Breaking Silence by Linda Castillo Read Free Book Online Page B

to the basement.
    “What’s up with all this fuckin’ rain?” Glock comments as the car descends. “I thought it was supposed to snow in December.”
    “Mother Nature likes to keep us on our toes, I guess.”
    “That bitch is on crack.”
    That elicits a smile from both of us, but I know we’re only working up to our next task. In the back of my mind, I’m already wondering how much animosity existed between Adam and Solly Slabaugh. I wonder if there was enough of it to drive the forsaken uncle to commit murder.
    The elevator doors swish open and we step into a hushed gray-tiled hall that reminds me of some deserted underground nuclear facility. We pass a yellow-and-black biohazard sign and go through dual swinging doors mounted with a plaque that reads: MORGUE: AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY . A middle-aged woman in a navy dress looks up from her desk when I enter. “Hi, Chief.”
    “Hey, Carmen.” The fact that I’m on a first-name basis with the coroner’s administrative assistant tells me I’ve been spending too much time here. “This is Officer Maddox.”
    We cross to her desk. Smiling, Glock extends his hand. “Call me Glock.”
    “I’m not going to argue with a man who goes by that nickname.” She chuckles. “How’re the roads out there? Guy on the radio says we might be in for some freezing rain.”
    “Good for now. Might get a little tricky later.” I glance toward the swinging doors, already dreading what comes next. “Doc in there?”
    “Go right in. He’s expecting you.”
    “Thanks.”
    We go through another set of swinging doors. The medicinal smells of formalin and alcohol and the darker stench of death envelops us like cold, clammy hands as we traverse the hall. The autopsy suite is straight ahead. I can already feel the tension climbing up my shoulders. Glock is silent, but I know he feels it, too. All of us are born with an inherent aversion to death. No matter how many times I make this pilgrimage, it never gets any easier.
    To my right is a small alcove where the doc stores supplies, including biohazard protection. To my left, I see Doc Coblentz’s glassed-in office. The miniblinds and door are open, and I can see him sitting at his desk. An old John Lennon Christmas song oozes from a neat little sound system on his credenza.
    He looks up when we enter and gives us a somber shake of his head. “I’ll bet you thought you were going to be able to sit this one out.”
    I look toward the autopsy suite. “Are you sure about the head trauma?”
    He offers a grim nod. “I’m certain. Of course, I can’t rule on the manner or cause of death until I complete the autopsy. But Solomon Slabaugh definitely sustained a substantial blow to the head shortly before his death.”
    “Are you sure it happened before he died?”
    “Even though the wound site was compromised with contaminants from the muck, there was some bleeding visible. The victim’s heart was beating. I’m certain.”
    “How substantial?”
    “There was enough force to break the skin.”
    “That’s a lot of force,” Glock comments.
    Rising, the doc motions toward the alcove, where the biohazard gear is stowed neatly on the shelf. “Suit up, and I’ll show you.”
    Glock and I enter the alcove and hang our coats on hooks mounted on the wall. Anxious to see the head trauma for myself, I quickly don shoe covers, a sea-foam green gown that ties at the back, a hair cap, a disposable mask, and latex gloves. The doc is waiting for us when we emerge.
    Our paper gowns crackle as we traverse the hall. The doc pushes open one of two swinging doors and we enter the autopsy room. The temperature is so cold, I almost expect to see my breath, or maybe the cold emanates from someplace inside me.
    The thing that always surprises me most when I come here is the smell. Even with a state-of-the-art ventilation system and a constant temperature of sixty-one degrees, the stink of decaying flesh is ever present. I’ve been here more times