Page 5 of 1st Shock
And maybe we're both a little obsessed with it.
3
Meg
Istand in the hallway next to the Medical Examiner's office waiting for Dr. Janelle Gentry, deputy chief of the Death Investigations unit, to usher me into her lair. The place where all the action happens.
I close my eyes for a second, grounding myself. Even in a morgue, I can do a quick meditation. A moment or two where I release any anxiety about murder victims and facing them day in and day out.
Soon, I'll be shown Avery's bones. Minus, of course, the twenty-five percent of her that’s still scattered among the trees in Rock Creek Park. The idea of her flesh being torn apart by animals burns inside me, tears right through my stomach.
I want all of her. Every bit that can be given a proper burial once we discover who she is and why she left this earth.
Yes, I'm determined. And hopeful. It's morning and the day hasn't had a chance to wear me down.
Yet.
I like to do these meetings early for just that reason. My mind is sharper and I'm less emotional.
So many victims. So little time.
Breathe.
I inhale and focus on my mantra. On letting my thoughts go.
Time passes, I’m not sure how much. Maybe three minutes, could be ten. All I know is I’m coming out of my meditation. My mind is clear, my previously jittery nerves calm and I’m ready for the task ahead. Slowly, I open my eyes. I’ve learned if I come out of this too fast, my body will rebel. I’ll feel…off…for the rest of the day. Fatigue, headache, tension. It’ll all be there, dragging me down.
Another few minutes pass and I let out a final deep breath as the swish of a door sounds.
Dr. Gentry, a woman in her forties with rich auburn hair—probably not her natural color given the wisps of gray popping up—and a penchant for pantsuits stands in the doorway. "Good morning, Meg."
As usual, her smile is warm, lighting up her angular face. Like me, she still has hope for the day.
We've worked together on cases before, most notably Simon Worth, the twelve-year-old who'd gone missing in 1979. Eight months ago his remains were found buried under a building that’d been knocked down in preparation for a new strip mall. One of the workers stepped off the backhoe and—whoopsie—there's a skull. Talk about a crappy morning.
"Hi. Thank you for seeing me on such short notice."
She waves it off. "No problem at all. JJ is all over me on this one."
"He brought me the skull yesterday."
"Name?"
I smile. My habits are well-known amongst the ME's staff. "Avery."
We move through another set of doors and walk past a room with a silver metal plate that says, "Body Storage." I haven't seen the inside of that room, but I'm told it can hold around two hundred corpses. I don't want to think about that number of bodies stacked up, most more than likely in terrible shape from a tragic death.
We move into one of the autopsy rooms—surgical suites—as Dr. Gentry calls them. It’s spotless with the sharp antiseptic scent of a recent scrubbing. Lining the wall to my right is a long sink holding various metal and plastic containers, all apparently cleaned and neatly placed upside down on a draining tray. In the center of the room is a shiny metal table holding the skeletal remains of who I have to assume is Avery.
I'll get you home.
"This," Dr. Gentry says, "is your Avery."
My guess is, before my visit, the bones were removed from a carefully labeled cardboard box that sits on the lab’s top shelf with all the others of unidentified remains. That’s what they do with them. Shove ‘em on a shelf until the case is solved or their family claims them. I glance up and see more than a dozen.
Random people who could be anyone’s mother, brother, sister.
Child.
