Jenner walked out into the steel-gray morning, blinking in the bright haze. Barely eight a.m., and he couldn’t believe the humidity—stepping out of the air conditioning was like being immediately draped in a soaking-wet wool sweater.
The patio was empty. Jenner sat at the picnic table with his vending machine breakfast—a can of Coke and a Snickers—and stared vacantly at the puddle-splashed lot as he ate. There was still a handful of cars in the lot, probably people who’d worked for Marty since the beginning—Jenner had avoided the break room after the autopsies. Rudge had left around four a.m., waking the now-docile sheriff to drive him home.
Jenner’s eyes burned; they kept tearing up. He told himself it was just the fatigue. His back muscles were buckled up tight, and every bone in his body throbbed. The highest-profile double homicide in Douglas County history…
My friend.
Jenner had just autopsied his friend. He wiped the sweat from his forehead, rested his elbows on the picnic table, then sank his head into his hands and began to cry. He struggled to stop the tears, to still the shaking of his shoulders. He propped his elbows on the tabletop, then pressed his face firmly into his open palms, tried to be less obvious.
He gave up, and let the tears flow. His friend was dead.
There was the clack of an opening door; Jenner looked up, but the door was already shut again.
Jenner pulled himself together. He was finished now, done. He’d labeled the clothes and hung them in the drying closets, completed the autopsy notes and wound diagrams, put the blood and tissue samples in the refrigerator, dictated both cases for transcription, readied the death certificates for signing as soon as the dentist confirmed the ID.
He should go home, back to the motel—Jenner could feel his body coming apart from lack of sleep, the muscles raw and ragged, about to pop, the bones on the point of shattering.
He washed the chocolate bar down with another acid blast of lukewarm Coke, wiped his damp face, then glanced around to make sure the coast was clear. He forced himself to his feet, then stood, hands on his hips, leaning slightly backward to stretch.
He heard steps on the gravel behind him and turned to see Marie Carter, the office manager, pale, eyes puffy, clutching her black cardigan to her body as if the temperature were in the forties instead of the high eighties.
“Doctor…is it true? Bobbie…drowned?”
He nodded.
“And Bucky Rutledge is saying Dr. R. was tortured.”
“Yes. I’m afraid that’s true, too.”
He thought she was going to cry, but she just nodded and said, “I’m glad I caught you, doctor. I was able to reach Sheree Roburn, the Roburns’ daughter; she’ll be here tomorrow. And Detective Rudge left you a message early this morning, but said I should wait until you’d finished the cases before I disturbed you. When you have a second, can you give him a call to discuss your findings, please.”
“Sure.”
“The number’s on your desk.” She hesitated a second, then said, “And Dr. Jenner?”
“Yes?”
“You should go home and get some sleep.”