“I’ve never heard anybody ask that or even bring it up except you.”

“But they could and depending on the circumstances maybe they should. You never know when the tiniest detail can make all the difference. Let’s see … if we subtract eighty-six from two-sixteen?” Harold does the math in his pocket-size notebook because he can’t do it in his head. “We get a weight of one-thirty.” He writes it down as I walk across the recycled-glass floor that’s a shade of tan called truffle. “And the length?”

“Sixty-five inches.”

I stop at the glass-enclosed security desk, what people here call the Fish Tank. On the outer ledge of the closed window is the big black leather-bound log, our Book of the Dead. It’s anchored by a thin steel chain, and all case entries must be made in black ink with the ballpoint pen tethered by a length of the same white cotton twine we use for sutures.

I open the acid-free ledger pages, lightly rapping a knuckle on the glass to get my favorite security officer’s attention. Georgia has her back to me as she collects a yellow RFID wristband from the 3-D printer. She returns to her desk and slides open her window.

“You look like you’ve lost more weight.” I notice her dark blue uniform with its yellow trouser stripes seems a bit baggy as she sits back down at her computer, placing her hands on the keyboard, the mouse.

“Oh, now you’re just being nice.” She peers at me over her reading glasses as her peach acrylic nails begin clicking over keys. “Seriously, though?” Her brown eyes are pleased. “You can tell?”

“I certainly can.”

“Almost ten pounds.”

“I thought so.”

“You’ve made my day and the sun’s not even up yet.”

“The most important question is what Weight Watchers has to say about pizza this morning. Is it legal?” I review entries about bodies delivered and picked up, catching up on what’s happened since I was here last.

“That depends on what kind and whose it is. Now if it’s your pizza, Doctor Scarpetta? I don’t care if it’s a thousand points because I’m eating it.”

I watch her go through paperwork on her desk, accessioning the Elisa Vandersteel case, giving it a unique number.

16-MA2037

“But you might want to tell me what sort of party we’re suddenly having,” Georgia says, “and who I should be watching for in the cameras and worrying about. Am I right that we’re battening down the hatches? Because you just say the word.”

“It looks like we’re having company, and we’ll be as hospitable as we can muster.” I’m careful what I say so nothing comes back to haunt me, and I turn another page in the log. “But no one’s getting in the way of the work. We won’t allow that.”