Despite the alarm going off in her ear for a full twenty minutes, Taylor couldn’t rouse herself. She finally reached a hand over and stifled the music, glancing with one eye at the clock face. Nearly seven-thirty. Damn it. She needed to be at Forensic Medical by eight to witness Corinne Wolff’s autopsy.

She threw back the tangle of covers and went into the bath, started the shower running and brushed her teeth. Fifteen minutes later she rolled out of the garage barefoot, Diet Coke clutched in her lap, jeans and T-shirt on, wet hair smoothed into a coiled bun. She had an awkward crick in her neck from sleeping at an odd angle that the shower hadn’t relieved. She could put her boots on when she got to Gass Street, slip into a sweater, too. It was chilly as hell this morning.

She’d made this trek too many times to count in her years as a detective. She felt a strange kind of kinship with her victims—the need to see what was inside, what made them tick. And Corinne Wolff was no exception. Taylor was interested to see the particulars of how she’d died, at the very least.

Interstate 40 was packed with early morning commuters, and an accident at the Charlotte Pike exit meant they were crawling slower than normal. The west side of town was blessed with less congestion, less traffic, and an easier commute than those people driving into Nashville from the east, south and north of town. But an accident could derail that immediately, bringing all the cars to a snail’s pace. Taylor sipped her Diet Coke, trying for patience. It didn’t look like traffic was going to get moving anytime soon, and she wasn’t in the mood to sit. Damn it, she was going to be late. Another ten minutes passed before the cars inched forward enough for her to hop off at Charlotte westbound. Feeling free, she made an illegal U-turn in front of the Cracker Barrel, sailed up to White Bridge and got on Briley Parkway.

The new section of road quickly gave way to the old four-lane highway, and she started making up time as she cruised past the defunct Tennessee State Prison, the site of Robert Redford’s film The Last Castle and an architectural dead ringer for Johnny Cash’s infamous Folsom State Prison. It had fallen into disrepair and was abandoned, left to the ghosts and rats. She tried not to think of her father, once a brief inmate of those twenty-foot-high, three-foot-thick crenellated walls.

Now the prisoners were housed at Riverbend, a maximum-security prison equipped to end the lives of those fated to die at the hands of the state. She’d been inside Riverbend’s death row cells, with their blue doors and creamy concrete walls. She never wanted to return. The overwhelming sense of malevolence coupled with dread was too much to take. She’d sent more than one of the men housed in that unit to death row and hadn’t lost a moment’s sleep over them, but she didn’t want to experience their last moments firsthand.

Her dad, well, his prison environs were a damn sight cushier than a state penitentiary. The feds were kind to their white-collar criminals.

The Interstate 24 split came, and she passed the exit, driving a few more miles to the Dickerson Road access ramp. Off the highway now, into the run-down streets. This was a sad part of town. A crack whore strolled by, arms swinging wildly as she walked, a timid black man in his forties following some fifty feet behind. Had they made the deal already? They must have, the hooker had the bright, insistent glow in her eyes of a junkie who knows she’s about to get a fix.

Taylor shook her head. There seemed to be no legal measures that could stop the pervasive sex trades on the back streets of Nashville. For the pros, a night in jail meant either safety or withdrawal, neither an inducement to break free from the life. For the johns, it was just an embarrassment.

She turned on Gass and passed the Tennessee Bureau of Investigations offices on the right. The TBI task force would be furious if they knew Lincoln had broken the rules. Even though he had done something that was life-preserving, they would still punish him. He’d be kicked off the task force at the very least. She wondered if she could keep the situation quiet, then forced the thought from her mind. She was a master at keeping each aspect separate, tackling one thorny issue at a time. It was the only way she could get through the day.

Forensic Medical appeared on her left, shiny as a new penny in the morning sun. Taylor parked in a visitor slot. She jammed her feet into her boots, tucked her sunglasses into their hard leather case, grabbed the sweater and stepped into the bracing morning air. Dogwood winter, that’s what her mother had called these chilly spring days. As soon as the trees began to bud, Nashville was nearly guaranteed a late frost, shriveling up the fresh, tender blossoms. Only the most hale of trees and shrubs would stand it; the rest would be shocked back into dormancy for at least another few weeks.

The front of Forensic Medical was lined in clusters of forsythia bushes intertwined with azaleas. The forsythia didn’t seem to mind the snap, were rioting in their fervor to spread their rich yellow blooms toward the cool sunlight. The sight made her smile. The mutinous nature of the bushes always lightened her heart. She hated when people trimmed them into balls or squares, felt it killed their wild personality. It was a shame they’d be gone so soon, too. She wished they’d bloom all summer.

Taylor swiped her card and entered the cool offices of Forensic Medical. Someone, probably Kris, the receptionist, was burning a lavender scented candle. Slightly less oppressive than the patchouli incense that sometimes smoked up the foyer, but lavender always made Taylor sneeze. The cacophony of scents that made up Forensic Medical wreaked havoc with her sinuses anyway. Beneath the thick flowering smell was an antiseptic undernote, profumo della morte. The scent of death was pervasive and ugly, no matter what Renaissance language she translated it into.

She crossed the lobby, boot heels clomping on the hard floor. The door to the hallway was locked. Taylor swiped the key card again, was rewarded with a resounding click. Making her way toward the autopsy suite, knowing what lay ahead, she resigned herself to the case at hand. All thoughts of spring and happiness left her.

In the locker room, she traded her boots for soft rubber clogs and gowned up. She glanced at her watch. Ten past eight. Not so bad, considering. She pushed open the door of the autopsy suite with an elbow. The aroma of formaldehyde wafted to her nose, mingled with old blood and feces.

“It’s about time. I was about to start without you.” Sam was ready to go, wired for sound with her headset, standing over the body of Corinne Wolff. She had a scalpel in her right hand, was tapping it impatiently against the table in a staccato rhythm. Skylights set high in the ceilings showered sunlight down on the medical examiner, creating copper highlights in her dark hair.

“Sorry. I had a late night.”

“That’s okay. I’m just ready to get this one over with.”

Taylor glanced around the room. Usually well-staffed and attended, the four additional autopsy tables were empty this morning, a silent tribute to the difficult case that lay ahead. Corinne Wolff lay on the plastic table liner, already prepped and x-rayed, ready for the postmortem. She looked smaller than at the crime scene, more delicate. Fine-boned. Taylor could tell the girl had been beautiful before the beating. The telltale bump on her stomach made the gorge rise in the back of Taylor’s throat. Autopsies with fetuses past the twenty-week gestation period always threw her. Oh, who was she kidding? She didn’t ever like to see dead women who were pregnant.

“Stuart Charisse will be attending me this morning.” Sam had turned on her headset and was beginning her assessment. On cue, a lanky young man with wildly curly hair appeared at her side. He smiled politely at Taylor, started his duties with professional dispassion.

Sam spoke into the headset as she began the external examination.

“Autopsy number T-08-8768, case number T-2008-5389. The decedent is Corinne Elizabeth Wolff, a female Caucasian twenty-six years old, in good physical condition, presenting with multiple injuries. The body is intact, sixty-five inches with a weight of one hundred thirty-four pounds. Body heat is cold, rigor is not detectable, livor is dark, limited to anterior legs, stomach and chest. Hair is dark brown, shoulder-length, eyes are brown, teeth are natural. There is no facial hair. The decedent is clothed in a sports bra and panties. Paper bags are present on the hands. The head, neck and bra are bloody.

“The jawbone is crushed and shows evidence of severe trauma. Accompanying the body there is a small envelope labeled ‘teeth found near victim’s body.’ It contains two bloody molars that belong to the victim as is evidenced by systematic placements in the corresponding sockets. There are fragments that appear to match the additional empty sockets. The teeth are photographed.”

Stuart took pictures of the teeth and labeled the jar that held them. The teeth would be released with Corinne’s body for burial.

“The bags are removed from the decedent’s hands. Examination of hands shows a large plastic Band-Aid partially attached to the anterior of the right wrist. The fingernails are clipped and preserved as evidence.”

Stuart and Sam worked well together. Once the nails were clipped and bagged, they began the laborious progression of stripping the body and washing it. Twenty minutes later, Sam was ready to proceed. Corinne now lay naked, even more vulnerable in appearance than before. Taylor felt sorry for the girl. Who did she piss off? Sam’s voice dragged her back.

“The body is that of an adequately nourished Caucasian female who appears to be her recorded age.”

Sam moved on to a detailed examination of the wound pattern across Corinne’s skull and upper body. Blunt force injury number one. Blunt force injury number two. Blunt force injury number three. Avulsed teeth, abrasions, lacerations, bruises, mandible fractures. Because the wounds were so plentiful, Sam began grouping the smaller gashes together. At number eight, Taylor tuned out the recitation.

Rage. Pure, unadulterated rage. Whoever was responsible for murdering Corinne Wolff had been viciously upset with her. Todd Wolff’s face rose unbidden, his eyes red and brimming with soon-to-be-shed tears. He had made awfully good time back from Savannah. The trip should have taken at least eight hours; he’d made it in six. Perhaps he was lying after all. But could he have been callous enough to leave his daughter hungry and dirty, crawling through her mother’s blood? To murder his unborn son? He’d have to be a pretty cold bastard to do that.

Sam was efficient. While Taylor daydreamed about suspects and motives, she’d moved on to the internal examination, had weighed and categorized all of the internal organs, removed the fetus, and had taken the saw to Corinne’s skull. The high-pitched whine made a shiver flow through Taylor’s spinal cord, akin to the feeling she got when someone scratched fingernails on a blackboard, or tinfoil made contact with a filling. And then it was over, and Sam was calmly saying, “The skull is open to reveal extensive subarachnoid hemorrhage of the brain, bilateral and most prominent at the base of the brain. The brain—” A pause here, a squelching noise, then she continued. “The brain is removed to reveal a linear skull fracture occupying most of the posterior aspect….”

Well, Corinne’s skull had been cracked, no doubt about that. Taylor’s cell phone rang, and she happily excused herself from the rest of the proceedings. She didn’t particularly want to dwell on the fetus in situ anyway.

As she turned away, she heard Sam say, “Oh, hoy.”

Clicking the button that would send the call directly to her voice mail, she came back to the table.

“What is it?”

“She was strangled.”

“Are you telling me the skull fracture wasn’t the cause of death?”

Sam caught Taylor’s eye. “No, I’m pretty comfortable that the beating was the ultimate finisher. But there is some very subtle bruising around the neck. If I had to guess, I’d say that the killer tried strangling her first and it wasn’t working quickly enough. It’s harder to strangle someone to death with your bare hands than you might think. If Corinne struggled or fought back, which it certainly seems she did, it would be easy to lose your grip. She was in good shape, pregnancy aside. She put up a fight.”

“So the killer loses control of the situation and resorts to beating?”

“Sure. Grabs the most convenient item and starts whaling away. The tennis racquet made a distinctive bruising pattern where the knots of the strings are tied on the outside of the racquet head. The edges could easily create those open gashes. Think about the killer standing over the body, thrusting downward, over and over.” Sam was wrapping things up now, tidying as she went, snapping lids on containers, folding closed the flaps of envelopes, handing dissected slivers of organs to Stuart for analysis. “We’ll send off the scrapings from under her nails and all the blood work, get you a tox screen as soon as possible. But it’s evident what happened.”

“There’s nothing sexual about this?”

Sam shook her head. “No sign of bruising or tearing, no lubricants. I swabbed for semen just in case, though there was none visible in the vagina or anus, and certainly nothing to indicate sexual assault. This was just a murder, plain and simple.”

Plain and simple.

“Were there prints on the tennis racquet, or the body?”

“The racquet was wiped. There were some smudges, but nothing usable. We’ll look for some around her neck, but you know how hard it is to lift good prints from skin.”

Taylor squeezed her best friend’s arm. “Now I just have to figure out who, and we’ll be all set.”

She left Sam in the autopsy suite, ditched the protective gear in a biological waste receptacle and made her way back to the lobby. The lavender scent still lingered, now joined with the sweet overlay of a familiar, pungent perfume. Michelle Harris stood in the middle of the room, surrounded by her family. Todd Wolff was noticeably absent.

They were talking quietly among themselves, pain radiating from each person, palpable as an aura to a psychic. It didn’t take any special powers to know they were hurting; the slumped shoulders, dark circles and red noses spoke volumes.

What were they doing here? Taylor counted five of them: the parents, Michelle and her sister Nicole, and the son, Derek. They were huddled together as if seeking warmth from each other’s bodies. Taylor had seen this before. Some families were forced apart by a tragedy; others drew together, working as one to help heal. The Harrises definitely looked to be the latter.

Taylor fidgeted and stalled, pulling at her bun until her hair tumbled down in waves. Annoyed, she whipped it back up into a ponytail. Large families filled her with a sense of dislocation, of longing. She’d never known what it was like to have a support system of siblings. Sam was like a sister to her, but it was different. They didn’t share blood, despite their aborted attempt to transfuse each other when they were ten years old. Silly, meaningful, yet neither had the courage to cut deep enough to really get the blood flowing into each other’s hands. Being blood sisters wasn’t the real thing.

She was about to clear her throat when Michelle noticed her. The group stopped talking, just looked at her with unfathomably sad eyes.

“Lieutenant,” Michelle said. There were a few murmured good mornings from the rest of the group.

Taylor nodded at them, then answered, “What can I do for you?”

It was the mother who spoke up. “We’re just here for Corinne. Is it…” She stood a bit straighter. “Is it over?”

Taylor nodded. “Dr. Loughley is finishing up, but yes, the postmortem has been completed. I can’t discuss any of the findings, you know that.”

“We do. We just wanted to be here for her. It’s hard.” A deep sniff, but she didn’t break. Taylor liked her a bit for it. “Hard to let your child go through something so invasive. If Corinne’s spirit is anywhere near, she’ll know we’re here for her.”

“Todd didn’t want to come?”

Mr. Harris coughed out a noise of disgust. “Todd took Hayden to his parents’ this morning. He didn’t even bother to stay, just whisked her away. He doesn’t care about Corinne. He’s just concerned with himself.”

“Daddy, that’s not fair.” Michelle came to her father’s side, touching his arm. “Todd knows you and Mom are too upset to care for Hayden. He’s trying to do you a favor.”

“Bullshit!” Derek Harris spoke for the first time, his full, thick hair falling over his forehead. He turned to Taylor. “You need to look a little closer at my brother-in-law, Lieutenant. I know he’s got something to do with this. I wasn’t so sure yesterday when we talked, but he’s acting strange. Something is up with him. I think he might be responsible for Corinne’s death.”

Interesting. The united front for Corinne certainly didn’t extend to her husband. Taylor held up a hand. “I will be looking at every angle of this case backwards and forwards, I can guarantee you that. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to make it downtown for a meeting.”

“Lieutenant?” Nicole Harris, raven hair, soulful brown eyes, thin frame bordering on emaciation, put up her hand as if she were a student seeking a professor’s attention.

“Yes?”

Nicole took a deep breath. “It’s about the baby. What’s…we want to know what’s happening with…with his body.”

“Oh,” Taylor said. “Of course. That’s going to be up to you. The folks here at Forensic Medical will issue a fetal death certificate, and you’ll have the option to bury him separately, or with Corinne. His body will be released with hers.”

The relief bled from them in waves. Michelle took her mother’s hand and looked at Taylor. “We were afraid he might be…disposed of.”

Taylor’s stomach flipped at the thought. It was horrid enough to have seen the tiny body, imagining him being thrown away saddened her deeply.

“I understand. That happens sometimes, but usually with indigent women who are early along in their pregnancies and don’t have family to claim a fetus. After twenty weeks, though, the baby is treated as a person by the medical examiner. I assure you, the baby was handled with a great deal of care.”

“Did you see him?” Mr. Harris spoke quietly, almost as if he didn’t want to hear her answer.

“I did.” Taylor’s voice cracked as she spoke. “I have to go now. Please accept my deepest condolences on your loss. I’ll be in touch soon.”

She left them there. As she walked away, she didn’t look back.