“It’s supposed to be a calming color.” Coblentz pushes open the swinging doors.

I don’t feel very calm as we enter the autopsy room. It’s one place most cops go to great lengths to avoid. When I worked homicide in Columbus, I saw more than one veteran detective ralph his breakfast or break down and cry. Tough guys who would rather shoot themselves in the leg than display any kind of perceived weakness. My own response to death is visceral and more emotional than physical, especially when it comes to murder. I can only describe it as an intense feeling of outrage and a sense of indignation that burrows under my skin like some giant parasite. No matter how hard I try to keep those emotions at bay, they dog me day and night until the case is solved.

Ensconced in gray ceramic tile, the autopsy room is maintained at a cool sixty-two degrees. Though the ventilation and air-conditioning system is state of the art, the smells of formalin and decaying flesh are ever-present. Stark fluorescent light rains down on seven stainless-steel gurneys, all of which are occupied.

“We didn’t have enough gurneys for all the bodies, so we had to borrow from another department,” the doc comments as we enter.

Stainless-steel counters line three walls. I see white plastic buckets, trays filled with instruments I don’t want to think about, and two deep sinks with tall, arcing faucets. A scale, similar to the kind you see at the grocery store for weighing produce, hangs above the counter to my left. It seems obscenely out of place here.

I’m not exactly sure why I do this to myself, this revisiting of the dead. There is some information a cop gleans from seeing a body up close and personal, but most truly useful information comes from the autopsy report. Still, I come here. I pay final homage. Maybe I do it because seeing the victims reminds me that there are real people behind every crime. I work for them now.

Two of the gurneys stand separate from the other five. I see a dark stain on the sheet cover, and I know those are the two autopsies that have been completed. “Which vics are finished?” I ask.

The technician looks at his clipboard. “Bonnie Plank. And Mary Plank.”

“Did you get slugs?” I ask.

Rohrbacher nods. “Dug one out of the mother. It was pretty wrecked, but I sent it to the lab.”

“You check for gunshot residue on the adult male?”

“We sent the clothing and skin surface residue to the lab. Should know something in a few days.”