Ben didn’t like what he was hearing, but he knew Mike was right. “Any recommendations?”
“You could look into this matter yourself. Do some checking on your own. You’ve done it before, and not altogether unsuccessfully. If you can uncover more information, or better yet a corpse, maybe I can pull some men off the serial killer case and put them on this one.”
“Where would I start?”
“You need to find out everything you can about the victim. When he doesn’t show up for work tomorrow, people are going to start talking. Listen to what they say. Find out whatever you can about your new colleagues. Given where the body was found, the guilty party may be an Apollo employee.”
Ben hated to become the company mole. It seemed like a betrayal—only two days on the job, and already he was going to be investigating his co-workers, possibly trying to incriminate them. “I’ll see what I can do. Mike—thanks for coming out.”
“No problem. If you see your sister any time soon, put in a good word for me.”
“I could try, but she wouldn’t listen.”
“Alas, ’tis only too true. Before I go, Ben—mind if I ask a question?”
“Ask away.”
“What the hell are you doing working for this big corporation?”
“I don’t under—”
“I thought you got this money-grubbing routine out of your system during the Raven, Tucker & Tubb fiasco.”
“I hardly think that was typical—”
“Have you read much Samuel Clemens—Mark Twain?”
“You’re the English major, not me.”
“Do you know the story of Tennessee gold?”
“I don’t think so.”
“It’s something Twain’s father talked about when Twain was young. He was always dreaming of easy wealth. Some of his get-rich-quick schemes involved land speculation—Tennessee gold. He never found any gold, but that desire for instant security infected Twain for the rest of his life. Even after he became a successful writer and was relatively secure financially, he continued to pursue the dream. He invested in an unperfected typesetting machine. It was supposed to revolutionize the publishing industry and make him rich beyond his wildest imagining.
“But there were development problems, complications, demands for additional start-up cash. To make a long story short, the machine drained Twain dry. And it bombed, never made a cent. Instead of being reasonably well-off, suddenly Twain was penniless. To pay off his debts, he went on the road, taking on a nightmarish schedule of speaking engagements—and this was late in his life and during a time when travel was not easy. He wrote a flurry of books of dubious quality. He did almost anything he could for money. He eventually got back on his feet financially, but it embittered him, cost him his health, estranged him from his family, and possibly contributed to the death of his wife and two daughters.” Mike’s eyebrows bounced up and down. “Get the message?”
Ben pursed his lips. “I suppose in your subtle lit-crit way, you’re suggesting that I’m chasing after Tennessee gold.”
“Yup. And I think you got it the same place Twain did. From your father.”
“Really? Christina attributed this career decision to my mother.”
“That’s possible, too.”
“Better stick with the detective work, pal. As a shrink, you stink.”
“Says you. Anyway, try to get some sleep tonight. Snuggle with your cat. Forget about the nasty world of serial killers and corpses that tumble into your arms.”
“Thanks.” Ben felt another chill creeping down his spine. “But I doubt it.”
11
THE BRUNETTE DUTY OFFICER at the front desk gave Sergeant Tomlinson directions to the X-ray room. She was good-looking and, by all indications, interested. But he wasn’t. Not that she didn’t appeal. He just had a hunch Karen wouldn’t approve, and he wasn’t about to put his relationship with his wife and daughter at risk for a quick romp with the duty officer.
He pressed the button outside the X-ray room, and a moment later the automatic lock released and the door; popped open. Good—Koregai must have received his message. Tomlinson had called ahead and learned that Koregai was doing a rework on the second of the three corpses. Sounded like a golden opportunity to Tomlinson; he crossed town in less than fifteen minutes. Of course, the blaring siren on his car helped somewhat.
Koregai had been the downtown coroner for years, far longer than Tomlinson had been on the force. In that time, Koregai had become the stuff of legends. Notoriously difficult to work with, he seemed to think that the entire law enforcement division existed solely for his benefit and pleasure. He chafed at commands and resisted all direct orders; pushy demands had a mysterious habit of causing autopsy reports to be delayed or lost. He probably would’ve been dumped long ago, if not for the fact that he was the best in the state at his job, and he was even better in the courtroom.
Tomlinson approached the table in the center of the dark room. An icy blue female corpse atop the table gave off an eerie glow under the dim fluorescent lighting. Tomlinson didn’t have to ask who she was; the absence of her head and her hands explained everything.
“I’m Sergeant Tomlinson. I’d like to observe if possible.”
There was no response from Koregai, not even a grunt.
Tomlinson decided to take his silence as approval. He read the clipboard at the end of the table. The preliminary autopsy report was on top. Tomlinson scanned the form; the phrase within normal limits jumped out at him time after time. The only deviation from the norm appeared at the bottom of the page. In the space labelled ABNORMALITIES, Koregai had scrawled: No head, no hands.
Very informative.
Koregai extinguished the overhead light. He was a short, dark man of Asian-American descent. Hardly friendly, but that was all right with Tomlinson; he couldn’t imagine anything worse than a chummy coroner. Koregai flipped the power switch on a gray box about the size of a toaster oven. A row of green lights danced across the front of the device. He picked up a small metal wand connected to the box by a spiraling cord.
The coroner activated a small tape recorder, then pressed a button on the wand. A blue beam of light emerged.
“What’s that?” Tomlinson asked.
To his surprise, Koregai answered. “Laser,” he muttered.
“What does it do?”
Koregai pressed the wand against the top left clavicle of the corpse. Slowly, methodically, he scanned her entire body, an inch at a time. “Theoretically, the synchronized laser light stimulates atoms so as to cause them to emit light in phase.”
“Oh really,” Tomlinson said. If the police academy covered this, he must’ve been absent that day. “And that’s desirable?”
“So I am told. It is supposed to make visible what would not otherwise be so.”
“I get it. Fibers. Trace evidence.”
“Exactly. Or fingerprints.”
“Wow.” Tomlinson stepped forward into the blue glow. “What a great gadget. It must be a tremendous help to you.”
“Hmmph.” Koregai’s gloved fingers moved the wand down the torso. “High-tech vacuum cleaner.”
Tomlinson observed the subtle note of disapproval and changed subjects. “I’m surprised this hasn’t been done already.”
Koregai paused for the barest of seconds, then proceeded with his examination. “I have already examined the corpse. Thoroughly.”
Tomlinson was beginning to catch on. “Then this rework wasn’t your idea?”