Entering the smal vestibule of the MCME, I used my security card and passed Mrs. Flowers’s command post. Even her absence was imposing. Al objects and Post-it notes were equal y spaced. Paper stacks were squared at the edges. No pens. No paper clips. No clutter. One personal photo, a cocker spaniel.

Monday through Friday, Mrs. Flowers screened visitors through the plate-glass window above her desk, blessing some with a buzz through the inner door, turning others away. She also typed reports, organized documents, and kept track of every shred of paper stored in the black file cabinets lining one side of the room.

Turning right past the cubicles used by the death investigators, I checked the board on the back wal where cases were entered daily in black Magic Marker.

Boyd’s find was already there. MCME 437–02

The place was exactly as I’d expected, deserted and eerily quiet.

What I hadn’t expected was the fresh-brewed coffee on the kitchenette counter.

There is a merciful God, I thought, helping myself.

Or a merciful Joe Hawkins.

The DI appeared as I was unlocking my office.

“You’re a saint,” I said, raising my mug.

“Thought you might be here early.”

During the recovery operation, I’d told Hawkins of my plans for a Monday escape to the beach.

“You’l be wanting yesterday’s booty?”

“Please. And the Polaroid and the Nikon.”

“X rays?”

“Yes.”

“Main or stinky?”

“I’d better work in back.”

The MCME facility has a pair of autopsy rooms, each with a single table. The smal er of the two has special ventilation for combating foul odors.

Decomps and floaters. My kind of cases.

Pul ing a form from the mini-shelves behind my desk, I fil ed in a case number and wrote a brief description of the remains and the circumstances surrounding their arrival at the morgue. Then I went to the locker room, changed to surgical scrubs, and crossed to the stinky room.

The bags were waiting. So were the cameras and the items needed to accessorize my ensemble: paper apron and mask, plastic goggles, latex gloves.

Fetching.

I shot 35-mil imeter prints, backups with the Polaroid, then asked Hawkins to X-ray both bags. I wanted no surprises.

Twenty minutes later he wheeled the bags back and snapped a half dozen plates onto a light box. We studied the gray-on-grayer jumble.

Bones mixed with a pebbly sediment. Nothing densely opaque.

“No metal,” Hawkins said.

“That’s good,” I said.

“No teeth,” Hawkins said.

“That’s bad,” I said.

“No skul .”

“Nope,” I agreed.

After donning my protective gear, sans goggles, I opened the twist tie and emptied the uppermost bag onto the table.

“Holy buckets. Those look like the real deal.”

In al , there were eight semi-fleshed hands and feet, al truncated. I placed them in a plastic tub and asked for X rays. Hawkins carried them off, shaking his head and repeating his comment.

“Holy buckets.”