Paint It Black by P.J. Parrish Read Free Book Online Page A

jerking his head toward the door.
    Louis looked through the glass to the autopsy room. He could see Wainwright’s broad back in its black uniform. There was another man in green scrubs and a white apron on the opposite side of the waist-high fiberglass table, his face hidden behind what looked like a large grocery scale. On the table between them was the body, though Louis could see only the corpse’s legs sticking out. He noticed a small sign above the door: MORTUI VIVOS DOCENT . Pulling in a breath, he went in.
    The smell hit him square in the face, a nostril-numbing brew that immediately conjured up things and places that he couldn’t quite remember. He resisted the urge to cover his nose and mouth.
    Wainwright turned. “Kincaid. You’re just in time for the fun part,” he said.
    Louis slowly approached the table. The corpse’s chest had already been cut open, the Y-shaped incision running from the front of each shoulder to the bottom of the breastbone and down to the genitals. The skin, muscles, and tissue had already been peeled back, the largest flap of skin pulled upward, hiding the face.
    Louis stared at the red cavity of the rib cage. A memory bubbled up from childhood, a woman’s back to him as she worked at a chipped white sink and the sight of freshly skinned rabbit. And the smell . . . he could suddenly place that. Dead rats in summer, caught in the walls of their house.
    He looked up and saw Wainwright staring at him with a slightly bemused look.
    â€œFirst time?” Wainwright asked.
    â€œYes,” Louis said.
    â€œBreathe through your mouth,” Wainwright said. He nodded to the man in scrubs. “This is Vince Carissimi, the ME. Doc, this is Louis Kincaid. He’s working private.”
    Vince Carissimi was about thirty-five, tall and blue-eyed with shaggy salt-and-pepper hair. A pair of earphones hung from his neck attached to the Walkman on his belt. Louis could hear the tinny music. It was Jimi Hendrix.
    â€œWelcome to my realm,” Vince said. “Call me Vince. It’s Vincenzo, actually, but only my mother is allowed to call me that. Call me Vince. Please.”
    Louis glanced around. The room looked unnervingly like a kitchen. He noticed a sign on the wall. HOUSE RULE NO. 1: IF IT IS WET AND STICKY AND NOT YOURS, DON’T TOUCH IT !
    Louis’s gaze returned to the corpse. He had seen dead people before, but not like this. The man’s limbs were bloated and mottled, like smooth pale marble. There was a gaping black hole in the left thigh just below the groin.
    â€œHow could you tell he was black?” Louis asked, without looking up.
    â€œThe anatomic position of the mandible relative to the zygomatic bones indicates a Negroid skull structure,” Vince said.
    Wainwright sighed. “He’s bullshitting you. We found the guy’s wallet.” He pulled a paper from his pocket. “His name is Anthony Quick. He’s from Toledo, Ohio. Forty years old. Wife and two kids.” He paused. “I called Toledo PD. They’re sending someone out to the house this morning.”
    Louis nodded. He had pulled “messenger duty” often as a rookie with the Ann Arbor force. He knew the drill: We have some bad news, ma’am. Your husband is dead. We’re sorry for your loss.... Gentle but direct was the best way. But it never made it easier for them or you.
    Wainwright handed Louis a file. Louis scanned the dossier and then looked at the copy of the license picture. Anthony Quick was a good-looking man, light-skinned with close-cropped black hair and dark eyes that stared out with the slightly irritated look of a man who had waited a long time in line to get his renewal. Louis had a sudden image of two kids waiting at the window for Dad’s car to pull up.
    â€œWe found a Holiday Inn key in his pocket. Sheriff’s guys are checking it out.”
    â€œSheriff?” Louis asked.
    â€œIt was from the hotel