“I don’t want to talk about it, Ken.”

“But later, you will.”

“Later. Absolutely.”

They moved past offices, labs, refrigerator banks. The autopsy suites were last in line, a group of rooms built around a central hub of scrub sinks, and observation windows. It could be a busy place, but was quiet now.

“There’s our vic.”

She looked worse under bright lights: the wounds that killed her, the Y cut, the open cavity. Most of her organs were out, but the medical examiner was still wrist-deep. “Gentlemen, come in.” He lifted his hands, and held them awkwardly. “Let me walk you through what I’ve found so far.” He did it methodically and precisely. It took time. “It appears that different blades were used at different times.”

“Multiple blades,” French said. “Does that mean multiple assailants?”

“Uncertain, but possible. Some cuts imply a certain amount of strength and viciousness. Others were of a more delicate nature.”

“Any kind of pattern?”

“The more precise incisions hurt the most.”

“Meaning?”

“Whoever made those cuts knew the big nerves, the sensitive areas. Something tells me he took his time. See the precision. Here and here.”

“And the breast tissue?”

“I’d argue that those excisions were made with the smaller blade and with exceptional care.”

Burklow said, “Jesus Christ.”

“Keep going,” French said.

The ME continued with the same dispassion. “No tattoos or birthmarks. She’s had a recent manicure, a pedicure.” He pointed at her hands and feet. “Expensive dental work. Little sign she’s ever done manual labor. I’d speculate that she had resources. We’ll know more when the roommate arrives.”

French nodded before the weight of that comment sank in. “Wait a minute. What did you say?”

“I said, when the roommate arrives. Tyra’s roommate.”

Tyra …

They had her name.

“I tried to reach you about this,” Burklow said. “We found clothing and personal items in a dumpster six blocks west of the crime scene. The victim’s name is Tyra Norris. Twenty-seven, local…”

“Local? Wait. You have an address?”

“Martinez and Smith are en route now.”

“We need to go.”

“There’s more here to discuss.”

“Later, Doc.” French moved for the door, pulling his partner behind. “We need to go now.”

The doctor said something else, but French missed most of it. He moved fast, and they hit the stairwell, the lobby, the warm air beyond the double doors. “Ride with me,” he said.

“Why?”

“Because we need to talk.”

“Yes, I believe we do.”

“Address?”

Burklow gave him Tyra’s address. “The other side of Myers Park.”

“I know the street.”