Chapter Three

Hugo and Tom were let into the morgue by a young technician who’d been told by the French police to expect, and cater to, the Americans. The young man, round and red-faced, flipped his blond hair as he fired questions at Hugo about America and the FBI.

They moved through the administrative area toward the morgue proper, Hugo recognizing the gentle lap of sterility that seeped toward them, the sharp odor of disinfectant and the even more telltale scent of lavender and lemon that so many morgues used to mask the smell of death. As carpet gave way to tile under their feet, the youth paused in front of a heavy swing door. He turned, waiting for an answer to his final question.

“I am pretty sure,” Hugo said, creasing his brow for effect, “that the bureau does not hire its own specialist morgue technicians. But if I find out I’m wrong, I’ll let you know.”

“Vraiment, you will?”

“Absolutely. In fact, if they do, I’ll bring you an application form myself.”

“Merci!” The young man beamed. “Alors, nous sommes ici, messieurs. I took the liberty of laying out the bodies. I’ll leave you to them, just stop by the office when you’re done so I can put them away.”

“We will,” Hugo said. “Do you know when the autopsies will be done?”

The tech shrugged. “When the authorities stop fighting about who should do it. Tonight, maybe tomorrow. Sterile gloves on the cart if you want to touch them, they’ve been scrubbed for evidence, so you can.”

The room was windowless but bright, the white tiles of the walls and floor bouncing the glare from the strip lights overhead. It was smaller than Hugo had expected, with room for just two autopsy tables and, at the far end of the chilled room, three cooler doors. A metal cart held an array of cutting implements and, on extendable arms above each table, Hugo recognized the other essential tools of the trade: a saw, a camera, and a voice recorder.

Hugo went straight to the body of the girl. Only her waxen face was visible, the rest of her body covered with a sterile blue blanket of thick tissue. Hugo pulled it off and folded it neatly as he looked up and down her body.

“Good-looking girl,” Tom said.

“She was. And you never told me her name.”

“Hanan Elserdi. Twenty-six years old. Home town: Cairo. Been in France for eight months—according to her passport, anyway.”

She’d been a healthy young girl this time yesterday. Now she lay on a metal tray, lifeless and stiff with rigor mortis, suffering the gaze of two complete strangers who stared at her naked form with the dispassionate eyes of scientists sizing up a new specimen. Hugo shook his head. “I assume you have people working on her background.”

“I expect a phone call any minute,” Tom said. His voice and tone were unusually gentle, respectful of the dead body in front of him, but without being sentimental. Gruff, foul-mouthed, and, Hugo suspected, often lethal, Tom was a much nicer person than he let on. And sometimes Hugo reminded him of that.

“Looks like she was shot five times,” Tom said. “Hand, shoulder, two in the chest, and one in the throat.”

“Maybe,” Hugo said. “And then again, maybe not.” He stooped over the wound in her shoulder, then straightened and moved to her side. “I’d say four times. Look.” He took her left arm and raised it, pressing against the rigor mortis to create a right angle with her body. “The wound in her shoulder isn’t as deep as the others because the bullet went through the flesh of her hand first. She put it out, an instinctual act, trying to stop him. Just a guess, of course.”

“Of course. What else?”

It was, in some ways, a game, a puzzle. A gruesome one, no doubt, and one tinged with tragedy because the essence of the puzzle was a once-live, now-dead human being. But the best way, usually the only way, to shine a light on the events that led to a death was to cast an unemotional and critical eye over the remains. To spot the pieces that fit together and to solve the puzzle that had put this young woman on a metal tray.

Hugo studied each wound, careful not to touch the entry points. Even though the evidence people had gotten all they needed from her, whoever did the autopsy should measure the bullet holes, their widths and depths, and he didn’t want to skew the results.

“Four shots, all close range,” Hugo said. “He’s not an experienced marksman because they are all over the place. No grouping, and no vital organs hit.”

“And no head shot or heart shot. So, not a pro.”

“Right.”

“You’re trying to tell me he’s not a terrorist,” Tom said. “But—”

“I know,” Hugo interrupted, “there’s no shortage of amateur radicals out there. You’re right, I don’t think we can rule that out, not just on the wounds.”

“Agreed,” Tom nodded. “Maybe she knew the killer, if he got this close to her.”

“Could be, although it was dark and a cemetery. Easy enough to lie in wait and pounce at the last moment.”

“Which begs a question.”

“Yes, it does. If the killer is neither experienced or a pro, why is he lurking in a graveyard waiting to kill people?”

“That’s the question, all right,” said Tom. “You have an answer, I assume?”

“Nope.” Hugo looked up. “All I can think is that he was there for some other reason. They stumbled across him, or vice versa, and he shot them.”

“Which means we have to figure out why they were there, as well as why he was.”

“Right. Could have been nothing more than a midnight jaunt to see Morrison’s grave; they certainly wouldn’t be the first. But to be sure, we need to know a lot more about our victims.” Hugo moved to the sheet covering Maxwell Holmes. He pulled it off and folded it like he had the one covering the girl, absentmindedly, as he studied the body.

“Same deal,” said Tom, looking over Hugo’s shoulder. “Shot twice. No kill shot to make sure, and two feet of skin between the hits.”

Hugo moved back to Elserdi’s table. “The only significant difference between the bodies is this.” He carefully rolled her onto her side to reveal her shoulder. Tom moved beside him and they stared at the ragged patch of obliterated skin. The area was roughly the size of a hockey puck, and the killer had gone after it with a vengeance. The skin had been shredded, and Hugo could see that cut after cut had been made until this patch of her shoulder was raw.

“What the fuck does it mean?” Tom said.

To Hugo, every mark on a dead body meant something. Every bruise, cut, scrape, and blemish told the story of either the victim’s death, or their life.

“They were both wearing T-shirts when they were shot, right?” Hugo asked.

“Yes. But both were topless when they were found. Tit fetish?”

“Didn’t see any tits on Maxwell,” Hugo said.

“Good point.”

“But we should check for one thing.” Hugo laid the girl back how he’d found her, and turned to the young man, looking over the front of his body before turning him on his side. Hugo looked him up and down, chewing his lip, inspecting the skin carefully. Satisfied, he laid him flat on his back again. Hugo went back to the girl, this time raising her shoulder to look at the mangled area of flesh over her clavicle.

“Interesting,” Hugo said, more to himself than to Tom.

“Interesting how? Hugo, come on, what are you seeing?”

“He’s gone after her here.”

“Like he’s angry?”

“No. Angry would be deeper. You’d see muscle, bone even. This is . . . not that.”

“Well, thanks for telling me what it’s not. Very helpful.”

“Welcome.” Hugo looked up at Tom. “You’re very welcome.” He winked at his friend, and they both knew Tom would have to wait to hear more.