Maybe Colin’s lady could. Dr. Drake sure seemed to know what she was doing.
Smith pushed out of her chair. The wheels squeaked as the chair rolled behind her.
Todd stepped forward instinctively.
She lifted a hand. “Don’t even think about it. I just missed breakfast, okay? My blood sugar is too low.”
If that was the way she wanted to spin it…
Smith moved toward her desk. “Prelim is done on Michael House.” She lifted a file, handed it to Todd. “I could’ve just sent this up, but…I needed to talk to you.” She cast a quick look in Colin’s direction and after a brief pause said, “Both of you.”
From the corner of his eye, he saw Colin nod.
“So what’s the verdict, Smith?” Todd asked. He’d read the file later—every word—but when he worked a murder, he always liked to talk face-to-face with Smith—or Phillips, if that idiot was subbing for her—because he could learn more from the death doctors that way. His gaze darted to the left as he wondered where House’s body was. In the vault behind him? Sewn back together all nice and neat?
He really didn’t know how Smith did her job. Fighting criminals, finding the bodies, that was hard enough. But working with the dead, every day and night, hell, that was a whole other ball game—a gruesome, give-you-nightmares game.
“Well, I haven’t got the tox screen back yet. Even with a rush order to the lab, it’s going to take longer…”
“What have you got?” The woman was hedging.
She exhaled. “Not a hell of a lot.” For an instant, she looked just like her old self. “The guy was in good shape, a nonsmoker.
Thirty-five. No diseases or defects—”
“We know this,” Colin broke in, voice tight, arms crossed over his chest. His usual intimidating stance.
“No, I don’t think you get me,” she snapped right back at him. “The guy was in good shape. There was no sign of coronary artery disease—”
“Wait a minute—you’re telling us the guy didn’t die of a heart attack?” Todd asked, his own heart beginning to race faster.
Smith hesitated. Cast another quick look at Colin. “I’m saying the guy’s heart was in great condition. Hell, the best heart I’ve ever seen in my ten years down here.” She rubbed the back of her neck.
“How did he die, Smith?” Todd pressed.
“I can’t determine the cause of death yet. I told you…” Impatient now, her eyes narrowed, “I won’t have the tox screen for several days yet.”
Colin slowly uncrossed his arms. “So you brought us here to basically—what? Say the guy was healthy? No offense, Smith, but you could have told us this shit on the phone.” He was obviously angry, and Todd was starting to feel the same way.
Too little sleep. Too few leads. Too many bodies. And, shit, if he went back up to the captain, told him their latest vic was a prime specimen of health who’d just happened to drop dead in the middle of some sex games, McNeal would kick his ass all the way back down to the Crypt.
“There was no sign of trauma. No contusions.” She shook her head. “The man’s body was in perfect condition. Inside, and out.”
Another hesitation. “At first.”
“He was— what?” His temples throbbed. “What do you mean, ‘at first’?”
Smith reached for her white gloves. “Detectives, there is something you’ve got to see.” She walked across the room, her feet hurriedly tapping on the white tiled floor. She stopped beside a gurney. Her hands reached for the plain white sheet that covered the body. “I took him out of storage a few minutes before you arrived.”
Todd hurried to her side. Colin flanked him.
She pulled the sheet down, a faint tremble in her hands. “Check out his chest.”
Michael House’s flesh was chalky, the dried-out color of the dead. And on his chest, right over his heart and cutting across Smith’s careful stitch work, a very clear impression had formed.
The outline of a hand.
“No f**king way.” Todd leaned down for a closer look. Caught the cloying scent of the body. Fought to control an instinctual gag.
“Those are what I think are fingers.” Her gloved hand moved to the top of the marks, her index finger tracing the pattern. “The side of the hand. The palm.”
He could see it. Perfectly.
“When I began the autopsy, this injury wasn’t there.” Her hand paused over the dead man’s chest. “I sewed him back up, started the arrangements to contact the family, then I checked him again and the mark…just appeared.” Smith’s lips pursed for a moment.
“It was lighter in the beginning. This is the darkest I’ve seen it.”
It was the weirdest damn thing he’d ever seen.
“Bruising can be caused postmortem,” Smith spoke softly, thoughtfully. “I’ve heard of a case where a guy’s body was pulled from a river. Later, bruises appeared on the arm that the cop grabbed to haul the guy out of the water.”
“Are you saying that you pushed House’s chest too hard?” Colin raised a brow, waited.
“No.” Her eyes narrowed. “I’m saying this mark you see right here,” she tapped the spot, “appeared in five minutes. This isn’t just some bruise—”
“No, it isn’t.” Todd was adamant on that.
The mark wasn’t a bruise. He’d learned long ago that bruises could often show up after death and he’d certainly seen his share of those while haunting the Crypt with Smith. But this—this was different. This was the faint tracing of a hand in black, like someone had put a hand against the victim’s chest and literally drawn a line around the edges. The interior of the mark was empty, and if the mark had been the result of a blow, Todd figured there would have been a middle pressure mark or deeper finger grooves.
Shit. It was almost like f**king art. The perfect design of a hand. He exhaled. “Were the other bodies like this?”
Smith’s hand lifted. Balled into a frustrated fist. “No idea. That idiot Phillips marked ’em as natural causes. Both heart attacks. He had the bodies in and out of the Crypt—too fast.”
The bodies were already in the ground now. It would take a court order to exhume them and see if the handprint was on their chests.
His gaze dropped once more to the print. It was like someone had just touched the guy, and killed him. “You’re sure—absolutely one hundred percent certain—there was no internal trauma to the chest?”