"Trust me." I was reflecting back skin from ribs, careful not to puncture the intercostal muscles. "He smells very strange."

"And what does that mean?" Roche wanted to know.

"I won't be able to answer that until tests are conducted," I said. "In the meantime, we'll thoroughly check out all of his equipment to make sure everything was functioning and that he didn't, for example, get exhaust fumes down his hose."

"You know much about hookahs?" Danny asked me, and he had returned to the table to help.

"I've never used one."

I undermined the midline chest incision laterally. Reflecting back tissue, I formed a pocket in a side of skin, which Danny filled with water. Then I immersed my hand and inserted the scalpel blade between two ribs. I checked for a release of bubbles that might indicate a diving injury had caused air to leak into the chest cavity. But there were none.

"Let's get the hookah and the hose out of the boat and bring them in," I decided. "It would be good if we could get hold of a dive consultant for a second opinion. Do you know anyone around here we might be able to reach on a holiday?"

"There's a dive shop in Hampton Roads that Dr. Mant sometimes uses."

He got the numbers and called, but the shop was closed this snowy New Year's Eve, and the owner did not seem to be at home. Then Danny went out to the bay, and when he returned a brief time later, I could hear a familiar voice talking loudly with him as heavy footsteps sounded along the hallway.

"They wouldn't let you if you were a cop," Pete Marino's voice projected into the autopsy suite.

"I know, but I don't understand it," Danny said.

"Well, I'll give you one damn good reason. Hair as long as yours gives the assholes out there one more thing to grab. Me'? I'd cut it off. Besides, the girls would like you better."