“Or cabinetmakers?” Will asked.

“That’s possible.” Sara looked at Estevez’s hand again. “These calluses could come from holding a nail gun. I’d have to see the tool for comparison, but if you told me he worked as a carpenter, I’d agree that his hands show signs of working in that industry.” She picked up the man’s left hand. “Do you see these scars on his index finger? These line up with common injuries for carpenters. Hammers slip. A nail pinches the skin. Threads from screws scrape off the top dermal layer. Do you see this scar down the center line of his nail?” Will nodded. “It cuts through his cuticle, too. Carpenters use carpet knives to cut edges or score wood. Sometimes the blade skips down the fingernail or shaves the skin off the side of the finger. A lot of times they’ll use their nondominant hand to smooth out putty or caulk, which causes wearing at the tip. His fingerprints would be different week-to-week, sometimes day-to-day.”

Amanda said, “So, he’s been at this job for a while?”

“I’d say whatever job he’s been working at that caused these marks has been going on for two to three years.”

“What about Heeney, the shooter?”

Sara reached under the sheet to check the other man’s hands. She did not want to look at his face again. “He was left-handed, but I would hazard he worked in the same industry as Estevez.”

Will said, “There’s one connection, at least. They both worked for Ling-Ling.”

Sara asked, “Who’s Ling-Ling?”

“A missing person of interest.” Amanda checked her watch. “We should hurry this along. Dr. Linton, can you examine our other friend here?”

Sara didn’t give herself time to think about it. She pulled back the sheet in one quick motion. It was the first time she’d looked at Franklin Warren Heeney’s face since he’d tried to kill her. His eyes were open. His lips were wrapped around the tube that had been inserted into his throat to help him breathe. A crusty layer of blood circled his neck where the flesh gaped open. He was still dressed from the waist down, but his jacket and shirt had been cut open so that the ER staff could try to save his life. The exercise had been perfunctory; the man had sliced open his own jugular. He’d lost nearly half his blood volume before they’d managed to pick him up off the floor and put him on the table. Sara knew this because she had been the doctor working on him.

She looked up. Both Amanda and Will were staring at her.

“Sorry,” she apologized. She had to clear her throat before she could talk again. “He’s around the same age as Estevez. Mid-to-late twenties. Underweight for his build.” She pointed to the needle tracks on his arm. The IV port she’d inserted was still taped to his skin. “Recent user, at least intravenously.” She found an otoscope and checked inside the man’s nose. “There’s significant scarring in the nasal passages, probably from snorting powder.” She shoved the scope in farther. “He’s had surgery to repair the septum, so you’re looking at coke or meth, maybe Oxy. They’re all extremely corrosive to cartilage.”

Will asked, “What about heroin?”

“Oh, heroin, of course.” Sara apologized again. “Sorry, most of the heroin users I see are smokers or needle junkies. The snorters usually go straight to the morgue.”

Amanda crossed her arms. “What about his stomach?”

Sara didn’t have to check the file. No X-rays had been taken. The man had expired before any tests could be ordered. Instead of continuing the exam, Sara found herself looking at his face again. Franklin Heeney hardly resembled a choirboy, but the acne-scarred skin and sunken cheeks were recognizable to someone out in the world. He had a mother. He had a father, a child, perhaps a sister or brother, who right at this moment was probably hearing that their loved one was dead.

Their loved one who had killed a man in cold blood and punched Sara so violently that the breath had gone out of her body. She felt the bruise on her chest start to throb at the memory. She had a mother, too—a sister, a father—all of whom would be horrified if they heard what had happened to Sara today.

Amanda asked, “Dr. Linton?”

“Sorry.” In the time it took to walk over to the box of gloves and put on a fresh pair, she had managed to pull herself back together. She ignored Will’s look of concern and pressed her fingers into the dead man’s belly. “I don’t feel anything unusual. The organs are in their proper position and are normal size. No swelling or compaction in the bowel or stomach.” She snapped off the gloves and threw them into the trash. The water in the sink was cold, but Sara washed her hands anyway. “I can’t send him to X-ray because they’ll need a patient ID, and frankly, I’m not going to make a living person wait to satisfy a curiosity. The ME’s office will have to give you a definitive answer.” She squirted antibacterial gel into her palm, fighting to keep her voice steady. “Is that all?”

“Yes,” Amanda said. “Thank you, Dr. Linton.”

Sara didn’t acknowledge the answer. She ignored Will. She ignored the two bodies. She kept her eyes on the door until she had passed through it. In the hallway, she concentrated on the elevator, the button she would press, the numbers that would light up over the door. She only wanted to think about the steps ahead, not the ones behind her. She had to get out of this place, to get home and wrap herself in a blanket on the couch and pull the dogs around her and forget this miserable day.

There were footsteps behind her. Will was running again. He caught up with her quickly. She turned around. He stopped a few feet away.

He said, “Amanda’s putting out an APB on the tattoo.”

Why was he just standing there? Why did he keep rushing up to her and doing absolutely nothing?

He said, “Maybe we’ll find—”

“I really don’t care.”

He stared at her. His hands were in his pockets. The sleeve of his jacket was tight around his upper arm. There was a small tear in the material.

Sara leaned her shoulder against the wall. She hadn’t noticed before, but there was a fresh cut at the top of his earlobe. She wanted to ask him about it, but he would probably tell her that he’d cut himself shaving. Maybe she didn’t want to know what had happened. The Polaroid of his damaged mouth still burned in her memory. What else had they done to him? What else had he done to himself?

Will said, “Why is it that none of the women in my life call me when they need help?”

“Doesn’t Angie call you?”

He looked down at the floor, the space between them.

She said, “I’m sorry. That wasn’t fair. It’s been a really long day.”

Will didn’t look up. Instead, he took her hand. His fingers laced through hers. His skin was warm, almost hot. He traced his thumb along the inside of her palm, the webbing between her fingers. Sara closed her eyes as he slowly explored every inch of her hand, caressing the lines and indentations, pressing his thumb gently against the pulse beating in her wrist. His touch was palliative. She felt her body starting to relax. Her breathing took on an easy cadence that matched his.

The doors to the morgue swished open. Sara yanked away her hand at the same time as Will. Neither of them looked at each other. They were like two kids caught in the back of a parked car.