Read Online White Tombs by Christopher Valen - Free Book Online
Authors: Christopher Valen
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chair and handed each of them a business card.
Angelina Torres looked as if she wanted to say something more. But she turned instead and followed Hidalgo out of the cubicle.
Chapter 5
----
S ANTANA AND P ETE C ANFIELD , from the Ramsey County Attorney’s Office, stood beside Reiko Tanabe in the morgue at the medical examiner’s office, a one story building just off University Avenue next to Region’s Hospital. They were dressed in green scrubs and booties. The ME wore large latex gloves and a disposable plastic apron over the scrubs. Stiff, white masks covered their mouths and noses. Santana and Canfield had rubbed wintergreen oil on the inside of their masks to cut the smell.
Tanabe had removed the black body bag and clean white sheet around Julio Pérez before fingerprinting and photographing his body with and without clothes. The tag that had been attached to his left big toe at the crime scene listed a case number, date, name and location of the body. Tanabe had attached a second tag to Pérez’s right ankle when he arrived at the morgue. The tags maintained the chain of evidence and a record of who touched the body intact.
The perforated metal sheet underneath Pérez kept the stainless steel autopsy table in the center of the room clean by allowing running water and body fluids to seep through to a metal catch basin below and down into the drains in the tile floor. A scale used for weighing organs hung over the table. The scale looked like a larger and more precise version of those found at a supermarket. A dissecting block, scalpels, ruler, pruning clippers and an electric vibrating bone saw lay on a smaller steel table opposite the scale. A wide stainless steel refrigerator door covered most of one wall. Jars of preservative on the counter held tissue samples and excised body parts. The temperature hovered just above freezing, and the room reeked of astringent cleaner, tissue preservative and bodies on the verge of decomposition.
“Hey, Doc,” Canfield said. “You know the difference between a surgeon, an internist and a pathologist?” He winked at Santana.
“I’m afraid to ask.”
A surgeon knows nothing but does everything. An internist knows everything, but does nothing. And a pathologist knows everything and does everything, but it’s too late.”
Canfield laughed uproariously at his own joke.
“Blow yourself,” Tanabe said, but Santana could tell she was smiling behind her mask.
Santana knew that Canfield told jokes to relieve his uneasiness. Prosecutors, cops, medical examiners, anyone who had to watch a body being eviscerated, had coping mechanisms. Santana remembered how he had vomited the first time. Viewing another autopsy now elicited no more of a response than if he were at the market watching butchers prepare a good cut of steak. He had learned early on that it was important to remain as detached as possible. Each body told a story of how the victim lived and how he died. Emotions often impaired objectivity. Only the body of an innocent child lying on the cold metal table still lit a fire inside him. Whether it was the result of neglect, abuse or homicide, a child’s death smoldered within him until the perp was either behind bars or dead.
Tanabe had nearly completed her external evaluation of Pérez’s body. She had started with the neck and worked her way downward to the chest, abdomen, pelvis and genitalia, as she spoke into a microphone connected to a digital recorder. This sequence allowed the blood to drain from Pérez’s head. Santana knew she would examine it last.
He went over to a second stainless steel table and looked at Rafael Mendoza’s naked body. Santana could see immediately that Mendoza had no appendectomy scar. He was not one of the men in the photo Gamboni had found in the loft.
Rubén Córdova’s naked body lay on a table next to Mendoza. Córdova had balloon-like paper bags around his hands and feet to entrap any trace evidence. The entry opening in
Angelina Torres looked as if she wanted to say something more. But she turned instead and followed Hidalgo out of the cubicle.
Chapter 5
----
S ANTANA AND P ETE C ANFIELD , from the Ramsey County Attorney’s Office, stood beside Reiko Tanabe in the morgue at the medical examiner’s office, a one story building just off University Avenue next to Region’s Hospital. They were dressed in green scrubs and booties. The ME wore large latex gloves and a disposable plastic apron over the scrubs. Stiff, white masks covered their mouths and noses. Santana and Canfield had rubbed wintergreen oil on the inside of their masks to cut the smell.
Tanabe had removed the black body bag and clean white sheet around Julio Pérez before fingerprinting and photographing his body with and without clothes. The tag that had been attached to his left big toe at the crime scene listed a case number, date, name and location of the body. Tanabe had attached a second tag to Pérez’s right ankle when he arrived at the morgue. The tags maintained the chain of evidence and a record of who touched the body intact.
The perforated metal sheet underneath Pérez kept the stainless steel autopsy table in the center of the room clean by allowing running water and body fluids to seep through to a metal catch basin below and down into the drains in the tile floor. A scale used for weighing organs hung over the table. The scale looked like a larger and more precise version of those found at a supermarket. A dissecting block, scalpels, ruler, pruning clippers and an electric vibrating bone saw lay on a smaller steel table opposite the scale. A wide stainless steel refrigerator door covered most of one wall. Jars of preservative on the counter held tissue samples and excised body parts. The temperature hovered just above freezing, and the room reeked of astringent cleaner, tissue preservative and bodies on the verge of decomposition.
“Hey, Doc,” Canfield said. “You know the difference between a surgeon, an internist and a pathologist?” He winked at Santana.
“I’m afraid to ask.”
A surgeon knows nothing but does everything. An internist knows everything, but does nothing. And a pathologist knows everything and does everything, but it’s too late.”
Canfield laughed uproariously at his own joke.
“Blow yourself,” Tanabe said, but Santana could tell she was smiling behind her mask.
Santana knew that Canfield told jokes to relieve his uneasiness. Prosecutors, cops, medical examiners, anyone who had to watch a body being eviscerated, had coping mechanisms. Santana remembered how he had vomited the first time. Viewing another autopsy now elicited no more of a response than if he were at the market watching butchers prepare a good cut of steak. He had learned early on that it was important to remain as detached as possible. Each body told a story of how the victim lived and how he died. Emotions often impaired objectivity. Only the body of an innocent child lying on the cold metal table still lit a fire inside him. Whether it was the result of neglect, abuse or homicide, a child’s death smoldered within him until the perp was either behind bars or dead.
Tanabe had nearly completed her external evaluation of Pérez’s body. She had started with the neck and worked her way downward to the chest, abdomen, pelvis and genitalia, as she spoke into a microphone connected to a digital recorder. This sequence allowed the blood to drain from Pérez’s head. Santana knew she would examine it last.
He went over to a second stainless steel table and looked at Rafael Mendoza’s naked body. Santana could see immediately that Mendoza had no appendectomy scar. He was not one of the men in the photo Gamboni had found in the loft.
Rubén Córdova’s naked body lay on a table next to Mendoza. Córdova had balloon-like paper bags around his hands and feet to entrap any trace evidence. The entry opening in
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