The Unspoken
Page 7

“Yes, he arrived about ten minutes ago. He said you were informed that you’d be meeting him. He’s not a doctor,” McFarland said, his tone irritated and more than a little condescending.
“But he is an agent,” Kat reminded him.
McFarland opened the door to the autopsy room; they were both gowned and gloved.
Kat usually noted the corpse first.
But this time she noted the man who belonged to the original Krewe.
He greeted her as she entered, with words rather than a gloved hand. “Hello, Dr. Sokolov, I’m Will Chan. I believe you were expecting to meet me here?”
“Yes, of course. Logan told me you were already in the city,” Kat said.
She didn’t mean to stare at him in obvious assessment.
But she did. She probably would’ve been tempted to stare at him anywhere. He wasn’t just an appealing, attractive or handsome man, he was different, and not merely because of his striking appearance. There was an aura about him, an energy that immediately caught and held her attention.
She had to look up at him, but she was only five-four, so it seemed that she looked up at most of the world. Somehow, with him, it was…disconcerting. Or maybe it was the circumstances that were disconcerting. We don’t know each other, except for what we know about each other. And yet…
She’d been given so many files to read on the plane, she had to mentally put what she knew about Will in order. He’d become an agent with the original Krewe of Hunters when they’d solved a case at a historic mansion in New Orleans. Before that, he’d performed as a magician and an illusionist. He was also astute with video, film and discerning what was really just smoke and mirrors, recognizing what lay beneath the surface. Will had gone through the academy and passed with flying colors. He was a talented agent.
And, of course, he’d happened to be in the city.
She cleared her throat, not wanting to seem gauche. “Logan gave me an extensive file,” she said. “You’re a film expert, as well?”
“I know a few things about it,” he said, lowering his head with a quick smile. “I come from a long line of illusionists.”
He was tall with intriguing features. His background was Trinidadian and he’d spoken with a slight accent that made her think of the Caribbean island. His hair was dark. His eyes, just as dark, were slightly almond-shaped. His features suggested Asian and perhaps Indian antecedents, and then again, there was something classic about them. His face seemed to be sculpted in the mold of a Roman statue, but with the rugged chin of an American cowboy. She found herself studying him—and almost forgetting that he was standing beside a corpse.
“Yes, and I’m one of Jackson Crow’s team, and most important, I was in Chicago when this happened,” he said.
“Right.” Kat nodded. “And so…what have you learned?”
“He hasn’t learned anything yet,” McFarland said. “I haven’t gone over the autopsy report with him,” he added. “We knew you were on your way.”
Kat nodded again, but looked at Will Chan.
McFarland had no idea just what this man—a Krewe member who could speak with the dead—might have learned.
She glanced away from Will Chan with determination, unable to still the curiosity stirring within her. As part of Jackson Crow’s team, he’d been specifically chosen for his position.
Because of a special talent.
McFarland drew out his report and frowned as he studied it. “As we all know, Mr. Laurie was a white adult male, thirty-six years old. No alcohol in the system, no drugs. His body was found drifting in the hold of the Jerry McGuen, at a depth of eighty feet in Lake Michigan, Chicago jurisdiction. Autopsy revealed no sign of violence and showed that Mr. Laurie was in perfect health at the time of his death. The lungs were filled with salt water, so I’m planning to officially sign off on this report as death by drowning, accidental.”
Kat gazed at the corpse. When it came to their unofficial role with the Krewe of Hunters, she was always glad of her medical degree and her specialization in pathology.
People didn’t think she was crazy when she touched the dead.
She moved forward, inspecting the dead man and then touching his arm.
She waited, hoping for something. A sense that he was still there, and that she could communicate with the remnants of his life, spirit or soul.
But she heard nothing in her mind, saw nothing at all in the part of her own soul that was different from other people’s. Her skill, or gift, or whatever one chose to call it, was out of the ordinary—but shared by some. Like Will Chan…
She glanced up at him again. He was watching her, and his striking dark eyes divulged none of his thoughts.
Stepping back, she gave her full attention to the visual aspect of the corpse.
Drowning. She hadn’t done the autopsy herself. She saw that Dr. McFarland’s Y incision was neatly cut and just as neatly sewn with small, competent stitches. It didn’t take a brilliant doctor to detect when the lungs were filled with water, and she didn’t doubt his conclusion on that.
She turned from the body to the report. The man had definitely drowned.
But she didn’t like the coloration of the corpse. Blue lips—natural, given what had happened. However, the lips were also puffy, and one side of his mouth seemed more swollen than the other. And there were curious bruises on the arms.
“You’re aware of the bruising?” she asked McFarland.
“Of course.” He was obviously indignant at her question. “I make painstaking notes. Every bruise is listed in the report, and you will have a copy of it for your files.”
She forced herself to ignore McFarland and Chan, studying the body once again. She was certain that McFarland was adept at his work—and from what she’d seen thus far, his notes were painstaking, just as he’d said. But the medical examiner needed to note the condition of a corpse and assess possible causes for that condition. McFarland’s Y incision on the dead man had been nothing short of artistic, and she was sure he’d inspected the man’s vital organs and taken all necessary samples for the pathology lab.
Brady Laurie showed no postmortem lividity in his lower extremities, which led her to believe that he’d floated, probably upright, after death.
But the bruising on his face still bothered her. So did the bruises on his arms. Those were smaller—the size of fingertips.
“What do you make of these?” she asked McFarland.
“Bruises. As I mentioned, they’re noted in the report,” McFarland said curtly.
Chan cleared his throat as he eased around the gurney. “What would’ve caused bruises on both arms?” he murmured. Kat had the same question. They weren’t as conspicuous, perhaps, as the contusions around his mouth, but unmistakable nonetheless.
“The man was a diver. He was dealing with a lot of equipment. He knocked around in one of the ship’s holds until he was found by other divers from the Preservation Center,” McFarland said. “He could have gotten them from an air tank or from some of the equipment he had piled on him. He was carrying a camera, and he was wearing one of those headlights divers use during night dives or cave dives. There was a dive knife strapped to his ankle. He had a huge light on the camera, as well—and, like I said, he bounced around the hold.”
“Still…I don’t think we should discount these bruises,” Kat said.
Chan seemed to agree. He moved around the corpse again, studying the bruises on Brady Laurie’s arms. Then he angled forward. “They look like fingerprints,” Chan said. “See? If I were to reach out and grab him…”
He demonstrated, putting his fingers just above where the bruises showed on the flesh.
“You think he was held down?” McFarland sounded skeptical.
“I think it’s possible,” Chan said, and he turned to Kat.
“More than possible.” She stepped forward, gently touching Brady’s lips with her gloved fingers. “And there’s some injury around the mouth….”
McFarland seemed troubled now, staring at the corpse and then referring to his notes. Finally, he shook his head. “Mr. Laurie was down in that hold alone. All alone. I don’t know anything about him as a man. Perhaps he had a temper. Maybe he got into an argument with someone before he went down. Maybe someone grabbed him roughly. I imagine he had a few bouts with his fellows at the Preservation Center. He could have gotten these bruises in a scuffle with a friend—even roughhousing for fun.”
Kat looked at him incredulously.
“This isn’t the body of a man who engaged in any kind of serious fight!” McFarland said firmly. “The bruises are small. There’s no injury to any of his bones. There are no real cuts, just some chafing around the mouth. He came in here having drowned. He definitely did drown.”
“But you assumed he might have been in a scuffle?” Will asked. “Do you often hear of fistfights among historians who don’t agree with each other?”
“There’s no real violence to the body. And historians are human like everyone else,” McFarland said.
“That’s true, but I spent the morning with this man’s coworkers—and there was no difference of opinion. They all wanted the same thing,” Will told McFarland. He sighed. “Doctor, please look at these bruises. Look at the way they match my hands. Think about a regulator. If it was ripped out of a man’s mouth…”
“You would have exactly that kind of trauma,” Kat finished.
“And exactly that kind of bruising,” Will said impatiently.
His tone made McFarland bristle, and Kat frowned at Will.
He ignored her.
Despite the tension in the room, Kat kept her hand lightly on the icy-cold arm of the corpse. She knew that Will was right; she had noted the particular patterns of the bruises on Brady’s arms almost immediately. And combined with the marks around his mouth, they suggested certain conclusions. But then, she was a diver. McFarland was not. And the man who’d been brought to him had been floating alone in the hold of a sunken ship.