Page 57 of Identity Unknown
“Are you calling it a homicide?” Gus peers through the observation window, looking down, his hands in the pockets of his shapeless gray trousers.
“If a human is responsible, yes,” I reply. “If we’re talking about something else, then I don’t have an answer.”
“You mean if a nonhuman intelligence did it,” AARO says.
“Legally, a homicide is one human killing another,” I tell them. “A death caused by an animal is an accident. If it were proven that a nonhuman intelligence was to blame? Which I’ve never heard of, by the way. Well, I don’t know what that would be. There’s no existing medico-legal category for deaths caused by the paranormal.”
“I guess we might have to come up with a new term,” Marino decides. “We should have a long time ago.”
“Let’s hope that won’t be necessary.” I screw the top on a jar of tissue sections, the formalin tinted pink from blood.
Marino returns the bag of sectioned organs to the chest cavity as I thread a surgical needle with twine. I close the Y-incision, returning the sawn-off skull cap to the proper position, pulling the scalp over it before suturing ear to ear along the hairline. I follow my usual procedures with military precision while knowing the futility. It doesn’t stop me.
I carry on as if Sal is destined for a proper funeral home where he’ll have a proper viewing and proper burial with a proper crowd of those who loved and respected him. It’s not going to happen. There’s nothing proper about any of this. It’s made all the more disgraceful by the slights against everything he stood for. As if being terrorized and killed suggests he must have done something to cause it.
We seal the body in another clear plastic total containment pouch, and I spray it and our work area with a powerful disinfectant. Marino and I douse ourselves from head to toe, the liquid lightly spattering plastic. We take off our PPE, the room sharply pungent with the odor of hydrogen peroxide that masks everything else.
By now the second-floor observation area is dark. No one is left except Lucy silhouetted behind glass.
“What happens next?” I ask.
Stepping closer to the hardwired phone on the countertop, I look up at the shape of her.
“Nothing more for now,” she says. “You’ve done enough.”
“Meaning what?”
“DNA has verified his identity, and there’s nothing more you can help with tonight.” Her voice is firm over speakerphone. “We’ll handle it from here.”
“Sounds good to me.” Marino’s quick to agree.
“I’m not finished.” I’m well aware that the Secret Service is in charge of the investigation. Technically, I answer to Lucy right now.
“We’ve got everything covered,” she says. “You’ve got a car waiting. Go get some rest.” It sounds like an order.
“Get some rest where?” Marino asks.
“The Langley Inn.”
“Fine by me.” He’s more than happy to comply, and I’m not.
“The body is evidence,” I explain. “I have to sign off on its release and testify truthfully about its disposition.”
“We consider the remains extremely hazardous. Or theycould be.” Lucy’s tone doesn’t invite discussion. “Therefore, we’ll dispose of them in the safest manner possible. That’s the protocol. No exceptions.”
“Dispose of it where?” Marino uses a twist-tie to secure a biohazard trash bag.
“Here.”
“Wherehere?” He frowns up at her shadowy figure behind the observation glass.
“Below ground,” she tells him as I envision the smokestack rising from the center of the blockhouses. “A cramped claustrophobic place you’d really hate.”
“No thanks,” he says.
“I need to see what you’re talking about,” I tell her in a reasonable tone that belies what simmers deep inside.
“It’s not necessary.”