Page 14 of Fire and Bones

An old geezer in a rainbow blazer and red bow tie entered from the street and crossed to the elevators. When the doors opened a family of five bustled out. The tense hunch of Dad’s shoulders suggested he was not a happy fellow.

I was checking my watch, again, when a shadow fell across my wrist. I looked up. Thacker was standing close, proffering a room key.

“We’re good for one night.”

“One night?”

“Don’t worry. We’ll sort it. Are you hungry?”

“Yes.” The term didn’t do justice to the grievance my stomach was registering.

“How about I give you twenty minutes to get settled? I’ll order takeout and text the deputy fire chief to meet us at my office.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

“What would you like to eat?”

“An entire Chinese buffet.”

DC’s chief medical examiner facility, the OCME, is located in the Consolidated Forensic Laboratory. Sharing the same address at the CFL are the Department of Forensic Sciences and the Metropolitan Police Department. Odd bedfellows. Nerds and cops under one roof.

That roof topped a six-story modern colossus at the intersection of 4th and E Streets in Southwest Washington. Lots of concrete, steel, and glass, with sun-activated solar panels shading one side. Pretty landscaping. And, blessedly, just steps from the hotel.

After swiping her security card, Thacker led me across a lobby whose speckled black-and-white tile gleamed with the commanding appearance of a surgical suite. At eight p.m. on the eve of a holiday weekend the cavernous space was largely deserted.

When I’d signed a register and presented ID, a bored-looking receptionist issued me a pass proclaiming VISITOR: Escort Required in bold block letters. Apparently, I wasn’t to be trusted unaccompanied.

Thacker and I crossed to the elevators, her three-inch stilettos clicking sharply. Thumbing a button, she explained that her office used a portion of the lobby level for intake but was mostly housed on the fifth and sixth floors.

When the car came, we ascended in silence, both doing that eyes-on-the-floor-indicator-lights thing. A previous occupant must have showered in Brut. The small cell reeked of the stuff.

Exiting on five, we walked a long hallway, Thacker’s stilettos muted by the institutional gray-on-gray patchwork carpet. As had been the case downstairs, I saw no one except a receptionist.

Thacker continued her tour, pointing out that the floor above was dedicated to administration, the floor we were on to death investigation. Located on our level were a tox lab and several autopsy rooms. She suggested we skip those areas, since I’d be seeing them soon. I agreed.

The offices we passed were set off by orange walls down low and frosted glass panes rising above. Plaques identified the occupants as pathologists, anthropologists, medico-legal investigators, and forensic identification specialists. A roster as familiar to me as my own hand.

Thacker’s digs—not small and not large—were nicer than most government accommodations I’d seen. Directly opposite the door, an L-shaped desk pointed across the room, then turned left along the wall. Matching wood cabinets hung above the wall arm. A computer sat in the desk’s center.

Occupying every other horizontal surface was evidence of the endless bookkeeping associated with handling the dead. Stacked printouts I suspected were intake rosters, correspondence, lab test results, and reports. Antemortem medical records sent from clinics and hospitals. CDs holding stored X-rays. Manila case files, some thick, others strikingly thin.

Floor-to-ceiling glass formed the back wall. Beyond the plants lining its double sills and the movable solar panels outside, I could see I-395. Twinkling ribbons of head- and taillights streamed in both directions, one white, one red.

Under the desk’s outward-projecting arm was a NASA-level ergonomic seat. Facing it were two chairs, each a complicated arrangement of black Naugahyde and chrome. A grease-stained white bag sat on the desk’s blotter.

Thacker had taken my quip literally. The bag looked enormous. The smells of garlic, ginger, and sesame sent my stomach into a full-gainer flip.

While Thacker got plates and utensils, I withdrew a collection of little white cartons, each decorated with a cheerful red pagoda. We were serving ourselves kung pao chicken, Sichuan pork, dumplings, and fried rice when a loudly cleared throat caused us to turn.

A figure stood framed in the doorway. Maybe five-six, the guy had the body of a former gymnast nurturing a fondness for pastry. Narrow face and shoulders. Pale gray eyes the size of dimes. Thinning blond hair combed painfully forward.

A patch on the man’s black shirt showed the Capitol with US and DC flags above, fire and medical symbols below. The words District of Columbia Fire and EMS wrapped the periphery.

A smoky film on the man’s face suggested he’d come straight from work. Its expression said he was not happy about being called away.

“Ah, Sergeant Burgos. I was expecting Captain Hickey.”

“He’s a tad busy.” The voice was high and nasal, the tone sarcastic as hell.

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