We’d barely begun to plan how we’d use the data from the scanner. One thing I knew, though, was that we’d scan every incoming body donated to the research facility, capturing three-dimensional images, inside and out, while they were still fresh corpses. Then, months later, we’d rescan their bare skeletons. Comparing the before and after scans would offer valuable insights into the intricate architecture of flesh and bone, their intimate entwining. We’d agreed to share the data with both OrthoMedica and UT’s Biomedical Engineering Department. Biomedical Engineering had asked its faculty and graduate students to submit draft proposals for using the scanner to help design high-tech artificial joints and advanced surgical tools and techniques—what one of the faculty called “the operating room of the future.” We’d also received an inquiry from the FBI Laboratory in Quantico, Virginia. One of my former students was working there on a team developing facial-reconstruction software: a way of restoring faces to the skulls of long-dead murder victims, using computer calculations rather than the sculptor’s clay used by traditional forensic artists. Our scans could allow them to see the skull beneath the skin of dozens or even hundreds of donor faces—and thus help improve the computer’s ability to model the skin atop the skulls of unknown murder victims.
Besides providing the scanner, OrthoMedica was funding two half-time assistantships. One of the half-time slots was for a graduate student in biomedical engineering, Eric Anderson, who already had training and prior experience as a scanning technician; the other slot was for Miranda, who would coordinate the arrival of the bodies with the arrival of the scanning tech. “Drop the kids off in the morning, pick ’em up after school,” she’d joked. I worried that assigning her the scanning project would spread her too thin—she was already running the bone lab and helping me on cases in the field—but after the dean’s latest call for budget cuts, it was the only way to keep her position fully funded. The truck driver seemed to have countless adjustments to make. In addition to leveling the trailer itself, he needed to attach and level a set of metal steps, as well as a hydraulic lift that hoisted patients on gurneys—or cadavers in body bags—into the imaging suite. The fellow seemed capable, so I decided to let him get by without my supervision long enough to pay a visit to Eddie Garcia. Parking my truck at the loading dock, I punched in the combination code to let myself in the back door of the Regional Forensic Center.
I took the elevator to the seventh floor. Passing the nurses’ station, I nodded and continued a few doors farther down the corridor to Eddie Garcia’s room. Knocking gently, I pushed open the door to his room and walked in, hoping I wasn’t waking him up.
I wasn’t waking him up. The room was empty. Garcia was gone.
“WHAT DO YOU MEAN, HEsigned himself out?”
“Just that,” said Arlene, the duty nurse. “He signed himself out an hour ago.”
“The man’s got nohands, ” I said. “His right arm’s grafted to his belly. How the hell did he sign himself out?” The nurse flushed, her eyes narrowing in anger or shock at what I’d said. “Oh, hell, I’m sorry, Arlene. I didn’t mean that as harshly as it sounded. What I mean is, where did he go? And why? Did Carmen check him out?”
“No.” Suddenly she began to cry. “I’m so worried about him, Dr. Brockton. I begged him not to leave. I begged him to let me call his wife. But he refused. He insisted on being discharged, and he left with that man.”
“What man? Did you know who it was?”
She shook her head, and I racked my brain, trying to remember anything Garcia might have said about friends he’d made during the year he’d lived in Knoxville. I drew a blank. As far as I knew, the M.E. and his family kept mostly to themselves, and Miranda and I were as close to them as anyone. “Was it a relative? Did the man look or sound Mexican?”
“No, he had red hair. And he sounded like he grew up around here. Said, ‘Y’all have a good un,’ as they were leaving.”
“What else do you remember about him?”
She thought for a moment, then once more shook her head in frustration. “Not much, I’m afraid. I wouldn’t be any good as a crime-scene witness.” She furrowed her brow and scrunched her mouth with the effort of concentration. “He was wearing a white shirt and a skinny black tie.”
“You mean, like a Mormon missionary? One of those bike-riding kids with a plastic name tag?”
“No, he was older than that. Thirty-five, maybe forty. And not as clean-cut as those Mormon boys.”
An alarming thought occurred to me. “Do you think Dr. Garcia might be in danger? Was he coerced into leaving with this guy?”
“No. No, it didn’t seem that way at all. Dr. Garcia acted eager to go, almost happy. The closest I’ve seen him to looking happy the whole time he’s been here.” She looked puzzled. “But it didn’t seem like the guy knew Dr. Garcia. I mean, he came to get him, and he told me that the doctor was expecting him—‘The doctor’s expecting me,’ that’s exactly how he put it—but he seemed surprised when I told him we’d need a wheelchair and really startled when he saw Dr. Garcia with his hands all bandaged and grafted.”
“Arlene, could I make a quick call?” She motioned toward the phone at the nurses’ station, and I lifted the handset and dialed 0. “Hello, this is Dr. Bill Brockton,” I told the operator. “Yes, ma’am, the Body Farm guy…. I’m just fine, thank you for asking…. Well, I’m glad you liked it, Mary Louise; I always enjoy giving those lectures for the hospital staff…. No, of course I remember you…. Listen, Mary Louise, you reckon you could put me through to the hospital’s police dispatcher, please?…No, it’s not an emergency call. At least I don’t think so…. Thank you, Mary Louise.”
I heard a click, then a pause, and then a male voice came through the receiver. “Dispatch, this is Grimes,”