Page 37 of Fire and Bones
“How solid is this informant?”
“Rock solid.”
I flashed back to the kitchen. Mentally probed the charred and blackened debris.
I couldn’t recall seeing any Pyrex, glass, or Corning containers. No mason jars or other glassware fitted with hoses, clamps, or duct tape. None of the usual paraphernalia associated with cooking methamphetamine.
But who knew? The scene had been one of near total devastation. I made a note to question Burgos on what he’d discovered in the course of his arson investigation. An encounter I wasn’t eagerly anticipating.
“The fire could have been triggered by a meth lab explosion,” Doyle said.
“Happens all the time.” I’d watched every season of Breaking Bad.
“The four victims are asleep on the upper floors while some creep cooks drugs below them?” Tense. “That’s heartless.”
“Not to mention criminal.”
The image flamed anger in my chest, quick and hot.
“And what about your subcellar victim?” Doyle continued. “Was she involved in the drug operation? Did she die of an overdose? Was she innocent collateral? Did she find out about the meth and threaten to blow the whistle? Who—”
“Speculation is pointless,” I said.
“Agreed.”
But Doyle had raised some interesting points.
What about my belowdecks corpse?
The home had been built in 1911. When had the woman died? How?
Why the burlap sack?
How had her body ended up in the subcellar?
The subcellar that was mysteriously absent from the architectural plans.
CHAPTER 9
Thacker held the four fire DOAs for standard postmortems but asked that I remain on call, saying she was certain my expertise would be needed for trauma assessment. Due to my involvement in the recovery of the subcellar vic, she requested that I handle those remains. Said—whined?—that she was short-handed due to staff illnesses, requests for personal time off, a resignation, blah, blah, blah.
Though eager to get back to Charlotte to salvage some sort of getaway with Ryan, I agreed, but added that I wanted to begin without delay. Thacker had no problem with my working on Sunday.
Breakfast was French toast and grilled peaches, served by Lan. Who apparently put in very long days.
DC’s Consolidated Forensic Laboratory has four autopsy suites offering a total of seven stations. Though it was Memorial Day weekend, the place was buzzing. Because it was Memorial Day weekend. Americans excel at harming themselves and others during holiday breaks. Too much booze? Too much pent-up frustration? Too many contact hours with family? Whatever. Celebratory fiestas send increased numbers rolling through morgue doors.
By eight a.m. I was suited up and prepping in one of the lab’s single-table rooms. The equipment was shiny new but standard. Stainless-steel counters, fixtures, and scales. Computer terminal. Whiteboard. Smartboard. Sealed waste receptacles for biohazard materials. Plastic-lined cardboard boxes for regular trash. Overhead fluorescents. Epoxy-coated concrete floor.
Jamar was already there when I arrived. Like Lan, the tech logged some serious hours. In response to my comment about his holiday schedule, he smiled, tipped his head, and purred one word. “Overtime!”
While I created a case file on my laptop—call me paranoid, but I always keep my own copy, both hard and digital—Jamar went to the cooler in search of the subcellar DOA. Case #25-02106.
I was masking and pulling on surgical gloves when Jamar reappeared, dreads bobbing, pushing a rolling gurney through the door. Centered on the stainless-steel was the burlap sack.
Slowly, the room began yielding to the familiar odors of death. Mildewed fabric. Moldy leather. Refrigerated flesh.
After snugging one end of the gurney to the sink, Jamar moved to the computer terminal and worked the keyboard to log us into the system.