Page 63 of Unnatural Death

“He has hemorrhage and contusion, the damage consistent with him being shot with a high-powered weapon, most likely at the same time Brittany was,” I explain. “The bullets exited his body, and soon after he was either dead or well on the way.”

There’s no sign of blunt force trauma. It doesn’t seem the assailant physically confronted Huck. He has superficial injuries from being dragged inside the mine and dropped down the shaft. Shallow puncture wounds likely are from nails in the wooden scaffolding.

“I suspect the fall is what broke his leg, but it’s the head injury, the severed spinal cord that killed him and did so quickly,” I say to Marino as he returns the bag of dissected organs to the chest cavity.

I thread a curved needle with cotton twine. Replacing the pieces of the shattered skull cap, I pull up the face and scalp. I begin suturing the incision around the hairline, and I can feel Marino’s dark mood like a magnetic pull.

“Maybe when we have a chance to talk to Benton and Lucy, we’ll feel better,” I say to him. “I’m sure there was much they couldn’t tell us with everybody sitting there.”

“Nothing they can say will make me feel okay about this.” He yanks off his bloody gloves and slams them into a biohazard can. “And it’s not fair. I don’t like the way they tricked me into it, waiting until they’d already spilled the beans. Suddenly I’m threatened with prison if I breathe a word.”

“Things are at a different level now, the consequences nothing to trifle with,” I reply. “It doesn’t matter that you didn’t ask for it, Marino. The fact is you’ve been exposed to sensitive information. You absolutely can’t talk about it except to those of us authorized.”

“The rules shouldn’t be the same when it’s Carrie Grethen.” He covers the stretcher with a new pouch.

“But they are.”

“I swear if I ever see her, I’ll make sure she’s dead this time.” He helps me lift the body, and I zip it inside the pouch. Marino collects the plastic container from the countertop, and I’m happy to see the cricket still moving around.

“Come on, little fella. We’re going for a ride.” He sets the container on top of the stretcher, and we push through the airlock as the cricket starts chirping.

Inside the decontamination compartment, Marino places the container out of harm’s way on a shelf before spraying down the body pouch and stretcher. We take off our soiled PPE, our field clothes underneath wrinkled and sweaty. We return to the cooler where Brittany Manson’s pouched body waits for us.

“Thanks,” I tell Marino. “I’d hate to be on my own in this. Somehow, we’ll manage.”

“Hell yeah we will, Doc.”

We wheel both stretchers into the vestibule, and he places the container on the metal desk. He checks on the cricket, its dark eyes staring through clear plastic. Marino taps the lid with his finger, and Jiminy takes several frantic hops.

“I think he’s really stressed,” Marino says.

“That makes three of us.”

“Be right back.”

Moments later, Marino pushes through the airlock, returning to the vestibule with a small cardboard pill box, the ends of it torn off. Lifting the lid of the plastic container, he places the box inside.

“Bingo.” He’s pleased with himself. “They like to have something to hide in. That should calm him down.”

“Maybe I need one of those.” I watch the cricket crawl inside his new cardboard quiet place.

“I’m not putting him outside when it’s supposed to snow. I don’t want him freezing to death all by his lonesome.”

“Of course we’re not going to let that happen, but I’m not a cricket expert, Marino. What would you suggest we do with him?”

“I don’t know. But it’s like he’s a sign. Maybe he’s been sent to us for a reason,” he says, and this is how I know Carrie has loosened his moorings.

Marino has to focus on something he can control. He needs to fix things, making them better, even if it’s for a cricket. He feels robbed of power and I understand completely.

“A sign?” I ask.

“Maybe from above, like it’s a message to us.”

“Saying what?”

“I don’t know, but how he got in the body bag to begin with is weird,” Marino says. “He must have hopped in before we zipped it up. Then he survives being airlifted here and left in the cooler, and for what? To dump him outside so he can freeze to death?”

“We’ll leave him in here for now,” I reply, and the cricket begins chirping again like a smoke detector with a low battery. “In a while we’ll carry him to my office and figure out what makes sense.” He chirps some more as if pleased with the plan.

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