He opened the door and stepped inside.

On the nearest examination table lay the body of Mandilla Gill. Nineteen years young. A plastic white sheet covered her body and neck, but her face was exposed, which was abnormal. Clearly, the Medical Examiner, Kirstin Dunsmuir, was prepping the body for examination.

Striker looked around; didn’t see the woman anywhere.

‘You see Dunsmuir?’ he asked Felicia.

‘The Death Goddess?’ Felicia shook her head. ‘No. And I’m thankful for it. Small miracles, you know.’

Striker didn’t disagree. Were it not for the heaviness of the moment, he might have smiled at that. Felicia didn’t like Kirstin Dunsmuir, which was unsurprising. Most people didn’t like Kirstin Dunsmuir. And he was included in that group. The woman was colder than the stiffs she worked on, and equally fun at parties.

He killed the thought. He gloved up with fresh latex and moved towards the body on the steel table. In the harsh brightness of the examination lights, Mandy Gill’s skin looked almost ashen. Her face was slightly deflated from the draining of fluids, but the muscles around her eyes were still somehow tight. Striker had hoped the woman would look more peaceful in death, but she did not.

He pulled back the sheet and studied the body below. The prep work had already begun.

Felicia saw this, too. ‘Dunsmuir’s probably tagging the undergarments right now. Maybe we should wait for her before touching anything – you know how she is with this stuff.’

Striker didn’t really much care. ‘I’m not touching anything just yet. I’m just looking at a few areas.’

‘For what?’

‘Signs.’

He reached up, grabbed hold of the examination light, and tilted the face of it downwards, so that the brightness of the light shone directly on the body. Lividity – the pooling of the blood – was showing like a faint purplish line now, running all along the lower fifth of Mandy Gill’s body. Her facial muscles were stiffening, mainly the eyelids and cheeks.

Rigor was setting in.

Striker looked past all of this and focused on the skin. He swept his eyes around the most common injection areas first – the shoulders, the arms and wrists. When he saw nothing out of the ordinary, he started back at the toes, then slowly, patiently, worked his way up the body, looking for anything that stood out as irregular.

When he reached the neck, he found it. A small mark, almost imperceptible, even with the bright glare of the examination light – definitely impossible to detect back in the dimness of the victim’s room.

‘Right here,’ Striker said to Felicia. ‘Left side, just lateral to the base of the neck. Over the first rib area.’ He pointed out the area of skin to Felicia, and she shook her head.

‘I don’t see it.’

Striker took out his pen and pointed to a small precise area where the skin had a slight mark on it.

‘See that?’ he said. ‘The tissue is slightly swollen here. Just barely, but when compared to the right side, you can see there’s a difference.’

‘Why?’

‘Because, I believe, she was injected here.’

Felicia made a face. Looked again. ‘You’re sure?’

‘Positive. And the swelling indicates Mandy was alive when it happened – otherwise there’d be no immune response. If you look close enough, there’s a small mark right here.’

He pointed and Felicia shook her head. ‘Since when do injections leave a mark like that?’ she asked.

Striker gave her a dark look. ‘They don’t – unless someone’s resisting and the needle tears the skin.’ He was about to say more when a cold voice filled the room.

‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’

Striker looked up to see a very unhappy Kirstin Dunsmuir. One look at the medical examiner and Striker could see that she’d had more work done to her face. Cosmetic surgery. The woman was addicted. She crossed her arms over her breast implants and sneered at them through her collagen-filled lips.

‘Why are you touching my subject?’

Striker just pointed to the area he was looking at. ‘I think she was injected here, can you take a look for me?’

Dunsmuir said nothing for a moment, her icy blue contacts staring Striker down. She strode across the floor with her blue autopsy gown flapping behind her like a cape. Once beside the table, she gave him a long hard look before seeming to relax a little. She put on her glasses, examined the skin, then nodded slowly.

‘Yes, it would appear she’s been injected.’

She stood back and put on a forced smile, one that showed every one of her capped teeth. ‘Excellent detail,’ she said to Striker, ‘and if I ever again catch you touching one of my subjects before the autopsy is done, I’ll have you banned from the lab.’

Striker felt his jaw tighten. His first instinct was to tell the woman off – he had every right to be in here. Mandy Gill was his victim first; her subject second. He could have argued that point and won.

But what was the point in that? He knew Kirstin Dunsmuir well. The Death Goddess had earned her reputation for a reason. And fighting with her would only complicate the investigation.

‘I’m sorry,’ he offered. ‘I wasn’t trying to overstep my bounds here. It’s just that . . . I knew this woman. She was a good person. She didn’t deserve this.’

The medical examiner didn’t blink. ‘If you knew her, you should remove yourself from the case.’

Striker let the comment go. ‘Look, I didn’t mean to step on your toes or break your lab policies. I’m just worried that this is more than a simple suicide.’

Kirstin Dunsmuir made no immediate reply. But Striker’s words seemed to placate her. Her posture relaxed. ‘I’m just starting my assessment now,’ she said.

‘Good. Can we get some toxicology on this one?’ Striker asked.

‘I always do tox tests – when it’s warranted.’

Striker nodded. ‘What are we looking at for timeline here?’

‘For the tox tests? I’ll expedite them. But we’re still looking at a while. Twenty-four hours, for sure.’

‘It’s appreciated,’ Striker said. The smell of the body cleaners was getting to him. So were the memories. He handed Dunsmuir one of his business cards with his personal cell number on it. ‘Call me the moment you know.’

Dunsmuir took it and said she would. Then Striker gave Felicia the nod to leave, and they did. Once back in the hall, Felicia looked over at him. Nodded approvingly. ‘I thought you were going to tear her head off in there.’

Striker shrugged. ‘More flies from honey,’ he said softly.

He walked down the hallway, the hard sound of his heels echoing against the walls. With every step, the lighting seemed to grow darker and the long corridor narrower as they closed in on the cargo elevator.

Striker couldn’t wait to get outside. He needed some space, some fresh air. A moment to think. But more than anything, he just needed to get out of the morgue and away from Kirstin Dunsmuir.

He was suffocating on the darkness.

Twenty-Four

Striker got the car going immediately. Got himself focused. Again, they headed for the headquarters of Car 87, with one purpose – to see if the clinic had a personnel file on Dr Erich Ostermann.

At this point, anything on the man would be helpful.

It was going on for eleven o’clock now, which didn’t matter as far as the headquarters were concerned because they were open twenty-four hours a day. Whether it was a nurse, a counsellor, or one of the officers involved, someone would be there.

They drove on. The traffic was surprisingly bad, given the time of night. And it thickened the further they went.

When they got stuck at a red, Striker pulled out his cell phone. He tried calling Courtney to tell her not to wait up for him, but then got directed immediately to the answering machine.