Bree listened to the radio chatter as FBI and Metro Police descended on the medical center.
Sampson said, “They’re going to have to clear every room in this place and get all nonessential personnel out of here before they do it.”
“We can get that started down here,” Bree said.
She took a long look at Pettit before she followed Sampson, feeling her stomach churn at her role in the young officer’s death. There would be time for regret and guilt later, she told herself. Once the man who’d killed Pettit and shot the president was caught.
With pistols still drawn, they exited the radiology suite and retraced their steps. They went into the pathology department and found no one at the front desk.
They went around the desk and into a short hallway with autopsy rooms to either side. All were empty, and the stainless-steel equipment inside was spotless.
They reached the door at the end of the hall and found it locked with an electronic key-card slot.
“Probably goes to the morgue,” Sampson said.
That made sense to Bree, and she led them in the opposite direction, past the autopsy rooms and into a separate hallway with office doors on both sides. The first three were empty.
As they headed toward the fourth office, a woman in surgical scrubs crawled out of the door, bleeding from her ears and nose. Bree and Sampson ran to her and called for help from the ER.
A name tag identified the woman as CHRISTINE WILLIS, MD, DEPARTMENT OF PATHOLOGY. She was rambling and in pain, but they figured out that while listening to music, she had been attacked by someone from behind and knocked out.
She said she came around and saw her attacker, who had bandages all over his face, leaving her office with her key card.
“He’s gotta be hiding in the morgue,” Sampson said. “Or was.”
Dr. Willis told them where to find another pass key in a drawer at the front desk. On her radio, Bree heard that nurses and a doctor were arriving from the ER.
Only then did she leave the pathologist and follow Sampson back to the morgue door. He slid the key card in the slot and heard it click.
He opened it slowly. The lights were off.
Sampson reached around, groped for a moment, then flipped a switch. The morgue lights lit, and they eased inside, backs to each other.
Bree saw nothing but rows of cold-storage lockers.
“Over there,” Sampson said.
She turned and peered around him to see a male, Asian, in boxers slumped against the far wall. Sampson went to the man, checked for a pulse, looked for breathing, then shook his head at Bree. She called in the homicide and started opening the cold lockers.
Every one she opened was full. Corpses were stacked like cordwood in—
She opened the second-to-last locker and gaped at the corpse of an obese man.
Three surgical scalpels lay on his chest. From the base of his neck to the crown of his head, he’d been skinned.