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sheet while Phil stretched the latex over his beefy fingers. As they eased the vic onto his belly, she said, “He was lying on his back while the fire razed the house, so the skin there was somewhat protected.”
    â€œYou call that protected?” Phil said, gazing at the expanse of blackened flesh once they had the body prone.
    â€œI said ‘somewhat.’ But look.” She pointed to a dark outline vaguely visible through the scorching. “You can make out some sort of image here.”
    â€œGotta be a tattoo.”
    â€œBig one—twelve and a half inches from top to bottom. Looks like some variation on the caduceus.”
    â€œThe what?”
    She smiled. “Caduceus. It’s the winged staff with the coiled snakes that you see on medical offices and the like. Only I can’t make out any wings on this one, and only one snake.”
    â€œDon’t know of any gang tattoo like that. You think he thought he was some kind of doctor or something?”
    â€œDoctor of weedology, maybe. Marijuana does have medical uses, but it may have a personal meaning. I took some high-res photos. We may be able to get a clearer image through them.”
    Phil was nodding. “We cooperate with Immigration and Customs on a joint task force involving gangs of illegals. They’ve built a nice database of tats. If we get a decent sketch we can run it through and see if we get any hits.”
    He stepped back, looked at the vic’s back from a couple of different angles, then shook his head.
    â€œYou’ve sliced and diced him and all we’ve got is a charcoal-broiled tattoo?”
    â€œI’m telling you, Phil, this may just be the healthiest man I’ve ever posted.”
    And that gnawed at Laura. Not just because it would put her on the wrong side of the CME, but because no one that healthy should drop dead.
    Sure, it could happen—a perfect storm in the heart’s electrical system could cause a fatal arrhythmia or sudden cardiac arrest. But his myocardium showed no signs of distress. She’d put the heart aside for sectioning of the AV node and bundle branches, maybe even selected Purkinje fibers.
    She had a feeling she’d never know what killed this man. And she didn’t like that. That was one of the reasons she’d taken the pathology residency. Living bodies too often refused to reveal their secrets, but cadavers always gave them up.
    Or almost always.

 
    4
    Nervous, Chaim Brody stepped up onto the Cochrans’ narrow front porch and stood rubbing his hands together. He glanced around, up and down the quiet street. Like next to zero chance that anyone he knew would wander by, but still … he was breaking all the rules by coming here—not just his job’s rules but the All-Mother’s as well. But he couldn’t allow this to go on any longer.
    The Cochrans lived in a small two-story colonial that had seen better days, but was still light-years beyond Chaim’s digs. He knew Mrs. Cochran and her son Tommy from the Moriches Physical Therapy Center where everybody called him “Chet.” Chaim’s idea. Less ethnic and all that. People heard “Chaim” and expected a yarmulke and tzitzis. He’d left all that stuff behind when he embraced the All-Mother.
    He rang the doorbell and Mrs. Cochran appeared almost immediately—a plump woman in her mid-thirties with a round face and short brown hair.
    â€œChet?” she said as she opened her front door. “What are you—oh, did Tommy forget something?”
    â€œNo, Mrs. Cochran. I … I wanted to, like, speak to you in private about Tommy.”
    Her smile faltered. “Is something wrong?”
    â€œNothing you don’t already know. May I come in?”
    She hesitated a second, then pushed open the storm door. “Of course. It’s chilly out there.”
    â€œDownright unseasonable.”
    He pulled the storm door closed behind him