The Hornet’s Nest. Patricia Cornwell

Chief Medical Examiner in Chapel Hill. Go figure. It was probably all about sports

again. Hornets fans stayed in town, Tarheels got their lovely Y-incision in the big

university town.

The Mecklenburg County Medical Examiner’s office was on North College Street, across

from the award- winning new public library. West was buzzed in at the glass entrance.

She had to give the place credit.

The building, which was the former Sears Garden Center, was brighter and more modern than most morgues, and had added another cold room the last time US Air had crashed

another plane around here. It was a shame that North Carolina didn’t seem inclined to

hire a few more MEs for the great state of Mecklenburg, as some sour senators were

inclined to disparage the state’s fastest-growing, most progressive region.

There were only two forensic pathologists to handle more than a hundred homicides a

year, and both of them were in the necropsy room when West arrived. The dead

businessman didn’t look any better now that Dr. Odom had started on him. Brewster was

at the table, wearing a disposable plastic apron and gloves. He nodded at her as she tied a

gown in back, because West didn’t take chances. Dr. Odom was splashed with blood, and

holding the scalpel like a pencil as he reflected back tissue. His patient had a lot of fat,

which always looked worse inside out.

The morgue assistant was a big man who was always sweating. He plugged an autopsy

saw into the overhead cord reel, and started on the skull.

This West could do without. The sound was worse than the dentist’s drill, the bony smell,

not to mention the idea, awful. West would not be murdered or turn up dead suspiciously

in any form or fashion. She would not have this done to her naked body with people like

Brewster looking on while clerks passed around her pictures and made comments.

“Contact wounds, entrances here behind the right ear.” Dr. Odom pointed a bloody

gloved finger, mostly for her benefit.

“Large caliber. This is execution style.”

“Exactly like the others,” Brewster remarked.

“What about cartridge cases?” Dr. Odom asked.

“Forty-fives, Winchester, probably Silvertips,” West replied, thinking about Brazil’s

article again and all that he had revealed.

“Five each time. Perp doesn’t bother picking them up, doesn’t care. We need to get the

FBI on this.”

“Fucking press,” Brewster said.

West had never been to Quantico. Her dream had always been to attend the FBI’s

National Academy, which was rather much the Oxford University of police training. But

she’d been busy. Then she kept getting promoted. Finally, the only thing she was

eligible for was executive training up there, for God’s sake. That meant a bunch of big-

bellied chiefs, assistant chiefs, and sheriffs, out on the firing range trying to make the

transition from . 38 specials to semiautomatic pistols. She’d heard the stories. All these

guys blasting away, dumping brass into their hands, and taking the time to stuff it neatly in their pockets. Hammer offered to send West last year. Forget it.

West didn’t need to learn a thing from the FBI.

“I’d like to know what their profilers would have to say,” West said.

“Forget it,” Brewster said, chewing a toothpick and swiping Vicks up his nose.

Dr. Odom picked up a big sponge, and squeezed water over organs. He grabbed a tan

rubber hose, and suctioned blood out of the chest cavity.

“He smells like he was drinking,” said Brewster, who could no longer smell anything

except childhood memories of colds.

“Maybe on the plane,” Odom agreed.

“What about those guys at Quantico?” He eyed Brewster, as if West had never brought

up the subject.

“Busy as jumping beans,” Brewster replied.

“Like I said, forget it.

They got what? Ten, eleven profilers and are about a thousand cases

behind? Think the government’s going to fund shit? Shit no. Too damn bad, too.

“Cause those profilers are damn good.”

Brewster had applied to the FBI early on, but forget that, too. They weren’t hiring, or

maybe it had to do with the polygraph test he wasn’t about to take. He sniffed more

Vicks. God, he hated death. It was ugly and it stunk. It was a tattletale. Like this

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