Maggie accepted the cool, damp towel from Stan and avoided his eyes. With only a quick glance, she could see his concern. He had to be concerned. Judging from the towel’s softness, she could tell it had come from Stan’s own privately laundered stash, unlike the institutional stiff ones that smelled like Clorox. The man had a cleaning obsession, a fetish that seemed contradictory to his profession; a profession that included a weekly, if not daily, dose of blood and body parts. She didn’t question his kindness, however, and without a single word, took the towel and rested her face in its cool, plush texture, waiting for the nausea to pass.

She hadn’t thrown up at the sight of a dead body since her initiation into the Behavioral Science Unit. She still remembered her first crime scene: spaghetti streaks of blood on the walls of a hot, fly-infested double-wide trailer. The blood’s owner had been decapitated and hanging by a dislocated ankle from a hook in the ceiling like a butchered chicken left to jerk and drain out, which explained the blood-streaked walls. Since then, she had seen comparable, if not worse—body parts in take-out containers and mutilated little boys. But one thing she had never seen, one thing she had never had to do, was look down into a body bag soaked with the blood, cerebral spinal fluid and the brain matter of a friend.

“Cunningham should have told you,” Stan said, now watching her from across the room, keeping his distance as if her condition might be contagious.

“I’m sure he didn’t know. He and Agent Tully were just leaving for the scene when he called me.”

“Well, he’ll certainly understand you not assisting me.” He sounded relieved—no, pleased—with the prospect of not having her shadow him all morning. Maggie smiled into the towel. Good ol’ Stan was back to his normal self.

“I can have a couple autopsy reports ready for you by noon.” He was washing his hands again, as if preparing the damp towel for her had somehow contaminated his precious hands.

The urge to escape was overwhelming. Her empty but churning stomach was reason enough to do just that. Yet there was something that nagged at her. She remembered an early morning less than a year ago in a Kansas City hotel room. Special Agent Richard Delaney had been concerned about her mental stability, so much so that he had risked their friendship to make sure she was safe. After almost five months of him and Agent Preston Turner playing her bodyguards, protecting her from a serial killer named Albert Stucky, it had come down to that early morning confrontation, Delaney pitting his stubbornness against hers all because he wanted to protect her.

However, at the time, she had refused to see it as protection. She had refused to simply see it as his attempt to, once again, play the role of her surrogate big brother. No, at the time, she had been mad as hell at him. In fact, that was the last time she had spoken to him. Now here he lay in a black nylon body bag, unable to accept her apology for being so pigheaded. Perhaps the least she could do was to make certain he received the respect he deserved. Nausea or not, she owed him that.

“I’ll be okay,” she said.

Stan glanced at her over his shoulder as he prepared his shiny instruments for the first boy’s autopsy. “Of course you will be.”

“No, I mean I’m staying.”

This time he scowled at her over his protective goggles, and she knew she had made the right decision. Now, if only her stomach would agree.

“Did they find the spent cartridge?” she asked as she put on a fresh pair of gloves.

“Yes. It’s over on the counter in one of the evidence bags. Looks like a high-powered rifle. I haven’t taken a close look yet.”

“So we know cause of death beyond a doubt?”

“Oh, you betcha. No need for a second shot.”

“And there’s no mistaking the entrance wound or the exit wound?”

“No. I imagine it won’t be difficult to figure out.”

“Good. Then we won’t need to cut him. We can make our report from an external examination.”

This time Stan stopped and turned to stare at her, then said, “Margaret, I hope you’re not suggesting that I stop short of doing a full autopsy?”

“No, I’m not suggesting that.”

He relaxed and picked up his instruments before she added, “I’m not suggesting it, Stan. I’m insisting you don’t do a full autopsy. And believe me, you don’t want to fight me on this one.”

She ignored his glare and unzipped the rest of Agent Delaney’s body bag, praying her knees would hold her up. She needed to think of his wife, Karen, who had always hated Delaney being an FBI agent almost as much as Maggie’s soon-to-be ex-husband, Greg, hated her being one. It was time to think of Karen and the two little girls who would grow up without a daddy. If Maggie could do nothing else, she’d make certain they didn’t have to see him mutilated any more than necessary.

The thought brought back memories of Maggie’s own father, the image of him lying in the huge mahogany casket, wearing a brown suit Maggie had never seen him in before. And his hair—it had been all wrong—combed in a way he would never have worn it. The mortician had tried to paint over the burned flesh and salvage what pieces of skin were still there, but it wasn’t enough. As a twelve-year-old girl, Maggie had been horrified by the sight and nauseated by the smell of some sort of perfume that couldn’t mask that overpowering odor of ashes and burned flesh. That smell. There was nothing close nor worse than the smell of burned flesh. God! She could smell it now. And the priest’s words hadn’t helped: You are dust and unto dust you shall return, ashes to ashes.

That smell, those words and the sight of her father’s body had haunted her childhood dreams for weeks as she tried to remember what he looked like before he lay in that casket, before those images of him turned to dust in her memories.

She remembered how terribly frightened she had been seeing him like that. She remembered the crinkle of plastic under his clothes, his mummy-wrapped hands tucked down at his sides. She remembered being concerned about the blisters on his cheek.

“Did it hurt, Daddy?” she had whispered to him.

She had waited until her mother and the others weren’t looking. Then Maggie had gathered all of her child-size strength and courage and reached her small hand over the edge of the smooth, shiny wood and the satin bedding. With her fingertips she had brushed her father’s hair back off his forehead, trying to ignore the plastic feel of his skin and that hideous Frankenstein scar at his scalp. But despite her fear, she had to rearrange his hair. She had to put it back to the way he always liked to wear it, to the way she remembered it. She needed her last image of him to be one she recognized. It was a small, silly thing, but it had made her feel better.

Now, looking down at Delaney’s peaceful gray face, Maggie knew she needed to do whatever she could, so that two more little girls wouldn’t be horrified to look at their daddy’s face one last time.