hurt."
Barbette adjusted his glasses and scratched his head, mulling something over before he spoke.
"Have you ever observed a forensic autopsy before, Dr. Sloan?"
"No," I said.
"I'd like you to come downtown with me and observe this one," he said.
I was thrilled by the invitation, of course, but I couldn't possibly accept—not unless I wanted to get fired.
"I wish I could," I said, "but I'm on call. In fact, I'd better get back to the ER before Dr. Whittington notices I'm not there."
"You let me handle Whittington," Barbette said.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Whatever Dr. Barbette told Dr. Whittington, it worked. I accompanied Dr. Barbette downtown to the county morgue, where I didn't just watch the autopsy; he actually let me assist.
I didn't know it then, but it was the first of many autopsies I would help him perform over the years. He took me on as an unofficial apprentice, teaching me everything he knew about forensics and the secrets a corpse could share. I knew he was grooming me to take his place one day, but I couldn't give up treating patients. I wanted to use medicine to make people's lives better, not simply as a tool to solve the mysteries of the dead. As it turned out, I ended up finding a way to do both.
But on that rainy day more than forty years ago, it was all new to me. I watched closely as he went about his work, dissecting the body, removing the vital organs, and collecting fluid, tissue, and blood samples.
As he did it all, he talked me through every step in the process. He also explained, in detail, exactly how a person drowns in a river.
You can't hold your breath forever. Reflexively, you will inhale, drawing water and whatever particles it contains deep into your sinuses and lungs, causing you to cough.
The coughing triggers another inhalation reflex, which sucks even more water and mud into your lungs. The struggle to survive, and the loss of air supply, rapidly consumes the oxygen in your blood. Within a minute or two, you lose consciousness and your life.
If a person is dead before entering the water, dirt and debris will fill the mouth and pharynx, but it won't enter the lungs for several days, drawn into the vacancy created by the gradual escape of air from the body.
The woman who was pulled from the Los Angeles River wasn't in the water, in Barbette's opinion, for more than an hour or two. Her mouth was full of mud, but there wasn't any debris in her lungs.
Her lungs were filled with water, however.
Bathwater . With a heavy concentration of soap and hair dye.
"This woman was murdered," Barbette declared, taking off his glasses and wiping them clean with a towel.
I'd come to the same conclusion on my own before Dr. Barbette walked in on me at Community General, but hearing him say it made it real.
I should have been saddened by this woman's death. I should have been horrified by the way in which she died. I should have been afraid of the man who'd done it.
I did feel those things. But I also felt something else. Something stronger. There isn't a word for it. I can only describe the sensation.
When you're fishing, there's a tingle you get when you feel that first little hit on your line.
Hello .
A charge goes through your whole body. All your attention focuses on the tip of your pole and the tension on the line as you wait for another tap.
At that instant, there's nothing else except you and whatever is down there in the dark depths, waiting to be caught. You can almost feel the fish, sense him swimming around your baited hook, waiting to strike.
It's exciting. It's exhilarating. And it's addictive.
Well, that's what I felt. Only much, much stronger. I felt the presence of her killer. I couldn't see him, but I knew he was out there in the storm, hidden in the shadows.
I'd felt his tap.
"Her killer dressed her and dumped her body in the LA River in the middle of a downpour to make it look like an accident," Dr. Barbette said with a frown. "Damn near got away with
Barbette adjusted his glasses and scratched his head, mulling something over before he spoke.
"Have you ever observed a forensic autopsy before, Dr. Sloan?"
"No," I said.
"I'd like you to come downtown with me and observe this one," he said.
I was thrilled by the invitation, of course, but I couldn't possibly accept—not unless I wanted to get fired.
"I wish I could," I said, "but I'm on call. In fact, I'd better get back to the ER before Dr. Whittington notices I'm not there."
"You let me handle Whittington," Barbette said.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Whatever Dr. Barbette told Dr. Whittington, it worked. I accompanied Dr. Barbette downtown to the county morgue, where I didn't just watch the autopsy; he actually let me assist.
I didn't know it then, but it was the first of many autopsies I would help him perform over the years. He took me on as an unofficial apprentice, teaching me everything he knew about forensics and the secrets a corpse could share. I knew he was grooming me to take his place one day, but I couldn't give up treating patients. I wanted to use medicine to make people's lives better, not simply as a tool to solve the mysteries of the dead. As it turned out, I ended up finding a way to do both.
But on that rainy day more than forty years ago, it was all new to me. I watched closely as he went about his work, dissecting the body, removing the vital organs, and collecting fluid, tissue, and blood samples.
As he did it all, he talked me through every step in the process. He also explained, in detail, exactly how a person drowns in a river.
You can't hold your breath forever. Reflexively, you will inhale, drawing water and whatever particles it contains deep into your sinuses and lungs, causing you to cough.
The coughing triggers another inhalation reflex, which sucks even more water and mud into your lungs. The struggle to survive, and the loss of air supply, rapidly consumes the oxygen in your blood. Within a minute or two, you lose consciousness and your life.
If a person is dead before entering the water, dirt and debris will fill the mouth and pharynx, but it won't enter the lungs for several days, drawn into the vacancy created by the gradual escape of air from the body.
The woman who was pulled from the Los Angeles River wasn't in the water, in Barbette's opinion, for more than an hour or two. Her mouth was full of mud, but there wasn't any debris in her lungs.
Her lungs were filled with water, however.
Bathwater . With a heavy concentration of soap and hair dye.
"This woman was murdered," Barbette declared, taking off his glasses and wiping them clean with a towel.
I'd come to the same conclusion on my own before Dr. Barbette walked in on me at Community General, but hearing him say it made it real.
I should have been saddened by this woman's death. I should have been horrified by the way in which she died. I should have been afraid of the man who'd done it.
I did feel those things. But I also felt something else. Something stronger. There isn't a word for it. I can only describe the sensation.
When you're fishing, there's a tingle you get when you feel that first little hit on your line.
Hello .
A charge goes through your whole body. All your attention focuses on the tip of your pole and the tension on the line as you wait for another tap.
At that instant, there's nothing else except you and whatever is down there in the dark depths, waiting to be caught. You can almost feel the fish, sense him swimming around your baited hook, waiting to strike.
It's exciting. It's exhilarating. And it's addictive.
Well, that's what I felt. Only much, much stronger. I felt the presence of her killer. I couldn't see him, but I knew he was out there in the storm, hidden in the shadows.
I'd felt his tap.
"Her killer dressed her and dumped her body in the LA River in the middle of a downpour to make it look like an accident," Dr. Barbette said with a frown. "Damn near got away with
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