He dressed and a half hour later, he and Tracker were headed north into the city. This morning, he drove across the Victory Memorial Bridge toward the medical examiner’s office. As he turned onto Rs Gass Boulevard, he passed the sleek offices of the Tennessee Bureau of Investigation where his brother Alex worked as an agent. A little farther down the road past an old building there was an old brick building that had once been an orphanage run by the Masons. He pulled into a parking spot in front of the office of the medical examiner.
He brought Tracker inside and after they were admitted beyond the lobby, the dog was able to follow him as far as the hallway outside the exam room. Rick ordered Tracker to sit in the hallway while he pushed through metal doors. There he found the medical examiner standing at the head of a stainless-steel table sporting a sheet-draped body.
In her mid thirties, Dr. Heller had moved to Nashville two years ago. She’d quickly won the respect of the officers who admired her work. A tall woman, with the long, lean body of a runner, she rarely wore makeup on her smooth olive complexion and always twisted her long, dark hair in a tight knot. Her blue eyes had an almond tilt that gave her an exotic beauty.
“Where’s wolf dog?” Her lab coat covered a silk blouse and skinny jeans.
“In the hallway hanging out.”
“How long will he just sit there?”
“Until I return.” A handler and his canine operated as a single unit and much was communicated with a look or a sound.
“How’s his leg?”
“Not bad. No more running for him but he gets by.”
“And how’re you doing?”
“Me? I’m just fine.” And that had been the party line since he’d woken up from his first surgery after the shooting. He’d never considered himself permanently injured or disabled. Never. “I hear you have the house fire victim.”
“Finished the autopsy last night.”
The doors to the room opened and Jake Bishop appeared. As always, he wore a crisp dark suit, dark shirt, and those damn polished cowboy boots. He moved with swagger.
“Good,” Dr. Heller said. “The whole gang’s here. I won’t have to repeat myself.”
Detective Bishop nodded. “Dr. Heller. How goes it? Looking lovely as always.”
An amused brow arched as she removed rubber gloves from her white physician’s jacket and moved to a wall of refrigerated body-storage cabinets. She donned the gloves and opened the second from the left. Inside lay a draped figure. A sheet covered the body’s shriveled flesh and sinew eaten by the fire. She pulled back the sheet and revealed a blackened skull attached to a torso, singed black. Hands and feet had been burned away as had the arms to the elbow and the legs to the knees.
“Your victim was a female. I was able to take X-rays and as luck would have it, she had a hip implant that had a serial number on it. I’ve sent off a request to the manufacturer for a name of the doctor who implanted it.”
“She was older?”
“No. Mid thirties. My guess is the implant came after an accident.”
“Good work,” Rick said.
“Your victim also didn’t die as a result of the fire. She was shot in the head. Judging by the hole made by the bullet at her right temple, I’d say she was shot at close range.” Dr. Heller reached for an evidence bag, which contained a single slug. “She would’ve died instantly.”
Rick took the bag and held it up. He guessed the gun had been a .45 caliber. “The fire was set to hide the forensic evidence.”
Bishop shrugged. “Or because the killer likes fires.”
A legitimate theory. Arsonists set fires for a variety of reasons. Some did it for profit, others to hide evidence, and others set their blazes because they liked to watch the flames dance and destroy.
“I X-rayed her bones and there’re no signs of older breaks or traumas other than the hip. I’ve run some tests on what flesh I do have and am testing for drugs but I won’t have toxicology test results for a few weeks on that.”
Rick stared at the bullet hole in the side of the skull and tried to imagine how the murder had played out. Murphy had said the fire had frozen her extremities outstretched, leading him to believe that when she’d been shot, she’d likely been tied to the bed. Had the killer planned the murder and fire all along or had the fire been an afterthought? If he had to guess, he’d say very planned considering the amount of diesel found at the scene.
“As soon as we’ve a name, we can start putting the pieces together,” Bishop said.
“Anything else you can tell me about her?”
“I estimate her height to be about five-seven. She was Caucasian.”
Rick pulled his notebook from his breast pocket and scribbled down the details.
Dr. Heller pulled the sheet back over the body. “Keep me posted. I want to know who would work so hard to destroy all traces of another human being.”
Rick nodded. “Sure. We’ll make sure you get updates. How about the little Jane Doe’s skull?”
“The child.” A bitter edge had crept into her tone.
“Yes.”
“I can’t tell you much. At a young age, bones aren’t fully formed so many of the markers that would tell me more aren’t there.”
“We spoke to the forensic artist yesterday,” Rick said. “She’s agreed to help.”
Dr. Heller’s solemn expression grew more severe. “Whom did you line up?”
“Her name’s Jenna Thompson,” Rick said. “She’s a sworn officer in the Baltimore Police Department. She’s taking leave and will be here a few more weeks.”
“I’ve heard of Jenna Thompson,” Dr. Heller said. “She has a good reputation.”
“You’ve heard of her?”
“It’s a small world. She’s done some excellent work. I look forward to meeting her.”
“I told her to be here by two this afternoon.”
“Excellent.” Dr. Heller moved to another cabinet and opened the drawer. Lying on the large slab was a collection of tiny bones.