Riley threw her hands into the air. “For the love of Mike, I never agreed to go to Yellowstone. In fact, you never even asked if I wanted to go to Yellowstone.”
“Because you wouldn’t have agreed if I asked.”
“Of course not. We’ll probably be killed or worse.”
“Will you go to Yellowstone with me?” Emerson asked.
Riley stole another piece of bacon. “I suppose I have to. My suitcase is already packed.”
She also didn’t want to remain in Washington, D.C., alone, trusting in her own unagi. Plus she had to secretly admit she was loving the new cowboy boots.
Wayan Bagus was still working on his duffel. He discarded the shower gels and bath salts, settling on packing the toilet paper.
“The devils at Procter and Gamble have seduced me with their Western cushiony comfort and two-ply construction,” Wayan Bagus said.
“Welcome to my world, Little Buddy,” Vernon said, pushing back from his empty plate. “I don’t know about anybody else, but I’m ready to take off.”
“Excellent,” Emerson said. “We just have one quick stop before we go to the airport. We’re going to the morgue.”
NINE
The Washington, D.C., Office of the Chief Medical Examiner was just off Route 395 and, as it happened, half a mile from the Smithsonian National Air and Space Museum. It was in an uninspired high-rise that looked a little like a cross between a big, practical office building and a classy parking garage.
“This is creepy,” Riley said, pulling into a parking lot. “I don’t want to look at this dead guy. I don’t even want to go into this building.”
“I’m not going in either,” Vernon said. “Me and Little Buddy are watching Cinderella, and she’s about to get Bibbidi-Bobbidi-Booed. It’s my favorite part.”
“Vernon tells me Walt Disney can change mice into prancing white stallions,” Wayan Bagus said. “I am anxious to see this.”
Riley parked the car and grimly followed Emerson down the sidewalk and into the building.
“We aren’t going to look at the deceased,” Emerson said. “At least not in person. That would require political assistance that I could certainly get but don’t desire at this point. I’ve arranged to get a copy of the dead man’s file and some forensic photographs. I’m hoping they’ve managed to identify our mystery attacker. I’m willing to bet he worked f
or the Department of the Interior. And I would like to get a better photo of his tattoo.”
“I guess I’m okay with that,” Riley said, looking around. “This lobby reminds me of a hospital.”
“Most lobbies feel like hospitals,” Emerson said. “In this case, the feeling is accurate, because this facility functions very close to a hospital. An autopsy is a surgical procedure performed on a lifeless body.”
A slim Asian man in khakis and a white dress shirt approached Emerson.
“This is Milton,” Emerson said to Riley. “We first met in Sri Lanka several years ago.”
“Emerson did me a very great favor at that time,” Milton said. “I am happy to help my friend with this small thing.” Milton handed a large yellow envelope to Emerson. “No one has claimed the body as a friend or family. His fingerprints were not in the system, and initial testing showed traces of heroin and meth. Most likely this is a homeless person.”
“Do we have photographs?”
“Yes. There are six photographs plus a copy of the report. Four photographs of his hands, front and back to the elbow, as you requested.”
Emerson removed the photographs from the envelope and paged through them.
“This isn’t the man who fell off the museum balcony,” Emerson said. “That man had a very distinctive tattoo on his hand. My friend took a photo of it at the crime scene. Your John Doe doesn’t have a tattoo.”
“That’s troubling,” Milton said. “This was the only body we accepted yesterday. And I took these photos myself.”
“There’s really only one explanation,” Emerson said. “Someone stole the body and left this one in its place.”
“That would be very difficult,” Milton said. “The entire building is monitored by security cameras and guards. The body storage room is always locked. No one could have done that without being seen.”