Buried In Buttercream

another one.
    But she had also learned many a valuable truth inside those doors. So, the journeys had always been worth giving up a portion of her naiveté with its accompanying sense of false safety.
    And she hoped this trip would be equally helpful.
    “When you talked to her earlier, did she say she was finished?” Savannah asked before pushing the door open.
    “Not done, but just about.”
    Oh, well, she thought, so much for the more pleasant alternative of sitting in the doctor’s clinical little office and hearing about the autopsy, versus seeing it in person.
    After viewing so many over the years, Savannah had gotten more accustomed to it, but not if it was someone she knew. No amount of self-talk or attempts at attitude adjustment could prepare her for that.
    Only yesterday Madeline Aberson had been coaching her on how to hold her wedding bouquet. And now she was gone, her body nothing more than a lifeless specimen on a coroner’s table.
    It didn’t seem possible.
    But it was true. It hit her like a hardball between the eyes when she swung the right door open and stuck her head into the room.
    There was Madeline. Lying on the stainless steel, naked except for a small white towel that Dr. Liu used to cover the private body parts of those she worked on.
    It struck Savannah, as it always did, how vulnerable a person looked at that moment.
    This was the first time she had entered this room since her own shooting. And the unwelcome thought rushed through her mind that, but for the grace of God and an inch this way or that, she would have been stretched out on this very table.
    The mental image stopped her in her tracks. She stood there for a long, awkward moment as Dr. Liu, suited in surgical scrubs, stood on the opposite side of the table and waited for them to approach.
    Dirk put his hand on Savannah’s back, leaned his head down close to hers, and whispered, “You all right, Van?”
    She nodded. And with a mighty effort, pulled her mind back to a better place.
    If you could call investigating the murder of your wedding planner better, she told herself.
    She forced herself to look at the body with impassive, professional determination.
    The Y incision that extended length-wise down the center of Madeline Aberson’s chest and branched out toward her shoulders had been closed with Dr. Liu’s neat stitches. So had the cut from ear to ear and over the crown of the head.
    The victim was ready to be bagged and transported to the funeral home.
    Savannah was grateful, at least today, that she’d been spared the more graphic part of the examination.
    “Did those three stab wounds do it?” Dirk asked the doctor.
    She nodded. “One of them in particular. The penetrating trauma led to cardiac tamponade.”
    “What’s cardiac tampon ... whatever you said,” Savannah asked.
    “Our hearts are encased in an outer covering, a sac,” Dr. Liu explained. “When blood builds up in the space between that sac and the heart muscle—in this case, because of the penetrating wound—it can compress the heart and interfere with its pumping. The victim loses consciousness because of the lack of blood supply to the brain.”
    “The stab marks themselves looked small,” Dirk said. “The actual entrance wounds, that is.”
    Dr. Liu nodded. “They are. They were made by something very small and narrow. But long ... eight inches at least.”
    “So, not a knife?” Savannah asked.
    “Definitely not a knife.”
    “A screwdriver?” Dirk asked.
    “No. More narrow than a screwdriver, and not flat on the end. Sharp and pointed.”
    Savannah thought it over for a moment. “An ice pick?”
    Dr. Liu nodded. “Maybe.”
    “Would an ice pick cause that much bleeding, though,” Dirk asked, “enough to press against the heart and interfere with its beating, like you said?”
    “It doesn’t take that much blood to cause tamponade. One hundred milliliters can do it.”
    When they both looked momentarily confused, she added, “That’s less than half a cup ... for you nonscientific, nonmetric-speaking types.”
    “Thanks.” Savannah looked the body over, up and down. “Were there any other signs of trauma ... of struggle?”
    Dr. Liu reached down and picked up one of Madeline’s hands. “There are slight abrasions here, on the heels of her hands. As though she may have put her hands out to catch herself when falling forward.”
    The doctor moved to the lower end of the table and pointed to the body’s right shin.