5 Bodies To Die For

“Dr. Craft is in the lab,” the woman at the desk told him. “Sign in and go on back. It’s next to the crypt.”

“Got it,” he said, then signed his name and sauntered back, whistling under his breath. The Oxy seemed to be wearing off more quickly than before—a headache sparkled in his temples and his eyes felt itchy. But he didn’t want to dose before seeing Coop, not when he was trying to prove to the man that he could be trusted again.

He shivered as he walked down the wide, harshly lit hallways—the expression “as cold as a morgue” was no exaggeration. The place was forty fucking degrees. Good for dead people, not so good for people with a pulse.

He found the lab and pushed open the door to the sound of raised voices. On the other side of the room, two men squared off. Tall and shaggy Dr. Cooper Craft, former chief medical examiner, wore a lab coat over jeans and black Chuck Taylor tennis shoes. Short and owlish Dr. Bruce Abrams, current chief medical examiner, wore slacks and a sport coat. The slighter, older man was bristling, his birdlike neck stretched forward.

“Cooper, I’ve come to terms with you being here in the lab. But I can’t have you undermining my authority with the other M.E.s.”

Coop shrugged, unfazed. “Then tell your people to stop coming into the lab to ask me questions.”

“They’re accustomed to seeking your approval,” Abrams said. “It’s up to you to remind them that you’re not their boss anymore, that—” The man wiped his hand over his mouth.

“That I’m just a lab rat and a body mover,” Coop supplied. “No problem, Bruce. I didn’t mean to cause you extra trouble. I know you’re swamped with this Charmed Killer business.”

The other man nodded, then pulled out a handkerchief and mopped his forehead. “Between the police and the media, I’m feeling the pressure.”

“Let me know if can help,” Coop said.

The man jammed the handkerchief back into his pocket. “Just stay out of my way.”

Abrams turned and stalked toward the door, flicking his gaze over Wesley before walking past him, out of the room.

Coop lifted his hand to Wes. “Come on in. Sorry about that.”

Wes walked in. “If Abrams doesn’t want you here, how did you get the job in the lab?”

Coop made a rueful noise. “The State Coroner’s Office asked me to come in and tackle the backlog of unsolved cases. It was meant to lighten Abrams’s load, but he doesn’t see it that way.”

Coop moved toward a microscope, as if he’d already dismissed the matter. “Hand me that tray of slides on the table, will you?”

Wes hustled and carried the slides carefully, concentrating in order to control the shaking of his hands.

“Thanks,” Coop said, taking them from him.

He watched as Coop removed a slide, put it under the microscope and adjusted the focus. “Whatcha looking at?”

“DNA samples,” Coop said without raising his head.

“Cool. I thought they had computers to do that stuff.”

Coop gave a little laugh. “Call me old-fashioned. Besides, the morgue doesn’t have the budget of a network television show.”

“Can I take a look?”

Coop shrugged and stepped back. “Sure.” Wesley removed his glasses, then leaned over to press his eye against the eyepiece and turn the smaller fine-focus knob.

“I see you know your way around a microscope,” Coop said.

“I was pretty good in biology. What kind of DNA sample am I looking at?”

“Basic blood sample.”

“What’s it for?”

“I’m trying to identify a body.”

“And this is the only way?”

“It is when there’s no head.”

Wesley jerked up, his mouth suddenly devoid of moisture. “No head?”

Coop walked across the room to a slab where a sheet-draped body lay. He pulled back the sheet and Wesley was able to cover his dismay over the sight of the decapitated, decomposing body by recoiling from the stench.

“Here,” Coop said, handing him an open jar of Vicks VapoRub. “Wipe this under your nose.”

Wesley did, and while the ointment overpowered the stench of decaying flesh, it also went straight to the sensitized nerve endings in his face. His eyes watered and his nose ran like a faucet.

“This guy was found in Piedmont Park, no head and a missing finger,” Coop said, pointing to the missing digit. “I’m hoping his DNA will match something in the system. The computer can do that.”

“What about fingerprints?” Wesley croaked.

“Burned off, probably with acid. Somebody didn’t want this guy identified.”

Bile backed up in Wesley’s throat.

“You okay?” Coop said, then covered the body. “Didn’t mean to shake you up. I thought you were immune to this by now.”

“I’m okay,” Wesley said. “Just out of practice, I guess.” He wiped at his eyes and nose. “I was wondering if I could come back to work with you.”

Coop pulled off his gloves. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

“Come on, Coop. I’ve learned my lesson. I won’t screw up again.”

“I already have another guy working with me. Abrams’s nephew.”

“Is he as good as I am?”

Coop frowned. “No.”

Wes smiled. “There you go. I’m good at this—you said so yourself.”

Coop shook his head, but Wesley could tell he was wavering.

“Will you give me another chance? I could really use the cash to pay on my court fee.”

“Carlotta told me you got a job as a bike courier.”