DeVriess asked. “Seems kinda pointless. I mean, the body’s going to decay anyway, right?”
“Sure,” I said. “But people—the living, the ones that funerals and coffins and cemeteries are meant to console—don’t like to think about that, so they try to postpone it with embalming fluid and stainless-steel coffins and reinforced concrete vaults.” DeVriess rolled his eyes and shook his head at the folly. I didn’t like that—didn’t like his smug, superior attitude—so I went on. “You think it’s dumb?” He gave a noncommittal sideways nod. “For the sake of your client, you better hope this vault stayed nice and tight, and that flimsy wooden coffin stayed dry, and the undertaker didn’t scrimp on the embalming fluid the way so many of them do. Those might be the only things that can save his neck and save your case.” My voice had risen as I spoke, and I noticed several people looking at us. I snapped my mouth shut and moved to the other side of the grave.
The vault had kept out most of the groundwater, but not all. The rubber gasket that ran around the top of the vault’s walls must have slipped slightly out of position, for a small loop of it dangled muddily into the vault, showing where the seal had failed. A greasy moat several inches deep surrounded the coffin, which bobbed slightly from the aftershocks of the backhoe’s jarring. Perching precariously on the concrete edges, the gravedigger slipped straps of webbing underneath each end of the coffin and worked them in a foot or so, like dental floss slipping down around a giant tooth. After tying the straps to the bucket he hoisted the coffin, just as he had raised the vault lid. As it rose from the grave, a putrid stream of gray water dribbled out of one corner. It continued to drip even after it was settled on the ground, and I was glad I hadn’t offered to haul the coffin back to the morgue in my truck. The gravedigger, the hearse driver, and the two deputies heaved the coffin into the back of the hearse, and the small convoy headed back to Knoxville, a funeral procession in bizarre rewind.
CHAPTER 16
DR. JESS CARTER HAD offered to let me observe the autopsy, an invitation I accepted eagerly. I wasn’t qualified to testify in court about pathology—the medical aspects of disease and trauma, manifested in bodies that were fresher than the ones I usually studied—but I seized every opportunity I could to learn more about it. After all, what separated Jess’s work from mine was only a few days of decomposition—or even a few hours, in conditions of extreme heat, or a few saw cuts, in cases of dismemberment. So the more I knew about finding forensic evidence in fresh tissue, the better I’d be able to spot evidence in not-so-fresh tissue. Besides, Jess was a hoot—funny and irreverent, yet also dead serious about the quality of her work. She had a keen wit, a quick scalpel, and sharp eyes, and she wielded them all with equal deftness. Her red Porsche Carrera was already parked behind the morgue when I pulled in, followed by the Cadillac hearse bearing Ledbetter’s sodden coffin. As the hearse backed into the loading dock, the metal door opened and Jess emerged in scrubs, followed by Miranda, whom I hadn’t seen since the night she walked in on Sarah and me kissing. Suddenly I wasn’t so sure I wanted to be in on this autopsy after all.
They looked up as I approached, so I waved. “Hi,” I called to Jess, “welcome to the hornet’s nest. You’re pretty gutsy to get mixed up in all this.”
She shrugged. “Or not too bright. Never did like to take the safe route—usually boring.” She gave me a smile. A very tight smile, first cousin to a grimace.
“Miranda’s been telling me about some of your recent doings. Sounds like you’ve got a handful of trouble yourself.” I looked at Miranda, whose eyes flashed when they met mine. My face flushed, and I turned toward the hearse. Why was that infernal driver taking so long to unload the damn coffin?
I cleared my throat. “Well, I do have an interesting, um, case right now. I’ll t-ttell you about it later. Right now, let me go get changed so I don’t keep you waiting.” With that, I fled into the morgue, slinking into the safety of the men’s changing room. What a mess I’d made of things with Miranda. What an idiot. When I entered the autopsy room, taking refuge behind a surgical mask, I saw only Jess, scalpel in hand and headlamp on her forehead, leaning over the body. The coffin sat in a corner by a floor drain, still oozing a bit of water, or something. “Looks like you’re my diener today,” she said.
“What’s a diener?” The word rhymed with “wiener,” which is what I felt like; it was also the way a foreigner might say “dinner,” a realization that did little to ease my apprehension as she and the scalpel turned in my direction.
“Autopsy assistant. German word. Actually means ‘servant.’ Just so you’re clear on the pecking order at the moment.” She sounded mad and looked even madder.