"Ball," the baby said, happy again.
Everyone at the bridge smiled and looked. The object drifted closer, and the voices fell silent.
"What the—?" a man finally said.
It was near enough for the crowd of people to be able to make out two undulating arms, a back with the indentation of the spine. Deeper beneath the surface, legs and feet. A body, drifting facedown in the water.
The Behavioral Science team at Quantico had signed off on Mary's profile. She and Anthony put together a press release and were presenting it to Elliot Senatra when the call came.
Elliot's body language changed in a fraction of a second. He was tense, hypervigilant. "Where?" Elliot said into the receiver. Then, "We're on our way." He hung up and looked from Mary to Anthony. "A woman's body's been found in the river near the Stone Arch Bridge at Saint Anthony Falls."
All three charged out of the room, pulling on coats as they hurried down the hallway.
The falls, located just a few blocks from the FBI building, was a popular spot with its view of the locks and jogging paths that took in the Stone Arch Bridge, Mill Ruins Park, Nicollet Island, plus both sides of the Mississippi.
Mary, Anthony, and Elliot arrived on the scene as the victim was pronounced dead. There wasn't a lot that could be processed when a body was found floating in the water, but detectives, lab techs, and the medical examiner were doing what they could. Detective Wakefield was there, along with another officer who was snapping photos. Wakefield acknowledged them with a nod; then he bent his head to converse with a nearby policeman. Reporters with TV cameras swarmed, the media outnumbering crime investigators twenty to one.
"Could be a suicide," Mary commented, crossing her arms and scanning the crowd, not wanting anybody to get ahead of themselves. Both nearby bridges were packed with people hoping to see something. "Or an accident."
"Mind if we take a look?" Anthony asked, flashing his ID.
The man with the camera stepped back. "Go ahead."
The three FBI agents approached.
The body had been pulled from the water and put in a lined body bag. From there it was taken to shore, the bag unzipped for evidence collection and photos.
"Dead less than twenty-four hours, wouldn't you say?" Mary asked, glancing up at Anthony. He was bent, hands on his knees, dark hair falling forward.
"Yeah."
Mary crouched down. If the body hadn't been found in the water, they would have documented everything on the spot, rolling her over to get both sides. Now the main objective was to keep any possible evidence inside the bag with the body. But everyone knew water usually erased all traces of evidence.
"Any visible signs of trauma?" she asked the medical examiner, a heavy middle-aged woman with graying temples.
"Not readily apparent." The ME focused back on her tablet.
The body belonged to a female, about seventeen. Her hair was blond, her skin the color of marble, her lips blue. One eye was half open, the pupil a creamy white, like a cataract.
She still had her eyes.
Mary visually studied her fingernails. Except for abrasions most likely caused by banging around in the river, they seemed unharmed. She looked up at Anthony and could see that he'd made the same observations.
He moved closer, crouching down opposite Mary. "Looks like our girl," he whispered.
"We'll have to wait for the fingerprints or her family's ID, but I think you're right."
They moved back so the crime scene investigators and medical examiner could finish up. The body was tagged, the bag zipped and secured with a seal to maintain the chain of evidence. It was then loaded into the van to be taken to the morgue.
Gillian and Ben arrived as the vehicle was pulling away. "Got caught in traffic," Gillian explained. "Looks like we missed the whole thing."
"Water cases don't take as long to process on-scene," Elliot commented.
Wakefield came up behind them. "A meeting in my office—right away." He began walking in the direction of the police station. As soon as he stepped under the crime scene tape, microphones were jammed in his face. "Come on, people. You know better than that. I can't talk to you until we have the facts."
One reporter wouldn't relent. He needed a sound bite for five o'clock. "Someone said it was a young girl. Can you confirm that?"
Wakefield stopped. "Yes. It appears to be the body of a woman. That's all I can say." He pushed them aside and continued on.
Elliot had his own technique for dealing with the mob. It could have been called pretend-they-don't-exist. It appeared to work extremely well, and Mary made a note to try it the next time she was bombarded with unwanted questions.
They must have made a strange group to anyone who met them on the city sidewalk outside the police station. Six stone-faced people, most dressed in black, moving silently and with purpose, their strides long and deliberate, looking like the opening scene of a police drama.
When they reached the seclusion of Wakefield's office, everybody began talking at once.
". . . still had her eyes."
". . . fingernails intact."
"Doesn't fit the MO."
"If it is Charlotte Henning, she wasn't killed right away." That comment came from Gillian.
Wakefield nodded in approval. "Anybody care to guess how long after she was kidnapped?" he asked.
"Twenty-four hours," Elliot said.
"Maybe longer," was Anthony's observation.
"So is it the same guy?" Ben asked, his face reflecting the confusion they all felt.
Everybody looked at Mary and Anthony. They were the experts. They were supposed to have the answers.
"Well?" said Wakefield.
Mary shook her head. "I don't know."
"We need more facts," added Anthony.
"You must have some initial feeling about it," Wakefield argued.
"There are similarities," Mary said. "But they could simply be coincidence. It could even be a sort of copycat. Not a deliberate copycat, but someone who was given the idea to kidnap and kill a blond teenage girl. I'm hoping the autopsy reveals something. I'd like in on it, if that can be arranged."
"Shouldn't be a problem," Wakefield said. "Anybody else want their name on the list?"
"I may not be able to make it, but put me down," Anthony said.
"Me too." That from Gillian.
"What about you?" Wakefield was looking at Ben, who'd suddenly turned a pasty white.
He glanced at Gillian, as if expecting her to come to his rescue. "Uh, I'm not sure I'm ready for an autopsy."
"This would be a good one to start on. She's pretty fresh."
Ben gestured with his hands buried deep in the pockets of his black hooded sweatshirt. "Sure. Okay."
Chapter 12
Ben didn't show up.
At least he called, telling Gillian he didn't think he was going to make it. She wouldn't hold his squeamishness against him. She remembered her first autopsy. The anticipation had been hell, but once she was in the suite with the body, nothing was what she'd expected. The experience was probably different for everybody. Maybe that's why nobody told her it would border on being spiritual. The cadaver's hands had especially intrigued her, and she'd finally gotten up enough nerve to ask the medical examiner if she could touch them, hold them, feel the muscles and tendons and bones.
She wasn't especially religious, and yet she couldn't help but think of one of the most beautifully written lines from the Bible: "Behold, I am fearfully and wonderfully made." The human body was truly amazing.
Mary and Anthony arrived together, looking cool and professional as always. What was their deal? Gillian wondered. There was a weird electricity between them. It was unnerving the way they were always finishing each other's sentences and exchanging those silent communications. Yesterday when they were walking to the police station, Gillian had noticed women furtively glancing in Anthony's direction. He was striking, that was for sure, but a little intimidating for her taste.
Mary looked around the preparation room. "Where's Ben?"
"I don't think he's coming."
"Oh." Mary nodded, immediately understanding.
They began putting on protective gear.
"I'd better warn you," Gillian said as she slid a pair of Tyvek pants over her jeans. "The pathologist—Dr. Phillips—he has the reputation for being an ass."
Bending at the waist, Mary pulled paper slippers over her shoes. "I've met some of those in my life. I think I've even been one upon occasion."
Gillian laughed, surprised that Mary had made a joke.
"Does he know we're coming?" Anthony asked.
"Sure, but he didn't invite us. Cough drop?" She extended an open tin.
Mary took a lozenge and popped it in her mouth.
Anthony shook his head. "I can't handle any of that eucalyptus stuff anymore. I associate it with dead bodies."
"Luckily I haven't reached that point," Gillian said.
After donning the bio safety hoods, they moved from the preparation room to the autopsy suite, their paper suits rustling.
The Hennepin County Morgue had four exam tables, each separated by a curtain. A special room to one side was reserved for the badly decomposed. Gillian had been in there only once—and had no desire to go again. When she was done she had to throw out her clothes, and a full bottle of lemon shampoo hadn't been enough to get the stink from her hair.
Several people were already present—two detectives Gillian recognized from Homicide, along with one of the crime scene investigators, and the two policemen who'd answered the initial call. Mary and Anthony slipped into a space near the foot of the body. Gillian took a position directly opposite the infamous Dr. Phillips, the stainless steel exam table between them.
"I don't know why you can't just read my autopsy report," Phillips grumbled. "Those Tyveks aren't cheap."
Gillian looked at Mary. What'd I tell you?
The table was equipped with one of the newer down vents rather than an exhaust fan above the work area. Next to the doctor were trays containing some of the tools of his trade: scalpels, saws, needles, tweezers, mallets, and shears. The exam hadn't started, yet the overpowering smell of formalin filled the room. The cough drop didn't help. Instead, the synergy of the two odors created something entirely new and repulsive, and Gillian decided Anthony might have a point about eucalyptus.
"It used to be nobody wanted to see an autopsy," Dr. Phillips remarked. "Now so many people want in on it that we've had cases where we had to hold a lottery."
The nude body was removed from the sealed body bag and placed on the funneled exam table, a case number attached to her shoulder: ME-02-652. Her skin had a waxy, transparent quality, her hair matted, her lips almost black. In death, there was something regal and beautiful about her. And, as with all the dead, something secretive and mysterious.
The exam began with the doctor recording vital statistics—name, race, social security number, date of birth, medical history, and case number—into the tiny microphone clipped to his scrub suit. "This is the body of a well-developed, well-nourished white female," Dr. Phillips stated. "She is five feet seven inches tall, weighing approximately one hundred and thirty pounds."
The body had already been identified by the family as Charlotte Henning. Now it was gone over from head to toe. Case numbers were also affixed to various areas of the body as they were examined. Photos were taken with a digital and a 35-millimeter camera.
"I like to have negatives for the file," Dr. Phillips said.
The epidermis was examined.
"Some slight tissue damage on both sides of the mouth," he said. He pulled the swing-arm light closer. With a scalpel, he lightly scraped the abrasion. "I'm removing some foreign material from the right side of the face, below the cheekbone. Slide." His assistant stepped forward, and Dr. Phillips transferred the possible evidence from the scalpel to the slide.
He continued with the preliminary pass, examining the body from front to back, the diener helping at the appropriate times. More photos were taken. He made note of any birthmarks; those were also photographed.
"Abrasions on both wrists." Photos of the wrists were taken.
Scrapings were lifted from beneath the fingernails. Then, using the scalpel, he cut around the wrist and slipped the withered, unprintable skin of the entire hand away until it lay like a crumpled latex glove in his palm. As in most cases where the body had been submerged in water, the skin slipped free easily.
"Who has small hands?" he asked, eyeing the audience.
One detective and a cop took a step back. Gillian offered her gloved hand, which he accepted. He slipped the peeled skin over hers, smoothing the fingertips so a decent print could now be retrieved. His assistant produced the metal container of ink. Wearing the skin, Gillian inked all of the fingers and thumbs and then pressed the prints onto cards. Even when family or friends had visually identified a body, prints were always taken.