“Thank God they found that mission boy.” She motions toward the door that will take me more deeply into the morgue. “Doc’s expecting you.”
I push through the double doors. Ahead, through the blinds of his glassed-in office, I see Doc Coblentz at his desk, leaning back in his big leather chair, his smartphone pressed against his ear. The sight of his feet atop his desk gives me pause. He’s wearing his trademark scrubs with black socks and an unsightly pair of orange Crocs. Across from him is a studious-looking African American man with a salt-and-pepper goatee, horn-rimmed glasses, and close-cropped silver hair. I guess him to be in his mid-fifties. Judging from the scrubs, he’s a colleague, perhaps to consult on the bones.
Coblentz spots me and motions me in. His visitor rises and, offering a friendly smile, extends his hand. “You must be Chief Burkholder.”
I smile back. “Guilty as charged.”
He gives my hand a firm and lingering shake. “I’m Doctor John Harris, coroner up in Lucas County.” He nods toward Coblentz. “Ludwig asked me to drive down to consult on your John Doe.”
“I appreciate your coming down, Doctor Harris,” I tell him.
“You just missed Doctor Stevitch.” He sets his thumb and forefinger against his goatee, and in that moment he reminds me of a mathematician whose curiosity has been sparked by an abstract concept. “You have a very interesting case on your hands.”
Doc Coblentz finishes his call. “Hi, Kate.” His eyes flick to his colleague. “All I have to do is tell him we’ve found bones, and he drops everything and shows up.”
“We went to med school together,” Harris tells me.
“Back when dinosaurs ruled the earth,” Doc adds.
“And we were more interested in poisoning ourselves with good Mexican tequila than dissecting cadavers.”
“We killed a lot of brain cells in our early years,” Coblentz says with a laugh. “In any case, Kate, John has been coroner up in Lucas County for…” He looks at Harris. “… Twenty-two years now?”
Harris nods. “Twenty-three next month.”
“Good God, we’re getting old.” Coblentz shakes his head. “His subspecialty, however, is forensic osteology.”
“The study of bones,” I say. “I’ve been reading up on it.”
Harris grins. “In other words, I didn’t drive all the way down to Painters Mill to have a drink with an old friend.”
“Although we may somehow work that in to our schedules,” Coblentz adds.
I’ve known Doc Coblentz for about four years now, and this is a side of him I’ve not seen. More often than not he’s cranky and grim and not always pleasant to be around. In light of his profession, I’m heartened to see this lighter aspect of his personality.
Doc Coblentz motions to his office door. “Shall we?”
We start down the hall, stopping at the alcove where packaged biohazard protection supplies are stored. As we enter, I notice Carmen has set out three sets of protective gear for us. The plastic wrappers crackle as we extract paper gowns, shoe covers, and hair caps. Once we’re suited up, Doc Coblentz hands me a pair of latex gloves and motions toward the autopsy room. “I think you know the way.”
The autopsy room is about twenty feet square with gray ceramic tile walls and the acoustics of a cave. Despite the cleanliness of the place and a state-of-the-art HVAC system, the first thing I notice upon entering is the lingering smell of death and the equally unpleasant odor of formalin. Fluorescent light illuminates gleaming stainless steel counters. The backsplash is lined with a multitude of small buckets, plastic containers, and assorted apothecary-type jars. Butted against the far wall are two double sinks with arcing faucets. Higher, glass cabinets with stainless steel shelves are organized with bottles and instruments and other tools of the trade. A scale hangs down to about eye level, and I can’t help but notice it’s disturbingly similar to the kind used at the local grocery store.
There are two stainless steel gurneys in the room. Both are in use, the bodies draped with sheets. I’ve been here enough times, seen enough victims, to know neither body is that of an adult. I assume one is the bones, the other a child. Only then does it strike me that the second body is more than likely that of little Lucy Kester. Something goes cold inside me at the sight of the small, still form. I don’t even realize I’ve stopped until I hear my name.
“Kate?”
I look up to see Doc Coblentz looking at me oddly, wondering why I’ve stopped in the middle of the room. “Is that Lucy Kester?” I ask.
He nods, his expression grim. “Always hate it when children come in.”
I wonder if he knows I was one of the first responders. That I was one of the last people to hold her while she was still alive. That I may have inadvertently played a role in her death. “Have you done the autopsy?” I ask.
“Not yet.”
“Let me know what you find, will you?”