Chapter 5 - The Medical Examiner's Cellar
The county morgue was located in the basement of the old municipal annex in Pinehurst, fifty miles outside Judge Croft’s primary jurisdiction, but well within the reach of Sheriff Vance’s patrol perimeter.
It was 11:30 PM.
Leo agreed to take Ilaria to a secure, private safehouse owned by his sister across the state border in Pennsylvania. It broke my heart to peel her small fingers off my jacket, but I couldn't drag my four-year-old child into the belly of the beast.
"Daddy will come back for you tomorrow morning, baby," I promised, kissing her forehead. "I'm going to bring Mommy home."
"Don't let the cold lady catch you, Daddy," she whispered, her hazel eyes glistening with unshed tears. "She doesn't like people who know things."
I left them at the safehouse and drove the old Ford back across state lines into Pinehurst.
The rain had turned into a thick, low-hanging fog that clung to the asphalt. The annex parking lot was deserted, save for a single county sedan idling near the loading dock.
I pulled around the back, killed the headlights, and slipped out into the shadows. In my jacket pocket, I had a crowbar, a high-resolution camera, and a duplicate keycard that Leo had procured from a former morgue technician.
I swiped the card at the service door. The electronic lock beeped green with a soft click.
The corridor smelled of formaldehyde, industrial bleach, and cold stone. The lighting was reduced to dim amber emergency strips along the baseboards. I moved quickly down the hall, scanning the labels on the stainless-steel doors until I reached Sub-Basement B: Cold Storage & Unclaimed Remains.
The room was frigid, the refrigeration units humming like a low, endless choir.
I walked along the rows of stainless-steel freezer lockers until I found the unit marked with the tag Leo had given me: CASE #4409-B: UNIDENTIFIED FEMALE (LAKE MORAINE).
My breath hitched in my throat. My hands were shaking so hard I could barely grasp the chrome handle.
I pulled the locker open. The steel tray slid out with a heavy metallic grind.
Under the white vinyl body sheet, the outline was unmistakable.
I reached out and pulled the zipper down six inches.
My vision blurred with hot tears. Despite the decomposition and the injuries to her temple, it was Claire. My wife. The woman I had spent ten years building a life with.
Around her neck, half-hidden beneath the collar of the vinyl shroud, was a thin gold chain with a broken locket—the same locket containing a lock of Ilaria’s baby hair that I had bought Claire on our fifth anniversary.
"I'm sorry, Claire," I choked out, pulling the camera from my coat to photograph the locket, the serial numbers, and the trauma marks on her neck and collarbone. "I'm so damn sorry I didn't see it."
Suddenly, the heavy steel door behind me clicked open.
"Touching evidence without a chain of custody is a felony, Mr. Miller," a deep voice boomed from the doorway.
May you like
I spun around.
Standing in the frame was Judge Harlan Croft, leaning on a polished walnut cane, flanked by Sheriff Vance and two uniformed deputies with drawn Glocks.
