up to her shoulders, and was in the midst of scrutinizing her bra when someone walked in.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" the man demanded.
I turned and got my first look at Dr. Jay Barbette, the medical examiner, standing in the doorway in his lab coat, flanked by two of his morgue attendants.
Barbette was a tall man in his sixties with a bushy gray mustache, tousled hair, and a tiny pair of glasses that seemed far too small for his bulbous nose and his round face, which, at that moment, was flushed with outrage.
"I'm Dr. Mark Sloan," I said. "She was one of my patients."
"Before or after she drowned in the LA River?"
"That's a difficult question to answer," I said.
"Why is that?"
"Because I never saw her before today," I said. "And she didn't drown in the river."
"Didn't the firefighters find her in the river?"
"Yes, they did," I said.
Barbette came over, stood beside me, and looked at the body. "She definitely drowned. I can see that already."
"I agree," I said.
"I'm so relieved to hear that," he said, rubbing his temples. "Son, you're giving me a headache. You better make your point and make it quick, or I'm going to ask my friends here to drag you out and restrain you until the police can get here."
I smiled at Dr. Barbette's two brawny assistants. "That won't be necessary."
"I'll be the judge of that," Barbette said.
"I believe she drowned in her bathtub and her body was dumped in the river."
He looked at me incredulously. "You do."
"She smells like fresh flowers," I said.
"Excuse me?"
"Sniff her," I said.
"Are you some kind of pervert?"
"Her blouse is soaked in bath oil," I said. "It's like she put her clothes on without drying off first."
"You're saying she drowned in her bathtub simply because she didn't adequately towel herself this morning?"
"That's not all, Dr. Barbette. Her ears are pierced and she has tan lines where she usually wears a watch and several rings," I said. "But she isn't wearing any jewelry."
"She fell into a raging river," he said. "Didn't it occur to you that her jewelry might have been swept away in the current?"
"Yes, but that doesn't explain the seams on her stockings."
"The seams?" he asked.
"They should be going up the back of her legs," I said, pointing it out with my finger. "And the garter belt straps are on top of her panties, not underneath them."
"What does that have to do with where she drowned?" he said, his voice rising with impatience.
"No woman would go out in public with the seams showing in front, and she certainly wouldn't put the straps over her panties. That's how garter belts are modeled, but that's not how real women wear them."
"I suppose you're an expert on 'real' women," he said.
"I'm married to one," I said. "I know if my wife had to go to the bathroom, she wouldn't want to have to take off her garter belt and stockings to do it."
Barbette turned and studied the dead woman again, then glanced back at me. When he spoke, the impatience in his voice was gone.
"But someone dressing her might make that mistake," he said. "Someone in a hurry."
"A man," I said. "A woman would know better." Barbette nodded, a thoughtful expression on his face, then turned to his two attendants. "Gentlemen, why don't you go get us a couple cups of coffee? Hot as possible, please. How do you take yours, Doctor...?"
"Sloan," I said. "Mark Sloan. Black, with two spoonfuls of sugar."
"Same for me," Barbette said.
The two attendants seemed confused by the sudden turn of events, but no more so than me. They left. As soon as they were gone, Barbette gestured to the woman again.
"Why were you turning her on her side when I came in?" he asked.
"I was looking at her bra. It's too tight." I pointed to the clasps. "See these two loops? They're scuffed and worn. This is where she usually hooked the clasps, not where they are now. Whoever dressed her didn't know that either. He wasn't worried about her comfort, and she wasn't alive to tell him it
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" the man demanded.
I turned and got my first look at Dr. Jay Barbette, the medical examiner, standing in the doorway in his lab coat, flanked by two of his morgue attendants.
Barbette was a tall man in his sixties with a bushy gray mustache, tousled hair, and a tiny pair of glasses that seemed far too small for his bulbous nose and his round face, which, at that moment, was flushed with outrage.
"I'm Dr. Mark Sloan," I said. "She was one of my patients."
"Before or after she drowned in the LA River?"
"That's a difficult question to answer," I said.
"Why is that?"
"Because I never saw her before today," I said. "And she didn't drown in the river."
"Didn't the firefighters find her in the river?"
"Yes, they did," I said.
Barbette came over, stood beside me, and looked at the body. "She definitely drowned. I can see that already."
"I agree," I said.
"I'm so relieved to hear that," he said, rubbing his temples. "Son, you're giving me a headache. You better make your point and make it quick, or I'm going to ask my friends here to drag you out and restrain you until the police can get here."
I smiled at Dr. Barbette's two brawny assistants. "That won't be necessary."
"I'll be the judge of that," Barbette said.
"I believe she drowned in her bathtub and her body was dumped in the river."
He looked at me incredulously. "You do."
"She smells like fresh flowers," I said.
"Excuse me?"
"Sniff her," I said.
"Are you some kind of pervert?"
"Her blouse is soaked in bath oil," I said. "It's like she put her clothes on without drying off first."
"You're saying she drowned in her bathtub simply because she didn't adequately towel herself this morning?"
"That's not all, Dr. Barbette. Her ears are pierced and she has tan lines where she usually wears a watch and several rings," I said. "But she isn't wearing any jewelry."
"She fell into a raging river," he said. "Didn't it occur to you that her jewelry might have been swept away in the current?"
"Yes, but that doesn't explain the seams on her stockings."
"The seams?" he asked.
"They should be going up the back of her legs," I said, pointing it out with my finger. "And the garter belt straps are on top of her panties, not underneath them."
"What does that have to do with where she drowned?" he said, his voice rising with impatience.
"No woman would go out in public with the seams showing in front, and she certainly wouldn't put the straps over her panties. That's how garter belts are modeled, but that's not how real women wear them."
"I suppose you're an expert on 'real' women," he said.
"I'm married to one," I said. "I know if my wife had to go to the bathroom, she wouldn't want to have to take off her garter belt and stockings to do it."
Barbette turned and studied the dead woman again, then glanced back at me. When he spoke, the impatience in his voice was gone.
"But someone dressing her might make that mistake," he said. "Someone in a hurry."
"A man," I said. "A woman would know better." Barbette nodded, a thoughtful expression on his face, then turned to his two attendants. "Gentlemen, why don't you go get us a couple cups of coffee? Hot as possible, please. How do you take yours, Doctor...?"
"Sloan," I said. "Mark Sloan. Black, with two spoonfuls of sugar."
"Same for me," Barbette said.
The two attendants seemed confused by the sudden turn of events, but no more so than me. They left. As soon as they were gone, Barbette gestured to the woman again.
"Why were you turning her on her side when I came in?" he asked.
"I was looking at her bra. It's too tight." I pointed to the clasps. "See these two loops? They're scuffed and worn. This is where she usually hooked the clasps, not where they are now. Whoever dressed her didn't know that either. He wasn't worried about her comfort, and she wasn't alive to tell him it
Similar Books
