The small-town hospital sat snugly between May’s clinic and the dentist’s office, the three businesses sharing a single operating room when surgeries or emergencies cropped up. The room had seen its fair share of chaotic injuries, but nothing like this.
“Sounds good,” May said, tying back her hair with quick precision. “I already contacted a forensic scientist colleague in Anchorage and we’ll see what we can do from here. But we’ll still need to send the body to the city when we get the chance.” But now wasn’t the time to dwell on that.
Taking a deep breath, May strode with Ophelia through the hub of her office and into the operating room. Brock already waited, his expression a mix of grim resolve and shared grief.
“You acting here as the sheriff?” she asked Brock, her tone more brisk than she intended.
He exhaled. “I don’t know. I’m not the sheriff, but I’m the best we have right now.”
“Well,” she said firmly, gesturing toward the door, “you two need to leave, please. I need to keep this place sterile.”
Ophelia frowned, but Brock gave a short nod.
“I mean it, Agent,” May added, emphasizing Ophelia’s title on purpose.
Ophelia blinked, then finally turned and followed Brock out.
The room fell into silence as May turned to the body on the table. Her heart clenched. She’d never met Tamara. What a waste of a young life—and those poor kids left behind without their mother.
She took a moment to ground herself, then booted up the computer. She still needed coffee, damn it. The internet was unpredictable at best, but for now, it held. She initiated a call to the forensic lab in Anchorage, and a familiar face appeared on the screen.
Dr. Elijah Porter. He was younger than most forensic experts she’d met, probably mid-thirties, with close-cropped auburn hair and wire-rimmed glasses that magnified his intelligent, steady gaze. They’d crossed paths at a conference two weeks previous when she’d ventured as far as Anchorage, where he’d given a sharp, no-nonsense presentation on managing evidence preservation in extreme environments.
“May,” Elijah said, his voice calm. “Thank you for calling me in on this. What have you got?”
“A body,” she said plainly. “We’re isolated, and the weather’s about to trap us here for a few weeks. I need to conduct a partial autopsy remotely.”
His face tightened, but he nodded, all business. He’d asked her out in Anchorage, and she’d pretty much run away. “All right. Let’s get started. Walk me through the scene.”
May switched on the overhead light and angled it to better illuminate the body on the examination table. The harsh light cast long shadows over the sterile metal surface. She scanned the area beneath the body and along the sides of the table for any fluids or evidence that might have seeped out during transport. A faint, reddish-brown stain clung to the edges of the table, likely from thawing during the move.
“Residual fluid,” May murmured as she leaned in closer, swabbing the edge of the stain with a sterile cotton swab. The cold antiseptic smell in the room mixed uneasily with the faint metallic scent clinging to Tamara's remains.
Elijah’s image on the screen flickered as he adjusted his view. “That tracks. If she died in June and was exposed to the heatfor weeks, most of the blood would have pooled, dried, or been absorbed. What you’re seeing now is from the thaw after she was moved. She bled out when it was warm.”
May’s stomach tightened as she took in the full picture. “So the environment sped things up and then preserved her.”
Elijah nodded. “Apparently.”
May retrieved forceps and lifted a strand of brittle hair near the back of the head. The strands broke apart as she touched them, crumbling into small, dry pieces. She carefully placed the largest intact pieces into a collection bag. The rest would be useless for further testing.
She adjusted the light again and leaned toward the ragged fabric of Tamara’s tattered jacket. “I’m taking fiber samples from the clothing remnants,” she said aloud for the recording. She gently sliced away a portion of the frayed sleeve and placed it in a labeled evidence bag.
Elijah leaned closer to his screen. “Show me the skull.”
May repositioned the camera to highlight two dents in the skull. The larger one was jagged and deep, while the smaller one was almost circular.
“Blunt force trauma,” May murmured as she traced the edges of the depression with a sterile probe. “But different shapes—could they both come from the same weapon?”
“Maybe,” Elijah replied thoughtfully. “If it was something irregular, like a crowbar, or if the killer changed the angle of the strikes. But it could also be two different weapons.”
May leaned in further, noting the splintering along the edges of the larger depression. “Whatever they used, they hit her hard enough to fracture the bone. This wasn’t an accident. No fall does this.”
Elijah nodded slowly, his expression grim. “This was deliberate. You can confirm the manner of death as homicide.”
The words settled heavily in the room. May felt a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature. Tamara hadn’t slipped and fallen. She hadn’t gotten lost or injured. Someone had attacked her—brutally.
May shifted her focus to the hollow orbits of the eyes. The edges of the sockets were uneven and frayed, as if something had chewed at them.
