis, the pathologist working our case.
Dr. Margolis answered abruptly, “I wouldn’t worry about it.”
Boyd turned to me and said quietly, “I sure as hell won’t.”
The tech with the dark eyes went to the end of the table and lifted the head of the Nellie Gail Doe to slide a wooden block underneath. The block had a V-shaped cutout at the top so the head could rest without moving on its wooden pillow. Taking a
Will dragged the end of his pen down to Doe Three, yesterday’s victim. “What’s this with the condoms?”
I said, “Found in a coffee bag, under a bush.”
Boyd said, “Maybe they’re one-fifth a rubber glove.”
I took a hard candy out of my jacket pocket and picked red lint from it. “Can we go back to Doe Two, Nellie Gail, the grocery store coupons we found in the wallet.”
“Juan Two?” Boyd said. He sang the melody of an old tune, “Juan-Two-Three, look at Mr. D.,” in a surprisingly pleasant voice.
“Okay, what about the coupons?” Boyd said, finding his notation on a small notepad.
“I was wondering if you wanted to take them back to the store along with the sketch of the victim, see if any of the checkers might remember him.”
“A thought,” Boyd said.
Will said, “I’m surprised you didn’t do that already.”
Boyd’s forehead reddened.
It went on like that, Will like a nettle under the skin, Boyd impatient in his own way to get this meeting over with. We ended it with no better feel for the cases, but at least we made a pass at communication that our respective management could note as progress.
In the hallway, Boyd said to me, “I’ll have that guy for lunch.”
“You’re taking him to lunch?”
“Hah!” he said. “Fucking Adam-Henry.”
“That’s what I called him.”
“To his face?” Boyd asked, ready to offer respect.
“Not yet,” I said. I was nearly out the front door when I heard him call my name.
He hustled over, his jacket back on. “Your boss called. Doe One and Two, guests of honor.”
“Now? They’re doing the autopsies now?”
“Hey, I’m just the messenger. Want a ride over?”
“I’ve got my car, thanks.”
He looked at me a second longer. “Sure?”
I remembered Joe’s warning about Boyd’s wandering ways.
“See you there,” I said, and moved along.
EIGHT
T he room smelled strongly of meat. On the table near the door lay a large man discolored to a grayish-purple around the shoulders, sporting an erection coincident with his size.
A male coroner’s assistant stood holding a twisted paper towel high in the air. With a lighter, he ignited the lower end. The paper caught, sending a ring of char creeping above the yellow flame as it climbed the torch. He held it over the corpse and plunged a knife downward into the dead man. Released gases flared like a barbecue coming on.
On the next gurney was an old woman waiting her turn, a “medical misadventure,” then another male. He looked to be of Hispanic descent. The two at the end I recognized.
As I walked to meet Boyd standing at the back, assistants wearing plastic goggles and blue paper gowns, white booties, and pink masks were sectioning organs or weighing them in hanging scales, the women with their hair folded into clear plastic satchels.
Boyd was into a full yawn as I approached, perhaps from boredom, or perhaps from the discomfort most of us feel when in this room. He nodded toward the nearest gurney where a tech had her hands deep in the ditch of human organs. “X-rays show the bullet’s still inside,” he said. “Big guy on the end was found in a motel bathtub, meth smoker. Next guy drowned off Aliso Beach. Why is it Mexicans can’t swim? They got an ocean same as us.”
One of the techs gave Boyd a look, her dark eyes unreadable above her mask.
“Maybe we better look at that ankle,” Boyd told Dr. Margolis, the pathologist working our case.
Dr. Margolis answered abruptly, “I wouldn’t worry about it.”
Boyd turned to me and said quietly, “I sure as hell won’t.”
The tech with the dark eyes went to the end of the table and lifted the head of the Nellie Gail Doe to slide a wooden block underneath. The block had a V-shaped cutout at the top so the head could rest without moving on its wooden pillow. Taking a
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