‘Not yet,’ Carter admits. ‘We’re door-knocking at the colleges. After this, you’re free to do a full examination, take prints and so on. Then I imagine we’ll know soon after.’
‘And this young lady is …’ Friedrich’s tie twists a little as his head turns.
‘This is Miss Lewis. She’s going to be viewing the body and providing some insight.’
‘And Miss Lewis’s area of expertise is …’
‘Serial killers.’ Emma, tired of Friedrich’s trailing sentences, perhaps. She has her hands deep in the pockets of her vest. ‘My area of expertise is serial killers.’
‘Ah.’ Wisely, Friedrich doesn’t push further. They’ve reached a set of tall white wooden doors. ‘Well, here we are.’
‘Here we are,’ Carter says. ‘Could you excuse us for a moment, Doctor? If you’d like to get set up, we’ll be right in.’
‘Certainly, certainly,’ Friedrich says. He opens one of the white doors and slips inside the autopsy room.
Carter shuts the door carefully behind Friedrich before turning to Emma. ‘Are you cool to do this, Miss Lewis? I’m serious. I didn’t want to ask before, but if you’re really struggling—’
‘I’m not.’ Emma looks at the door handle, away. ‘I mean, I’m struggling. But I’m cool to do this.’
‘Okay.’ Carter puts a palm on the white wood. ‘Would you prefer Dr Friedrich not be in the room?’
She swallows. ‘I don’t know. Maybe? I don’t know.’
‘Let’s play it by ear, then. All right. We’re going to go in now.’
‘Okay.’
He looks at her carefully: her breathing is short and high, her shoulders tight. But she said she’s okay. Take it slow.
He opens the door. In the old autopsy room, the tiles on the walls are a dingy white. Large ventilation units are set over the autopsy tables, like range hoods over a home stovetop. The tables are of the obsolete porcelain type made in Chicago in the 1930s – solid, thick-edged, and chunky. Less industrial-looking than the modern metal tables.
Dr Friedrich stands on the far side of the second table. He has opened up the long black body bag and laid a drape over the form inside. Carter walks closer, Emma Lewis matching his echoing steps. By the time they reach the table, she has slipped her hands out of her pockets, clenched them into fists at her sides. Her face, since they came in the door, has the expressionless cast of the condemned.
Friedrich holds the edge of the drape. ‘She’s intact as she was found. Not the positioning, of course, they had to lay her straight to put her on the stretcher.’
Carter knows this is a very long way from standard procedure. Typically, the body would have been autopsied by now, and fingerprints and dental shots taken for a fast identification. He was the one who gave the order putting a hold on all that, sacrificing thecrucial first hours of early victim ID to give Emma Lewis a chance to look, and hopefully rule out a worst-case scenario.
‘How was she found?’ Carter asks for Emma’s benefit; he already knows.
‘Propped up on the curb by a bus stop. The exact location is in the report, with the photographs. She’s holding a small bouquet – I asked them to bring her in with it still in place.’
‘Okay, thank you, Doctor,’ Carter says.
‘Are you ready for me to …’
Carter nods. Friedrich checks Emma’s face, then draws the drape aside.
Oh, Lord – behold, I tell you a mystery.Here she is now, this poor young woman, in blue-gray tones. Her mouth and eyes are open, one iris milky in death. The other iris is a watery green. Carter can see the blood shot through the sclera. Bruising shows at the neck, on her face, and down her arms.
The autopsy room has a faint scent of decay, stronger since Friedrich lifted the drape, but Carter’s trying to block it out. He wants to focus just on the victim. The body smells of damp, from the situation she was found in, and of mothballs, probably from the dress. Friedrich has exposed her all the way to her hips. She looks cold. Even though he knows that this girl is beyond feeling it, Carter’s own flesh goosebumps in sympathy.
Emma Lewis stands absolutely still beside him. Carter has read Ed Cooper’s old reports; he knows Emma is a soldier in this war. They have a chance now, to catch the man who did this, to hold him to account. The girl laid out before them is gone, but she can still speak and tell her story, if someone cares enough to listen close.
He angles his head. ‘Miss Lewis, what do you see?’
There’s a long pause, and then –
‘Bridal dress.’ Her voice is faint. ‘He’s put a veil on her.’
