The Boys from Santa Cruz

2

HIC LOCUS EST UBI MORS GAUDET SUCCERRERE VITAE, read the sign above the door to the autopsy room of the Marshall County morgue: Here is where death rejoices to help the living.

Pender, having intentionally skipped breakfast, arrived shortly after 6:00 A.M. and rapped on the frosted glass pane. The diener, a tall black man in surgical greens, hurried over to intercept him-the autopsy was already under way. “It’s a nasty one,” he warned Pender. “You might want to wait outside.”

“Hey, this isn’t my first rodeo,” Pender assured him, buttoning his sport jacket to the neck and turning up his collar against the arctic chill of the Marshall County morgue.

“If you say so. Here, put this under your nose-a little dab’ll do ya.” He unscrewed the top of a jar of Vicks VapoRub. Pender smeared a little across his upper lip. His eyes were watering as he approached the slab upon which the dreadful corpse had been laid out. Its skin was greenish black, but that was a function of decay-it could have been any race or ethnicity. The chest had already been opened with a Y-shaped incision, the heart and lungs removed.

“Dr. Flemm?”

“Yes?” The Marshall County medical examiner was short and round. Above his surgical mask he wore thick-lensed spectacles with heavy black frames. Beneath his green paper cap he was as bald as Pender.

“Special Agent Pender, FBI. I spoke to you this morning about the fingerprints.”

“Ah yes, the fingerprints.” Flemm turned the corpse’s right hand palm up. Pender, who was on the opposite side of the table, started to lean across the corpse, which turned out to be a mistake-not even the pungent odor of the Vicks could mask the stench. He walked around to Flemm’s side of the table. Supporting the corpse’s forearm and elbow, Flemm raised the arm to give Pender a closer look. “What do you think? Not bad after a week or two in damp ground, eh?”

The fingertips were the same greenish black as the rest of the body, but the ridges and whorls were still discernible. “Can they be lifted?” asked Pender.

“If we glove him.” Flemm selected a simple surgical scalpel from the tray of medieval-looking instruments, scissors, needles, chisels, forceps, and saws, on the cloth-draped table next to him. He cut a circular incision around the right wrist, then carefully worked the skin free until it slipped off the hand as neatly as if it had been a glove.

Pender’s stomach lurched as Flemm laid the ghastly “glove” on a drawerlike extension he’d pulled out from the side of the table, and severed each of the fingertips neatly at the first joint. Then he sprayed the fingertips with a drying agent while his diener filled a shallow glass saucer with black ink, viscous from the cold of the autopsy room, and microwaved it for several seconds.

When the fingertip skin was dry enough and the ink fluid enough, Flemm removed his surgical gloves and fit a small latex finger-cot over his forefinger, then slipped the skin fingertips over the latex. Meanwhile the diener had laid out a fingerprint card on the stainless-steel counter. Gingerly, Flemm dipped his forefinger into the saucer, shook off the excess ink, then gently pressed his double-gloved fingertip against the card and rocked it delicately from side to side.

Peering over Flemm’s shoulder, Pender whistled low in appreciation. “Perfect,” he exclaimed. “Absolutely perfect.”

“And only nine more to go,” said Dr. Flemm, beaming.