The Fifth to Die: A gripping, page-turner of a crime thriller. J.D. Barker

expected him to say something about the time. Instead, he asked, “Have either of you ever seen the ocean?”

      Porter and Nash exchanged a look.

      Eisley closed the book on his desk and stood. “Never mind. Not sure I’m ready to talk about this yet.”

      “I take it you’re working on our girl?” Porter asked.

      Eisley sighed. “I’m trying. We’ve been warming up her body since they brought her in here. She wasn’t quite frozen, you understand, just way below normal temperature. It’s going to make time of death difficult to determine.”

      “Do you know the cause?”

      Eisley opened his mouth, prepared to say something, then thought better of it. “Not yet. I’m going to need a few more hours. You’re welcome to wait, if you’d like.”

      Before they could respond, he disappeared through the door leading to the autopsy room.

      Nash nodded at Porter. “Sounds like this might be a while.”

      Porter fell into a yellow vinyl chair near Eisley’s door, his eyes heavy with lack of sleep.

       6

       Porter

       Day 2 • 7:26 a.m.

      “Gentlemen?”

      Porter’s eyes fluttered open, and it took him a moment to realize he was in Eisley’s office at the morgue. He had slid down in the yellow vinyl chair, his neck cricked from being at an odd angle. Nash was slumped over at Eisley’s desk, his head resting on a stack of papers.

      Eisley picked up a medical text, lifted the book about three feet above the desk, then released. The book crashed down, loud and hard, and Nash snapped back in the chair, drool rolling down his chin. “What the —”

      “Chicago’s finest, hard at work,” Eisley chided. “Follow me.”

      Porter glanced up at the clock on the far wall — about half past seven. A little over three hours had passed since they arrived here. “Shit, didn’t mean to fall asleep,” he mumbled. He pulled his cell phone from his pocket — three missed calls from Clair, no voice mail.

      Eisley led them past his desk and through the double doors at the back of his office into the large examination room. Both Porter and Nash grabbed gloves from the box hanging on the wall near the door.

      Noises echoed in here.

      This was always the first thought that popped into Porter’s head when he entered. Everything sounded different due to the beige tile on the floor and walls. The second thing that always hit him was the temperature — he didn’t know what the actual temperature was in the room, but it felt like it dropped nearly twenty degrees. Goose bumps prickled the back of his neck, and a shiver ran over him. The third thing, the one he’d never get used to, was the smell. It didn’t smell bad, not today anyway, but the room smelled strong. The heavy scent of industrial cleaners attempted to mask the underlying odor of something else, something Porter preferred not to think about.

      Fluorescent lights burned bright above, glimmering on stainless steel cabinets. A large, round surgical light arched over the examination table at the center of the room where the body they pulled out of the lake rested.

      Eisley had closed the girl’s eyes.

      Sleeping beauty.

      An electric blanket and four large lamps sat off to the side.

      Eisley caught Porter looking at them. “We got lucky. She wasn’t in the lake very long, and her body was below the freeze line. If she froze through and through, we’d need to wait a few days before we could autopsy. In her case it only took a few hours to raise her body temp enough to proceed.”

      “You haven’t cut her open yet,” Nash pointed out. “It doesn’t look like you’ve started at all.”

      “You’d be surprised what a body can tell you if you know where to look,” Eisley replied. “I won’t be able to open her up until tomorrow; she’s still quite cold. If I warm her up too fast, we run the risk of crystallization and cellular damage. That doesn’t mean she can’t offer up some answers while we wait. Unlike you two, I’ve been busy.” He ran his hand through her hair. “She’s been talking, and I’ve been listening.”

      “Okay, now you’re creeping me out,” Porter said.

      Eisley offered a smile and took a step back from the table. “Would you like to know what I found?”

      “That would be lovely.”

      He walked over to the side of the table and lifted her hand. “The cold water was extremely preserving. With most bodies found in the water, they can be difficult to print. The skin tends to expand, and we have to reverse the effect before we can print. Like an extreme version of the pruning you probably experience in the bath.”

      “I’m more of a shower guy,” Porter told him.

      Eisley ignored the comment. “The near-freezing water kept her fingerprints completely intact, probably would through spring thaw.” He lowered her hand back to the table, placing it gently at her side. “The results came back about two hours ago. I confirmed this is Ella Reynolds, the girl who disappeared three weeks ago.”

      Porter sighed. He expected as much, but there was something deflating about hearing the words spoken aloud. “What about a time of death or the cause?”

      “As I said earlier, time of death can be a bit tricky because of the icy water. At this point, I would have to say no more than forty-eight hours ago but at least twenty-four. I’m hoping to narrow that down once I can get a look at her liver and other organs,” he explained. “Help me turn her over?”

      Porter and Nash exchanged a look. Nash took a slight step back. For a homicide detective, he had an odd aversion to dead bodies.

      Porter took the girl’s legs, and Eisley held her shoulders. Together, they turned her over.

      Eisley ran a finger along a long, dark mark running across her back. “This is from the rope he used to hold her up in the water. The coloration tells me she was suspended post mortem. Soon after, though, otherwise it wouldn’t be so prominent, particularly through that thick coat she was wearing.” He nodded at her clothing, neatly piled on the stainless steel counter.

      Nash walked, picked up the red coat, and began going through the pockets. “Did you see any identifying information on the clothing?”

      “The clothing isn’t hers, is it.” Eisley said this more as fact than a question.

      Porter turned to him. “Did you come to that conclusion?”

      “I suspected as much, but I’m not sure I’d be willing to call it a conclusion. Everything seemed like a tight fit on her. Under normal circumstances, I would chalk that up to bloating from the water, but since there was so little, it seemed strange. Her undergarments and jeans in particular were at least a size or two too small. She squeezed into them, but they’re tight, uncomfortable even. Take a look at the hat,” he said, gesturing at the counter. “There are letters written on the tag, most likely initials.”

      Nash set down the coat and picked up the white hat, turned it inside out. “L.D. It’s a bit faded, but that’s definitely what it says.”

      “Lili Davies,” Porter said.

      “Yeah, probably.”

      “Who’s that?” Eisley asked.

      “Another girl, went missing sometime yesterday,” Porter told him.

      “So whoever killed this girl