Years ago, when Greene started on the force, the coroner’s office was housed in an old, wood-panelled, Victorian-era building with high ceilings and stone walls. Despite the grim tasks being done inside, there had been a friendly informality about the place. Back then Toronto was a much smaller city, there were hardly any guns around, and most of the murders were crimes of passion. The receptionists, the support staff, the pathologists, even the cleaners—everyone knew each other, everyone worked together. There were no identification cards or even sign-in sheets. He would walk in, wave at the receptionist, and go inside. No problem.
Now the city was three times bigger and the murder rate had grown with it. The coroner’s building had moved to a concrete, ultra-modern facility. Greene hadn’t been here since they’d installed a sterile security system that started with a bored-looking young man behind a bulletproof-glass window, tapping on his cell phone. He took his time before he peered up at Greene, then hit a switch on his desk. His tinny, mechanical-sounding voice came through a small square speaker at the top of the glass.
“Purpose of your visit,” he said.
“My name is Detective Ari Greene. I’m here to observe an autopsy.”
Why else would he be here? Greene thought. And why a bulletproof window? Did a faceless bureaucrat think some gang members were going to try to blast their way inside to kill someone who was already dead? He fished out his identity card from his wallet and put it up to the glass.
“I spoke to Mr. Krangle. Take a look, my name should be on your list.”
Krangle was the manager who’d been in charge of the Coroner’s Office for years. He ran the place with an iron fist in a velvet glove, cajoling, bargaining with, and forcing his team of pathologists—whom he liked to call “physician prima donnas”—when he had to get them to come in on short notice to perform urgent autopsies in the middle of the night or on holiday weekends.
Krangle, who spoke in short sentences, had been all business when they’d talked earlier.
“What do you need?” he’d asked Greene.
“It looks as if we have another homeless person murdered. No time to waste.”
“I’ve got a tremendous new pathologist. She’s very keen. I’ll get her in ASAP.”
The young man behind the glass pulled out a clipboard and flipped through a few typed pages.
“Identification on the tray,” his tin voice said. He didn’t bother to look up at Greene.
Greene glanced around but didn’t see a tray.
“Below the counter,” the tin voice said.
Greene found the metal tray, pulled it out, put his ID in, and pushed it forward. Tin Voice finished tapping on his phone, then picked up the ID, glanced at it, put a small clipboard, a guest tag, and the ID back in the tray, and shoved it back to Greene.
“Sign in and wear the ID,” he said, already back on his phone.
Greene took his card, clipped on the ID, signed the sheet, sent it back, then had to wait at a locked door for Tin Voice to stop tapping and hit the switch. There was a high-pitched buzzing sound, and Greene pulled the entrance door open.
The cadavers must sleep soundly here now, he thought, knowing there is such a high level of security.
As soon as he made his way inside, he saw Krangle.
“Ari,” the man called, a warm smile lighting up his face.
Krangle was a squat man with a bald head that seemed to shine in the light. He rushed up to Greene and took his hand.
“Been too long.”
“Nice to see you again,” Greene said.
“Sorry for all you went through.”
“Life happens.”
Krangle was still holding his hand. “We’re all glad you’re back.”
Since his arrest and trial and acquittal, every time he encountered someone from his earlier police days, there was the same type of conversation. He’d gotten good at changing the subject.
“Everyone except your young receptionist.”
Krangle’s dark eyebrows shot up. “Millennials,” he said, as if it were a punch line in a bad joke. “They live on their phones.”
“Who’s the new pathologist?” Greene asked.
Krangle smiled again.
“Dr. Juliana Ramos. She’s new. Top-notch. Did the other two homeless. Insisted on doing this. Didn’t want to wait. She’s almost done. You’ll like her.”
Greene followed Krangle down the hallway. The walls were filled with framed black-and-white photographs of the old stone coroner’s building. Funny how they tore down buildings in the city, then glorified them when they were gone.
Inside the operating theatre, Dr. Ramos was dressed in white scrubs, gloves, and a hair net, with a mic around her neck. She dictated as she worked on the opened body of Melissa Copeland. An assistant stood behind, peering over her shoulder.
Greene stepped closer, gingerly, and watched. Ramos’s movements were agile and precise. She looked up and noticed him.
For some reason he’d assumed she’d be young, but she was older than he’d expected her to be, closer to his age. With a smooth, intelligent face, high cheekbones, and piercing black eyes.
“You must be the detective.” She had a charming accent that he couldn’t quite place. Maybe Spanish?
“Ari Greene. I appreciate you coming in on such short notice.”
“The work must get done,” she said, all business.
Over her shoulder Greene saw Krangle wink at him. Greene frowned.
“Preliminary findings?” he asked her.
“Appears to be similar to the other two homeless people murdered this week. Crushing blow to the back of the head, not consistent with a vodka bottle being used but a heavier blunt object. Except one thing.”
Without ceremony she pulled Copeland’s limp wrist up and showed Greene her fingernails. “Skin under the fingernails and bits of glass.” She picked up Copeland’s other wrist. “Both hands.”
Their eyes met.
“This woman fought hard,” she said.
It was grim to see such stark, sad evidence of Melissa’s struggle in the last seconds of her life. He could see Ramos was sympathetic.
“We need to send samples out for DNA comparison right away,” he said.
She shook her head and gave Greene a mildly condescending frown.
“Detective…”
“Greene.”
“This was the first thing I looked for. I sent the samples out for urgent results, which I am told in this jurisdiction takes at least three days.”
She was confident but not cocky. Professional.
She turned to her assistant, who handed her a nearby iPad.
Greene expected her to show it to him. Instead she said, “Detective, I am done with my work here, my assistant can finish up. Please, come with me.”
She efficiently took off her scrubs, folded them into the laundry bin, then walked quickly through the autopsy suite.
“You work fast,” he said, keeping up with her.
“Why waste time?”
They came to a small anteroom off to the side. There was a single metal locker there that looked old and out of place. A handwritten label with the name “Ramos” was slipped into the label slot on the door.
She pulled off her gloves and her gown with practiced efficiency. Underneath she wore a trim pair of black jeans that looked as if they had been ironed, a crisp white shirt, and a turquoise necklace that looked like some ancient Aztec design.
She kicked the locker. He noticed for the first time she was wearing brown leather laced-up boots.
“Apparently, I am the only female pathologist in Toronto,” she said. “They gave me this room to change in.”
“At least you deserve a typed label,” he said.
“It’s on my list, Detective, but I’ve been kept busy since I arrived.”
“When was that?”
“Two weeks ago.”
She pulled off the hair net. A tumble of straight jet-black hair cascaded down her back.
“Had you ever been to Toronto before?” he asked her.
“Never been to North America before. They flew me in for the interview on a Friday.”
“Flew you in from where?”
“Uruguay. They needed someone thanks to the recent spike in crime here. They asked me if they offered me the job, when could I start? I said Monday. I went home, packed up, and here I am.”
“Decisive.”
“Always.” She ran her fingers through her hair and grinned. She had perfect white teeth, and Greene realized she was wearing bright-red lipstick.
“Then you don’t know Toronto very well.”
“Not at all. I’ve hardly had time to unpack.” She looked straight at Greene. “I hope to find someone who can show me where I can get a good cup of coffee.”
He smiled back. “I know a good place, but I’m not a coffee drinker.”
She laughed. “A police detective who doesn’t drink coffee. That is very strange.”
She pulled up her iPad. “I wanted to show you this out of earshot of anyone else. I lifted a fingerprint from the victim’s neck. I was able to get a match in minutes. I believe you will be interested in the results.”
Ramos’s face was now blank. She wasn’t going to give anything away.
He took the iPad from her and read the name displayed there. He looked back at her.
Her face cracked into a hint of a smile. “I looked this name up on the internet, Detective,” she said. “You have charged this man with murder one time already, no?”