She read and reread postmortem findings in head injury victims. Reviewed anatomy she had long ago memorized, and studied the different effects of bleeding on the brain and midline shifts. She outlined the requirements of a thorough neurological postmortem, the types of tissue samples taken and the techniques used to sequester these specimens. She reviewed skull fractures, and the different patterns of bone disruption that allowed a medical examiner to make educated guesses about the weapons used to cause the damage. Then she picked up a giant book titled Clinical Therapeutics and painstakingly reviewed pharmacology, specifically covering drug-to-drug interactions in the geriatric population. She rediscovered scores of medications with long, rambling names she vaguely remembered from medical school and committed them to memory. Finally, she studied cerebrovascular accidents—strokes— and the examination techniques that best uncover them when they are not as obvious as a large vessel bursting the middle of the brain.
When she finished, Livia still had thirty minutes before the office would fill with staff. She topped off her coffee and pulled Megan McDonald’s book from her bag. Sitting at her desk in the fellows’ office, she skimmed through the final chapters. She imagined her mother and father lying in bed, fingers tracing along the same book looking for clues that might tell them what had happened to their daughter. There too, in Livia’s mind, was Barb Delevan’s house with drawn curtains and the smoky haze and a half-spent vodka bottle. Her parents’ picture-still house Friday night bore a striking resemblance to Barb Delevan’s home—a place and its residents stuck in the past, unable to partake in the present.
The thing that prevented her parents and Barb Delevan from moving forward was the same relentless undercurrent of energy that prevented Livia from clear-minded thinking. It was the need for answers. The absence of closure was a tether anchored soundly to the past that caused an anachronism as time slowly chugged by—days and weeks and years—incarcerating a sliver of the soul while life continued on.
Livia turned the last page of Megan’s book when she heard her name being called.
“Paging Dr. Cutty,” Kent Chapple said from the hallway. “We are officially ready to roll.”
Livia looked up from the pages.
“Time to roll, Doc,” Kent said. “Call came in overnight, we’ve gotta hit the road.”
Throughout the year of training, each fellow was required to participate in two weeks of ride-alongs with the morgue investigators, formally termed Medicolegal Investigators, where they would observe scene-investigation techniques as well as the process of body sequestration. It was a week away from the morgue, strategically placed throughout fellowship to avoid burnout. During the course of autopsying 250 bodies in twelve months, every fellow needed a break. Livia was up first, and after Friday’s dismal performance in the cage, the timing couldn’t have been better.
Livia shuffled papers on her desk, gathered them and dumped them—along with Megan’s book—into the bottom drawer as Jen Tilly and Tim Schultz came into the office. She stood up and, wearing jeans and a blouse in lieu of scrubs, grabbed her black windbreaker that held OCME in yellow lettering on the breast and MEDICAL EXAMINER across the back.
“See you guys,” Livia said.
“Good luck,” Jen said.
“Don’t kill anyone,” Tim said.
“Funny, Tim. Hope your stomach’s okay this week.”
Livia waved and was gone.
“Heard Colt opened fire on you in the cage last week,” Kent said as they walked the hallway.
“Good news travels fast.”
Kent laughed. “People are calling it a massacre.”
“You’ve got to be famous for something, I guess,” Livia said.
“Good timing for ride-alongs. Looks like I’m your savior.”
“That’s for sure. Get me out of here before Dr. Colt sees me.”
They walked through the back door of the morgue and out into the sunny fall morning. Kent opened the sliding door to the morgue van and Livia climbed into the backseat. She wasn’t sure what she expected, but the intimate quarters she found inside the van were not it. Although the past three months saw her face-to-face with corpses, she expected some separation from them here, a partition of some sort, but there was none. Directly behind the two captain’s seats, the rear of the van held an empty gurney waiting to be filled with a body that would ride next to her for as long as it took to get back to the office.
“Good morning, Dr. Cutty,” Sanj Rashi said from the driver’s seat as Livia climbed into the van. Another investigator, Sanj was of Indian decent with dark skin, black hair, thick eyebrows, and a perfectly Brooklyn accent. He was born and raised in New York, and came to the North Carolina OCME after college at Rutgers—New Brunswick.
“Morning, Sanj,” Livia said as Kent slid closed the door and climbed into the passenger seat.
“You’re late,” Sanj said to Kent.
“Yes, I am. And here’s your coffee as my punishment.” Kent placed a Starbucks coffee into the cup holder of the console.
“Sugar, no cream?”
Kent gave his partner an ugly look. “It’s not the first time I’m late.”
“Let me guess. A fight with the wife sent you to Tinder Valley for the night?”
“Traffic sucks when you’re coming from the sticks.”
“When the shit hits the fan at home, you can always stay at my place.”
“Thanks, partner. But when I need to get away, I want my solitude.”
Kent punched information into the GPS and shuffled papers on a metal clipboard. “First stop this week, Anthony Davis. Fifty-five-year-old male found dead by his landlord after NCFO.”
Sanj started the van and the investigators buckled their seat belts.
Livia pulled the belt across her chest. “NCFO?” she asked.
Sanj put the van into gear and turned to Livia. “Neighbors Complained of Foul Odor. You didn’t think we’d break you in with anything fresh, did you?”
The van lurched forward as Sanj and Kent laughed. It was going to be an interesting week, but at least she’d be away from Dr. Colt and the cage.
*
The apartment complex was on the border of Montgomery County. They parked in the lot and surveyed the three-story brown brick building that held twelve units. A small crowd had gathered near the front entrance and all eyes were trained on the morgue van as they pulled up. Kent and Sanj climbed out and opened the back doors to retrieve the gurney, on top of which rested a canvas bag containing everything they might need once inside. Livia followed them as they pushed the gurney past the police cars, whose lights were flashing, and climbed the stairs to enter the building.
An officer from the sheriff’s department met them just inside the doors.
“This is the owner of the building,” the officer said. “He’ll escort you.”
The man introduced himself. Sanj shook hands.
“Sanj Rashi.” He pointed at Kent and Livia. “Kent Chapple, investigator with the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner. And Dr. Livia Cutty, Medical Examiner.” He pointed down the hallway. “Where’re we at?”
“Second floor,” the owner said, and everyone packed into the elevator with the ominously empty stretcher.
When the elevator doors opened a moment later, Sanj inhaled deeply as if walking into a fresh spring morning. “And, there it is,” he said.
The owner pulled out his handkerchief and put it over his nose. “Yeah. Neighbors called two days ago to report the smell. I was finally able to get over here this morning. Opened the door and nearly lost it. Entire complex stinks now.”
The owner led them down the hallway to unit 204, pushed open the door, and shook his head. “You need me for anything? Otherwise, I’m outta here.”
“Go,” Sanj said. “If we need anything, we’ll come down.”