Gallery of the Dead

Fifty-Eight

The Pima County’s Office of Medical Examiner, which was inside the east quadrant of the University of Arizona in Tucson, was an impressive building, both in size and architecture. Its design was punctuated by modern, sharp lines, and the building was fronted by terracotta tiles and large, squared, mirrored windows; a whole generation away from the historic-looking Coroner’s Office in Los Angeles.

A Hawaiian-looking attendant greeted everyone from behind the reception desk in the entrance lobby, a dimly lit room that even at that time of night was air-conditioned to a few degrees below pleasant.

‘Y’all must be with the FBI, right?’ the attendant said, as he came off the phone.

‘We are indeed,’ Agent Brandon replied, displaying his credentials. ‘Dr. Morgan is expecting us.’

‘Yes,’ the attendant acknowledged with a nod. ‘He’s on his way.’

Less than ten seconds later, the metal swing doors to the right and just past the reception counter were pushed open by Dr. Morgan.

‘Agent Brandon,’ he said, coming up to the group. His voice sounded fatigued. He was wearing a blue lab coat, with a matching surgical cap.

‘Doctor,’ Agent Brandon returned the greeting with a handshake. ‘Thank you so much for your time and cooperation. We understand that after-hours examinations are a very unorthodox practice and we really appreciate your help.’

‘It’s not a problem at all,’ the doctor replied. ‘Just doing my job.’ He turned to face the others.

Dr. Morgan was a slight man, bent a little at his shoulders, with gray, thinning hair. He wore dark-rimmed glasses perched far up the bridge of his nose, and he moved slowly, as if his weight was just slightly more than his legs could handle.

After all the respective introductions and handshakes, the group, minus Special Agent Brandon, followed Dr. Morgan past the reception counter and through a set of metal swing doors that led them into a wide corridor with strip lights on the ceiling and linoleum floors so clean and shiny, it made everyone’s shoes either click or squeak loudly with every step.

As they entered the corridor, they were all greeted by a cold, antiseptic odor that lingered in the air and scratched the inside of the nostrils like sharp, angry claws. Hunter and Garcia both hated that smell. No matter how many times they had set foot inside a morgue, neither seemed to ever get used to it, and by the look on both FBI agents’ faces, they weren’t very fond of it either.

Hunter scratched his nose and did his best to breathe mainly through his mouth. Garcia did the same.

They turned right at the end of the corridor and came to another set of double doors with two small frosted-glass windows at eye height.

‘Here we are,’ Dr. Morgan said, pushing the doors open and guiding everyone into a spacious, but bitterly cold examination room. Inside it, the antiseptic smell from the corridor outside lost most of its strength as it was replaced by a faint scent of industrial soap.

The theater itself wasn’t much different from the ones Hunter and Garcia were accustomed to back in Los Angeles. Large double sinks against a corner of the room, metal counters with a multitude of tools, white floors, white-tiled walls and so on. The layout might’ve differed, but the contents were pretty much the same.

The center of the room was taken by a stainless-steel examination table. The body on it was completely covered by a white sheet. Above the table, powerful halogen lights in a circular formation bathed the entire room in great brightness.

Dr. Morgan approached the body, taking slow, hesitant steps, as if each step got him a little closer to sadness.

Hunter, Garcia and both FBI agents followed him, positioning themselves to the right of the examination table. Dr. Morgan walked over to the other side and pulled back the sheet, revealing Timothy Davis’s naked body. His eyes had sunk deeper into their sockets. His lips had lost all their fullness and his skin looked rubbery, almost non-human, but despite all that the peaceful and serene look that Hunter had identified on the victim’s face when he first saw the crime-scene photos back in the SUV was still there. Just like the previous three victims, Hunter was certain that Timothy Davis hadn’t died in pain. He hadn’t suffered.

On his torso, the famous Y incision that started at the top of each shoulder, ran down the front of his chest and concluded at the lower point of the sternum had been stitched up with thick, black surgical thread. The board on the east wall showed the final weight of Timothy Davis’s internal organs.

As the sheet was pulled back, Hunter immediately noticed the incredible discoloration of the skin.

‘I’ve been a pathologist for thirty-one years,’ the doctor began. ‘And in those years I’ve seen things that truly beggar belief, but what we have here...’ he shook his head, ‘should belong in a Hollywood movie, not in real life.’ He repositioned himself by the head of the table. ‘If any of you could give me a hand in turning the body over, I’d like to start with what’s visible.’

Hunter and Garcia stepped forward to help the doctor. Once the body had been flipped over, Dr. Morgan took a second observing his guests before speaking again.

‘From the lack of surprise on everyone’s faces, I’m guessing you were all expecting to see these carvings on the victim’s back.’

Silence ruled the room for just a couple of seconds.

‘Unfortunately,’ Agent Fisher replied, her eyes still on the corpse on the table, ‘this isn’t this killer’s first victim, Doctor. The carvings are just one of his signatures. So yes, we were expecting to see them.’

Once again, and now knowing what to look for, Agent Fisher tried to silently decipher the markings right there and then, but this time the lines across the victim’s back seemed longer. The carvings seemed more compact and closer to each other, with fewer immediately identifiable letters. She tried to blink the tiredness and the headache away, but it didn’t work. She would need a lot more time to figure out this one.

Instinctively, just like a competitive schoolkid, she peeked at Hunter. His eyes were slowly moving from one cut to another, the look on his face sturdy, full of focus.

‘What are they, if I may ask?’ Dr. Morgan tried his luck. ‘Some sort of message?’

‘Something like that,’ Agent Fisher agreed.

‘Do you know what it means?’

‘Not yet, Doc.’ She shook her head. ‘The killer changes the message from one victim to another. They are never the same.’

Another quick peek at Hunter. His eyes had left Timothy Davis’s body and had refocused on nothing at all. His expression had moved from deep concentration to deeply thoughtful. Agent Fisher knew he had figured out the message again.

How the hell can he do that so fast?

All of a sudden, the pensive look disappeared and Hunter blinked a couple of times before looking at Garcia.

Garcia had been Hunter’s partner for long enough to be able to decode most of his partner’s facial expressions. Without uttering a single word, Hunter had just told him that this made no sense.

Both FBI agents also noticed the peculiar look on Hunter’s face and, though they were unsure of what it meant, they could tell that something wasn’t quite right. But maintaining the secrecy of the investigation was still paramount, so neither of them asked the question. They knew that they would find out soon enough.

‘If you’ve seen similar cuts before,’ Dr. Morgan continued, ‘then you probably already know that the killer uses a very sharp instrument to create them. Something just as sharp and precise as the medical scalpels we use in this facility. Every one of those markings was made by a single slashing movement.’

Both FBI agents gave the doctor a subdued head nod.

‘So I’m sure you also know the killer’s MO,’ the doctor said. ‘You know how he takes the life of his victims.’

‘Asphyxiation by suffocation,’ Agent Fisher replied. ‘Yes, Doctor, we do know his MO.’

Dr. Morgan met the agent’s stare with confusion.

‘Asphyxiation?’

Even the air inside the room stood still.

‘He wasn’t asphyxiated?’ Hunter asked.

‘No, he wasn’t,’ the doctor replied.

‘Are you sure?’ The question came from Agent Fisher.

Dr. Morgan looked almost offended. ‘Did you hear when I said that I’ve been a pathologist for thirty-one years? Yes, I’m very sure, Special Agent Fisher.’

‘I’m sorry, Doc,’ she said, feeling embarrassed. ‘I didn’t mean it as disrespect. I’m just truly surprised, plus I’m very tired.’

‘It’s OK,’ Dr. Morgan said. ‘Have all the previous victims died by suffocation?’

‘They have,’ Agent Fisher replied. ‘Every single one of them.’

‘Well.’ The doctor indicated the carvings to Timothy Davis’s back one more time. ‘Since you’ve all seen something similar to this before, I can understand how this odd, “Zodiac killer” type of code failed to shock you, but if you were expecting this victim to have been asphyxiated, then you’re all in for a huge surprise.’