“Hello.” Holding the right arm. She switched to the left. Gestured me over.

Under magnification, I could see a cluster of pinpoint discolorations on the inside of the right elbow. “Same on the left?”

“Three.”

“Injection sites?” It didn’t look right.

“If so, the pattern is atypical.”

Karras continued examining the body. The skin on the palms looked rough and chapped, the nails unkept. Working hands, I thought.

“Both wrists show bands of reddening.”

“Ligatures?”

“Maybe.”

Several beats passed.

“Ever work one of these?” Karras asked.

“I once got a corpse in a barrel of asphalt. Maple syrup, no.”

“Any sense how long she’s been in the stuff?” Checking the right armpit.

“She’s in good shape,” I said. “Some skin sloughing on the tip of the nose, the shins, a few toes. That’s about it.”

“Probably contact points.”

Several more beats. Then Karras made her first sortie into non-autopsy-related conversation. “I live near an old cemetery. Small, just a few graves. There’s a kid buried under a headstone that says he died in England in 1747. Says they shipped him home in a barrel of honey.”

“Embalming didn’t exist back then.”

“Alexander the Great.” Left armpit. “Died in 323 B.C. They preserved him in a coffin filled with honey.”

“Yes.” Hiding my surprise that she knew.

“Can’t recall why they did that.”

“Alex kicked in Babylon but needed to get to Macedonia.”

No chuckle. Rule of thumb. If a joke needs explanation, there is no point. I let it go.

“The Assyrians used honey as a means of embalming,” I said. “So did the Egyptians.”

“How’s it work?” Karras moved down the table to the feet. Started spreading and checking inter-toe spaces.

“Honey is composed mainly of monosaccharides and H2O. Since most of the water molecules are associated with the sugars, few remain available for microorganisms, making it a poor environment for bacterial growth.”

“No access to the body’s exterior, and no anaerobic action in the gut. End result, no decomp. Syrup has the same effect?”

“Apparently.” The point Rodas had been making with his lecture on maples and sugaring.

My cellphone buzzed. I walked to the counter and, without touching it, checked caller ID. Slidell.

“I’d better take this.”

No reply.

I pulled off a glove and clicked on.

“The mother says Leal had problems with her monthly time.”

My eyes sought the ceiling at Slidell’s outdated euphemism.

“Didn’t ask details, but sounds like the kid got some real bad bellyaches. Mother once took her to the ER. She thinks that’s the reason for the Internet sites.”

“Did she have any thoughts on possible passwords?”

Across the room, Karras was collecting scrapings from under each nail.

“A few. I bounced them to Pastori.”

“Did she regulate Shelly’s use of the Internet?”

“She says yeah, but I get a different vibe.”

Karras crossed to the counter and opened the fingerprint kit. Not wishing to disclose confidential information, I turned my back and lowered my voice. “Did you circulate the Pomerleau sketch?”

“Issued an updated BOLO right after I emailed it to you.”

“Any action?” I asked.

Karras returned to the table.

“Geraldo called pronto. Pomerleau wants on the show.”

I let that go without comment.

“What’s happening up there?” Slidell asked.

I heard movement behind me. Knew Karras was inking and then pressing each fingertip to a print sheet.

“I’ll tell you later.”

“Where’s Ryan?”

“Tossing a sugar shack.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Later.”

I heard a metallic rattle, then water hitting stainless steel. I turned. Karras was using a spray nozzle on the hair covering the face. Slowly, the strands yielded and drifted back toward the temples.

The features came into view.

My jaw dropped.

CHAPTER 23

“GOD ALMIGHTY!”

Karras was eyeing me, stony with disapproval.

I found an image on my phone, crossed to her, and held the screen so she could see. Her gaze moved between my iPhone and the glistening bronzed face on the table. A very long moment passed.

“Who is she?”

“Anique Pomerleau.”

Blank stare.

“Pomerleau may have murdered Nellie Gower and several other children.”

“Go on.”

I did. But kept it short.

“You’re sure it’s her?” Studying the corpse. “It’s her.”

“We’ll run the prints and take samples for DNA testing.”

“Of course.”

“How did your suspect end up in a barrel of syrup?”

“I’m hoping you’ll help clarify that.”

At 2:45 A.M. Karras snipped the thread closing the Y on Pomerleau’s chest.

By then bacteria, long denied, had begun to have their way with her flesh. The air was thick with the foul smell of putrefaction mingling with the sweet smell of syrup.

Sadly, the autopsy had left us with many more questions than answers.

Rigor, a transient condition causing the muscles to stiffen, had long since come and gone. No surprise. We’d noted that when handling the body.

Livor, discoloration due to the settling of blood on a corpse’s downside, was evident in the buttocks, lower legs, and feet. Either Pomerleau had died in the barrel or she’d been placed there immediately after death.

No syrup was present in the paranasal sinuses, air passages, lungs, or stomach, meaning Pomerleau hadn’t inhaled or ingested it. She hadn’t drowned in the barrel; ergo, she’d gone into it dead.

Pomerleau’s gut held only a few fragments of tomato skin. She hadn’t eaten for roughly six to eight hours before she died.

Karras found no bullets, bullet fragments, or bullet tracks. No blunt instrument trauma. No hyoid fractures pointing to strangulation. No significant petechiae suggesting asphyxiation.

Under magnification, she spotted three parallel grooves on the ectocranial surface near the border of one oval defect, V-shaped and extremely narrow in cross section. Neither Karras nor I had a satisfactory explanation.

Other than the tiny marks on each inner elbow, the body lacked the constellation of features typically seen in habitual drug users.

Karras did a rape kit. Drew what blood she could for toxicology testing. Wasn’t optimistic on either front.

Bottom line, Pomerleau was a healthy thirty-nine-year-old white female showing no evidence of trauma, infection, systemic disease, or congenital malformation. We didn’t know how or when she died. We didn’t know how or why she’d ended up in the barrel.

Icy sleet was still coming down when Karras drove me to a Comfort Inn about a mile from the medical complex. En route, we shared theories. I thought it likely Pomerleau had been murdered. Karras, more cautious, planned to write cause of death as “undetermined,” manner as “suspicious.”

She was right. Though unlikely, other possibilities existed. A drug overdose, then a cover-up. Accidental suffocation. I didn’t believe it.

We agreed on one point: Pomerleau hadn’t sealed herself in that barrel.

After checking in to my room, I considered phoning Ryan. Slidell. Instead, I took a second shower and dropped into bed.

As sleep descended, the truth hammered home.

Pomerleau was finally dead. The monster. The one who got away. I tried to pinpoint the emotions twisting my gut. Failed.

Facts and images ricocheted in my brain.

A lip print on a jacket.

Male DNA.

Stephen Menard.

A soundproof prison cell in a basement.

Questions. Lots of questions.

Had Pomerleau found a new accomplice? Was that man involved in her death?

Had he murdered her? Why?

Who was he? Where was he now?

Had he taken his malignant freak show south?