Deep Trauma

Riley stood in the main storage facility of the LA county morgue, a giant refrigerated room that resembled a warehouse, listening to Dr. Joseph Padilla, the chief pathologist, giving a summary on the body of last week’s hit-and-run victim. The smell of bleach thinly masked the deeper, mustier odors permeating the facility, which, along with the distant hum of bone saws, stirred a primal instinct in Riley to flee.

The drawer with the still-unidentified body was pulled open, the corpse covered only in a light plastic sheet from the chest down. The victim was petite, smaller than Riley remembered from that morning almost a week ago on the freeway. The torso had evidently sustained massive blunt force trauma that would have immediately disrupted the function of not only the spinal column but also the lungs and heart. No wonder the scene had been bloodless, Riley realized. Death would have been instantaneous.

The head was covered in sandy-blond hair, closely cropped, the chin and upper lip fuzzy with ginger stubble. Swelling and bruising around the eyes made it impossible to judge iris color, but Riley guessed they would have been green or blue. Given her own line of work, she was having difficulty understanding the despair she felt building as Joe described the body’s injuries.

“The head was spared from direct trauma, owing to the motorcycle helmet being in place, but as you can see, there had been significant injury in the hours before death.”

Riley tried to imagine the face intact, smiling broadly, with animated green eyes that reflected the promise of a long, joyous life. But what she saw in front of her were the remnants of a life cut short, senselessly and brutally wasted.

“From the ligature marks on the wrists, I’d say our victim was bound antemortem—but interestingly, not at the time of death.”

“What? To stage the murder as a suicide?”

“That’s a possibility, but this is all purely speculation at this point. Incidentally, I saw this same pattern on a similar case last month.”

“Involving Lexi Drake?” Riley blurted, and suddenly Joe fell silent, giving her a bewildered stare from behind his clear face shield. Riley did the polite thing and let it go. She had her answer. “Any notion when you might have an ID, Joe?” she asked, changing the subject and checking the time of day on the small pager clipped to the waistband of her scrubs. She’d already overextended her lunch break. The ER would be looking for her by now.

“Working on that, Rye.” He smiled patiently. “I’ll keep you posted. But please, not a word to anyone about this. The LAPD wouldn’t look favorably on me sharing information about an open investigation.”