'If I didn't know better, I'd think we got her films mixed up with somebody else's,' he said.

'This lady's old,' I said.

'How old, would you guess?'

'I don't like to guess.' I was studying her X-rays. 'But I'd say seventy, at least. Or to play it really safe, between sixty-five and eighty. Come on. Let's go through trash for a while.'

The next two hours were spent sifting through a large garbage bag of trash from the landfill that had been directly under and around the body. The garbage bag I believed she had been in was black, thirty-gallon size, and had been sealed with a yellow plastic-toothed tie. Wearing masks and gloves, Wingo and I picked through shredded tire and the fluff from upholstery stuffing that was used as a cover in the landfill. We examined countless tatters of slimy plastic and paper, picking out maggots and dead flies and dropping them into a carton.

Our treasures were few, a blue button that was probably unrelated, and, oddly, a child's tooth, which I imagined was tossed, a coin left under a pillow. We found a mangled comb, a flattened battery, several shards of broken china, a tangled wire coat hanger, and the cap of a Bic pen. Mostly, it was rubber, fluff, torn black plastic and soggy paper that we threw into a garbage can. Then we circled bright lights around the table and centered her on a clean white sheet.

Using a lens, I began going over her an inch at a time, her flesh a microscopic landfill of debris. With forceps, I collected pale fibers from the dark bloody stump that once had been her neck, and I found hairs, three of them, grayish-white, about fourteen inches long, adhering to dried blood, posteriorly.

'I need another envelope.' I said to Wingo as I came across something else I did not expect.

Embedded in the ends of each humerus, or the bone of the upper arm, and also in margins of muscle around it were more fibers and tiny fragments of fabric that looked pale blue, meaning the saw had to have gone through it.

'She was dismembered through her clothes or something else she was wrapped in,' I

said, startled.

Wingo stopped what he was doing and looked at me. 'The others weren't.'

Those victims appeared to have been nude when they were sawn apart. He made more notes as I moved on, peering through the lens.

'Fibers and bits of fabric are also embedded in either femur.' I looked more closely.

'So she was covered from the waist down, too?' he said.

'That's the way it's looking.'

'So someone waited until after she was dismembered, and then took all her clothes off?' He looked at me, emotion in his eyes as he started to envision it.

'He wouldn't want us to get the clothes. There might be too much information there,' I

said.

'Then why didn't he undress her, unwrap her or whatever to begin with?'

'Maybe he didn't want to look at her while he was dismembering her,' I said.

'Oh, so now he's getting sensitive on us,' Wingo said, as if he hated whoever it was.

'Make a note of the measurements,' I told him. 'Cervical spine is transected at the level of C-5. Residual femur on the right measures two inches below the lesser trochanter, and two and a half inches on the left, with saw marks visible. Right and left segments of humerus are one inch, saw marks visible. On the upper right hip is a three-quarters- of-an-inch old, healed vaccination scar.'

'What about that?' He referred to the numerous raised, fluid-filled vesicles scattered over buttocks, shoulders and upper thighs.

'I don't know,' I said, reaching for a syringe. 'I'm guessing herpes zoster virus.'

'Whoa!' Wingo jumped back from the table. 'I wish you'd told me that earlier.' He was scared.

'Shingles.' I began labeling a test tube. 'Maybe. I must confess, it's a little weird.'

'What do you mean?' He was getting more unnerved.

'With shingles,' I replied, 'the virus attacks sensory nerves. When the vesicles erupt, they do so in a swath along nerve distributions. Under a rib, for example. And the vesicles will be of varying ages. But this is a crop, and they all look the same age.'

'What else could it be?' he asked. 'Chicken pox?'

'Same virus. Children get chicken pox. Adults get shingles.'

'What if I get it?' Wingo said.

'Did you have chicken pox as a kid?'

'Got no idea.'

'What about the VZV vaccine?' I asked. 'Have you had that?'

'No.'

'Well, if you have no antibody to VZV, you should be vaccinated.' I glanced up at him.

'Are you immunosuppressed?'

He did not say anything as he went to a cart, snatching off his latex gloves and slamming them into the red can for biologically hazardous trash. Upset, he snatched a new pair made of heavier blue Nitrile. I stopped what I was doing, watching him until he returned to the table.

'I just think you could have warned me before now,' he said, and he sounded on the verge of tears. 'I mean, it's not like you can take any precautions in this place, like vaccinations, except for hepatitis B. So I depend on you to let me know what's coming in.'

'Calm down.'

I was gentle with him. Wingo was too sensitive for his own good, and that was really the only problem I ever had with him.

'You can't possibly get chicken pox or shingles from this lady unless you have an exchange of body fluids,' I said. 'So as long as you're wearing gloves and going about business in the usual way, and don't cut yourself or get a needle stick, you will not be exposed to the virus.'

For an instant, his eyes were bright, and he quickly looked away.

'I'll start taking pictures,' he said.

Marino and Benton Wesley appeared midafternoon, when the autopsy was well under way. There was nothing further I could do with the external examination, and Wingo had taken a late lunch, so I was alone. Wesley's eyes were on me as he walked through the door, and I could tell by his coat that it was still raining.

'Just so you know,' Marino said right off, 'there's a flood warning.' Since there were no windows in the morgue, I never knew the weather.

'How serious a warning?' I asked, and Wesley had come close to the torso, and was looking at it.

'Serious enough that if this keeps up, somebody'd better start piling up sandbags,' Marino replied as he parked his umbrella in a corner.

My building was blocks from the James. Years ago, the lower level had flooded, bodies donated to science rising in overflowing vats, water poisoned pink with formalin seeping into the morgue and the parking lot in back.

'How worried should I be?' I asked with concern.

'It's going to stop,' Wesley said, as if he could profile the weather, too.

He took off his raincoat, and the suit beneath it was a dark blue that was almost black. He wore a starched white shirt and conservative silk tie, his silver hair a little longer than usual, but neat. His sharp features made him seem even keener and more intimidating than he was, but today his face was grim, and not just because of me. He and Marino went to a cart to put on gloves and masks.

'I'm sorry we're late,' Wesley said to me as I continued working. 'Every time I tried to get away from the house, the phone rang. This thing's a real problem.'

'Certainly for her it is,' I said.

'Shit.' Marino stared at what was left of a human being. 'How the hell does anybody do something like that?'

'I'll tell you how,' I said, cutting sections of spleen. 'First you pick an old woman and make sure she isn't properly watered or fed, and when she gets sick, forget medical care. Then you shoot or beat her in the head.' I glanced up at them. 'My bet is that she has a basilar skull fracture. Maybe some other type of trauma.'