Page 43 of Shamed

The other man in his office rises. He’s African American, with a tall frame, thinning hair the color of steel wool, and keen, intelligent eyes.

“This is Dr. Larry Blake,” the coroner says. “He’s the deputy medical examiner for Cuyahoga County and specializes in forensic pathology.”

Blake and I shake. His grip is firm, but not crushing. He smiles easily and I wonder how it is that these men can spend so much time with the dead yet remain upbeat and optimistic.

“I’m here at the behest of BCI,” Dr. Blake tells me. “I understand you’ve got a missing child on your hands.”

I give him a condensed version of the case. “I’m hoping we’ll learn something today that will help us find her.”

Doc Coblentz motions toward the alcove where the biohazard supplies are stored. “In that case, let’s get started.”

The three of us leave his office and walk to the alcove where Carmen has laid out individually wrapped protective gear. A paper apron for me. Face mask. Shoe covers. Hair cap. Disposable gloves. Quickly, I tear open the packages and gear up. The men don’t wait for me. I watch them saunter down the narrow hall and go through the double doors that lead to the autopsy room. Once I’m dressed, I draw a couple of deep breaths and follow.

No matter how many times I make this pilgrimage, no matter how many times I assure myself I’m prepared, the dead are quick to prove me wrong. The air thickens and cools, melding with a darker odor that brings the familiar quiver to my stomach. I think about Elsie and I pray to God I don’t have to walk this hall again because her little body is laid out on a gurney.

I’ve seen many a tough guy cut down to size because he can’t bear to look at the body of a child and not think of his own. It’s the people who can keep all that outrage and disgust under lock and key that I don’t quite trust.

The room is so cold, I half expect to see a coating of frost on the gray subway-tiled walls. I take in the rest of the details while trying not to look too closely. Stark fluorescent lights. Stainless-steel counters cluttered with white plastic containers, gleaming instruments lined up on trays, dual sinks with tall, arcing faucets, and a scale that hangs down, ready to weigh things I don’t want to contemplate.

Ignoring all of it, trying hard to keep a handle on my quivering stomach, I follow the men to the gurney where I see a body draped with a pale blue sheet. Doc Coblentz pulls on a headset with a small mike and recites the date and time, nine-digit case number, the names of everyone present, including his own, and the name of the deceased.

He pulls the cover down to her pubis. “Sixty-year-old female Caucasian. One hundred and fifty-three pounds. Five feet, four inches in height.”

Mary Yoder’s body is mature, etched with years and the scars of life. I see a round, slack face. A nose covered with freckles. Eyes at half mast. Long brown hair streaked with silver. I see flesh that rarely saw the sun. But her hands, face, and neck are tanned. I didn’t know Mary Yoder, but I’ve no doubt she was a modest woman. She wouldn’t want anyone to see her like this, and I find myself silently assuring her that it will be over soon. That I will do everything in my power to find the person responsible. That I will bring her granddaughter home.

I’ve attended more autopsies than I want to think about. I’m invariably astounded at the violence people are capable of. I never stay for the full course of the procedure; I couldn’t stomach it. However difficult, seeing a victim beneath the stark lights of the morgue is part of a ritual that will hopefully set me on the path to finding a killer.

“Dr. Blake has taken and preserved all possible evidence present on the body. It has been photographed extensively. Once those things were done, the body was washed and X-rayed.” Doc Coblentz looks at me, the goggles making his eyes look huge. “One of the more interesting things we found was that the victim had gravel in her mouth.”

I stare at him, surprised. “Any idea how it got there?” I look from man to man. “Could she have fallen in the driveway, struck her mouth on the ground?” Even as I ask the question, I recall that the attack likely happened inside the house.

“No way of knowing for certain,” Doc tells me. “It wasn’t just a small amount, Kate.”

“About four ounces,” Dr. Blake says.

“If I were to guess,” Doc Coblentz says, “I’d say someone put it there.”

“Postmortem?”

“Probably,” he tells me. “None of the gravel had been swallowed or ingested.”

“Any idea where the gravel came from?” I ask. “The driveway? Did the killer bring it with him?”

Dr. Blake chimes in. “We sent a sample to the BCI lab. They’ll run a comparison to the material in the driveway.”

I find myself thinking about the note found on Mary Yoder the day she was killed.

Food gained by fraud tastes sweet, but one ends up with a mouth full of gravel.

I make a mental note to see if Tomasetti has the resources to match the gravel to a specific area or to a company that deals in aggregate.

“Moving forward.” Doc Coblentz reaches up and repositions the light. “As you can see, the decedent suffered multiple sharp-force trauma.”

He indicates the victim’s hands. “Defensive wounds present on both hands and arms. Nonfatal superficial incised wounds on the left forearm. Left biceps. Right shoulder.” He grips the arm and opens the wound, so that it looks like a gaping red mouth carved into skin the color of ash. “Incised wound cut through the tissue, penetrating to the bone.”

“The killer is physically strong.” I hear my own voice as if it comes from far away and belongs to someone else.

“I concur,” Dr. Blake puts in.