“Jesus, you’re going to destroy three donated bodies—wreck three specimens that were supposed to go into the teaching collection—on the off chance that some Georgia cracker of a judge will be swayed by that?”
“Why not?”
“Why not? Why not? Because these bodies have been donated to us, entrusted to us. We’re supposed to study them, learn from them, treat them with respect. We’re not supposed to abuse and mutilate them.”
“There are no restrictions on how we use donated bodies,” I said. “You know the language of the donation form by heart. Legally, we’re entitled to do whatever we want to them.”
“I’m not talking about what we can do legally,” she countered. “I’m talking about what we can do ethically. Morally.”
“Why is shooting them worse than letting bugs and raccoons and buzzards feed on them?”
“Because that’s the cycle of nature,” she protested. “Because that’s what happens to bodies.”
“So does this,” I pointed out. “Not as often, but sometimes. Don’t we have a right, even a responsibility, to study this cycle, the cycle of violence? To understand more about how it affects bodies?” She made a face of distaste and shook her head slowly. “Am I remembering wrong, Miranda? Weren’t you the research assistant who helped me put two bodies in cars and set them on fire a couple of years ago? And at this very moment,” I reminded her, “don’t we have three bodies dangling from nooses?” She scowled, annoyed that I was boxing her in. I decided to stop bludgeoning her and appeal to her sense of justice, which ran strong and deep. “Look, I know it’s disturbing. But remember the experiment I did for Burt DeVriess in that murder case a couple years ago? I stabbed a body, trying to re-create the path of what a medical examiner called the fatal wound. But I couldn’t do it; it was physically impossible to make a knife zigzag around the spine and the rib cage the way the M.E. said it had. Remember that?” She nodded. “If I hadn’t taken a knife to that donated body, Grease’s client—an innocent man—would’ve been convicted of murder.” Her scowl eased slightly, and her shoulders—which had cinched up toward her ears—dropped back to horizontal. “You’ve got a younger sister, Miranda. What’s her name? Cordelia?”
“Not fair,” she said, but she didn’t sound like she really meant it. “Ophelia.”
“What if Ophelia’s partner murdered her, and was getting away with it? Wouldn’t you want to do everything possible to bring the truth to light? Wouldn’t you want other people to do that, too?”
She sighed. “We’ve got two bodies in the cooler at the morgue—they came in over the weekend—and another on the way down from Oncology this morning, probably still warm. Do you want to use those, or use the three we buried for the NFA class last week?”
“Any of the fresh ones women?”
“One. The cancer patient. Forty-two. Ovarian cancer.”
I winced. “I hate to put her through anything more.”
“She won’t feel it. And she’s a better standin for Angie’s sister than some eighty-year-old guy would be.”
“You’re right. Okay, let’s use her and whichever others are youngest and slightest.”
“Okay, I’ll let the morgue know we’re coming.” She started past me down the stairs.
“Oh, and Miranda?” She stopped, on the same stair where I was standing. “Thanks.”
She smiled slightly. “I live to serve. Anything else?”
“Well, long as you’re asking, have you got a twelve-gauge?”
She reared back and punched me in the shoulder, hard. Almost as hard as I deserved.
Chapter 5