"So, talk to me," Diana requested, her hands on either side of the metal slab, weight resting on them. Even through the rubber gloves, she could feel how cold the surface was. She had the ridiculous urge to tuck a blanket around the woman who lay before her, covered only in a thin paper sheet.
More often than not the bodies Diana dealt with were obviously corpses, whether they suffered from decomp, GSWs or some other trauma that made it clear the soul had long since departed. But this case was different-- a young, healthy woman who showed no outward signs of abuse or neglect, other than a small puncture wound in the crook of her arm. From the look of her, Catherine Chandler could just have easily been asleep as dead. Except she was in the morgue with a toe tag dangling from one foot.
"If I'm going to help you, I need some answers," Diana said, examining Catherine's bare feet, the soles of which were soiled with a layer of dirt or dust. She gently, almost apologetically, lifted the woman's ankle for a closer look. "Where were you walking to? And why no shoes? There's no cuts or abrasions, so you probably didn't get very far or make it outside. Cooped up for six months, you must've been a little stir-crazy."
Diana glanced up with a half smile. "I know I would be." She placed Catherine's foot back on the slab and moved further along the woman's side, peering underneath the sheet without removing it.
"Christ," she said through gritted teeth, already certain of one detail that would be on the autopsy report. Catherine was pregnant, and from the looks of it, had delivered a baby shortly before her death.
Lucky girl, Diana thought. At least whoever has the kid now was patient enough to wait till it was born to take it from you.
She let the sheet drift down onto the pale, motionless form, her palm briefly hovering over the abdomen, but not touching. Instead, she scooped up one of Catherine's hands in hers, studying each finger (tidy nails) and noting they had a little of that pregnant lady pudge to them. Diana smiled again, imagining the woman complaining about weight gain and morning sickness the way her sister had for months on end.
"You would've slimmed down fast," Diana remarked, images of a slender businesswoman, from newspaper articles and the many files this case had spurred, coming to mind. There was a particular photo of Catherine, a 5X7 which could have passed for a professional headshot, that Diana had found herself drawn to. She could be friends with the woman in that photo. The eyes were very kind.
Rounding the edge of the table and gazing at the serene (or troubled?) face below, she found herself willing the woman to sit up, take a breath, look around and demand to know her whereabouts and what had happened to her clothing. From what Diana knew of this Chandler girl, she wasn't the type to take anyone's crap. She'd had a lot of it thrown at her in the past couple of years, though, that was for sure.
"I remember hearing about this when it happened," Diana said softly, the tip of her index finger tracing with the lightest touch a scar that ran the length of Catherine's left jaw. She wondered at the scars that would have remained after this latest abduction, had the woman lived. "I'm glad you didn't try to have it fixed. That says a lot about a person, I think."
After a moment, she realized she had begun to stroke the disheveled strands of hair that limply framed Catherine's face. "It's a nice color," she commented, a bit sheepish as she tried to arrange the locks in a flattering way. They looked as clean as could be expected for a woman who'd given birth and been relocated post-mortem. Access to a bath or shower hadn't been denied. "I've been thinking about doing something different with mine. Can't really get more conspicuous than bright red, right?"
Diana chuckled as if Catherine had made a witty reply. Just as suddenly, she turned solemn and cupped her palm to the dead woman's cheek. "I'm sorry we have to cut you, Cathy. It will help the investigation. Give us an idea of what did this to you. You've already been really helpful."
"I'll make sure the pathologist does a good job," she added. "And I'll do my best to find the person responsible for this. You have my word."
The clang of medical instruments being wheeled in by cart announced the doctor's arrival seconds later, and before he had cleared the doorway, Diana leaned to whisper in Catherine's ear.
"Thanks for the chat."