1st to Die (Women's Murder Club 1)
But as they say, that’s where the bodies are.
That, and I got to see my buddy Claire.
There wasn’t much to say about Claire Washburn, except that she was brilliant, totally accomplished, and absolutely my best friend in the world. For six years, she had been the city’s chief medical examiner, which everyone in Homicide knew was as underdeserving a title as there was, since she virtually ran the office for Anthony Righetti. Righetti is her overbearing, power-thumping, credit-stealing boss, but Claire rarely complains.
In our book, Claire is the Office of the Coroner. But maybe the idea of a female M.E. still didn’t cut it, even in San Francisco.
Female, and black.
When Raleigh and I arrived, we were ushered into Claire’s office. She was wearing her white doctor’s coat with the nickname “Butterfly” embroidered on the upper-left pocket.
The first thing you noticed about Claire was that she was carrying fifty pounds she didn’t need. “I’m in shape,” she always joked. “Round’s a shape.”
The second was her bright, confident demeanor. You knew she couldn’t give a damn. She had the body of a Brahman, the mind of a hawk, and the gentle soul of a butterfly.
As we walked in, she gave me a weary but satisfied smile, as if she’d been up working most of the night. I introduced Raleigh, and Claire flashed me an impressed wag of the eyes.
Whatever I had accumulated over the years in street smarts, she threw off in natural wisdom. How she balanced the demands of her job, and placating her credit-seeking boss, with raising two teenage kids was a marvel. And her marriage to Edmund, who played bass drum for the San Francisco Symphony Orchestra, gave me faith that there was still some hope for the institution.
“I’ve been expecting you,” she said as we hugged. “I called you last night from here. Didn’t you get the message?”
With her comforting arms around me, a flood of emotion welled up. I wanted to tell her everything. If it weren’t for Raleigh, I think I would’ve spilled it all — Orenthaler, Negli’s — right there.
“I was beat,” I answered. “And beat up. Long, tough day.”
“Don’t tell me.” Raleigh chuckled. “You guys have met.”
“Standard autopsy preparation.” Claire grinned as we pulled apart. “Don’t they teach you that stuff down at City Hall?”
He playfully spread his arms.
“Uh-uh,” said Claire, squeezing my shoulder. “This you gotta earn. Anyway,” she regained a tone of seriousness, “I finished the preliminaries just this morning. You want to see the bodies?”
I nodded yes.
“Just be prepared: these two don’t make much of an advertisement for Modern Bride.”
She led us through a series of closed compression doors toward the Vault, the large, refrigerated room where the bodies were stored.
I walked ahead with Claire, who pulled me close and whispered, “Let me guess. You gave Jacobi a kiss on the nose, and all of a sudden there was this charming prince.”
“He works for the mayor, Claire.” I smiled back. “They sent him here to make sure I don’t faint at the first sign of blood.”
“In that case,” she replied, pushing the heavy door to the Vault open, “you better hold on to that man tight.”
Chapter 14
I HAD BEEN HAVING very close encounters with dead bodies for six years now. But what I saw sent a shiver of revulsion racing through me.
The mutilated bodies of the bride and groom were lying side by side. They were on gurneys, their faces frozen in the horrifying moment of their deaths.
David and Melanie Brandt.
In their stark, ghostly expressions was the strongest statement I have ever seen that life may not be governed by anything fair or clement. I locked on the face of Melanie. Yesterday, in her wedding dress, she had seemed somehow tragic and tranquil.
Today, in her slashed, naked starkness, her body was snarled in a freeze-frame of grotesque horror. Everything I had buried deep yesterday rushed to the surface again.
Six years in Homicide, and I had never turned away. But I turned away now.