If the body was in good shape it was wheeled along a corridor to the right of the bay, a journey that could at some point include the possibility of various stops relative to the body’s stage of deconstruction: the x-ray suite, the histology specimen storage room, the forensic anthropology lab, two more walk-in refrigerators for fresh bodies that hadn’t been examined yet, the lift for those that were to be viewed and identified upstairs, evidence lockers, the neuropath room, the cardiac path room, the main autopsy room. After a case was completed and the body was ready for release, it ended up full circle back at the bay inside yet another walk-in refrigerator, which was where Toni Darien should be right now, zipped up in a pouch on a storage rack.

But she wasn’t. She was on a gurney parked in front of the stainless-steel refrigerator door, an ID tech arranging a blue sheet around the neck, up to the chin.

“What are we doing?” Scarpetta said.

“We’ve had a little excitement upstairs. She’s going to be viewed.”

“By whom and why?”

“Mother’s in the lobby and won’t leave until she sees her. Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it.” The tech’s name was Rene, mid-thirties with curly black hair and ebony eyes, and unusually gifted at handling families. If she was having a problem with one, it wasn’t trivial. Rene could defuse just about anything.

“I thought the father had made the ID,” Scarpetta said.

“He filled out the paperwork, and then I showed him the picture you uploaded to me-this was right before you left for the cafeteria. A few minutes later, the mother walks in and the two of them start arguing in the lobby, and I mean going at it, and finally he storms out.”

“They’re divorced?”

“And obviously hate each other. She’s insisting on seeing the body, won’t take no for an answer.” Rene’s purple nitrile-gloved hands moved a strand of damp hair off the dead woman’s brow, rearranging several more strands behind the ears, making sure no sutures from the autopsy showed. “I know you’ve got a staff meeting in a few minutes. I’ll take care of this.” She looked at the cardboard box Scarpetta was holding. “You didn’t even eat yet. What have you had today? Probably nothing, as usual. How much weight have you lost? You’re going to end up in the anthro lab, mistaken for a skeleton.”