Ice Cold: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel

corrode the mouth and lips. You’ll see it in the mucous membranes.”
    Gruber had already slipped a gloved finger into the oral cavity and he peered inside. “Membranes are dry, but otherwise unremarkable.” He glanced through the window at his audience. “You getting a good view of this on the monitor?”
    Maura nodded at him. “There are no corrosive lesions?” she asked over the intercom.
    “None.”
    Jane said, “Isn’t cyanide supposed to smell like bitter almonds?”
    “They’re wearing respirators,” said Maura. “They wouldn’t be able to smell it.”
    Gruber carved the Y-incision and picked up the bone cutters. Over the intercom, they heard the
crack, crack
as he split the ribs, and Maura noticed several of the officials suddenly turn away and stare at the wall. Gruber lifted up the shield of sternum and ribs, exposing the chest cavity, and reached into the chest to resect the lungs. He lifted out one wet and dripping lobe. “Feels pretty heavy to me. And I’m seeing some pink froth here.” He sliced into the organ, and fluid oozed out.
    “Pulmonary edema,” said Maura.
    “What does that signify?” Pasternak asked her.
    “It’s a nonspecific finding, but it can be caused by a number of drugs and toxins.”
    As Gruber weighed the heart and lungs, the camera remained fixed on a static view of the torso, gaping open. No longer were they staring at a nubile young girl. What once might have titillated had been transformed to butchered flesh, a mere carcass of cold meat.
    Gruber once again picked up his knife and his gloved handsreappeared on the monitor. “This damn face shield keeps fogging up,” he complained. “I’ll dissect the heart and lungs later. Right now, I’m most concerned about what we’re going to find in the stomach.”
    “What is your sensor showing?” Maura asked.
    The assistant glanced at the GasBadge monitor. “It’s not registering anything. No cyanide detected yet.”
    Gruber said, “Okay, here’s where things could get interesting.” He looked through the window at his audience. “Because we could be dealing with cyanide, I’m going to proceed a little differently. Normally I’d just resect, weigh, and open up the abdominal organs. But this time I’m going to clamp off the stomach first, before I resect it in toto.”
    “He’ll place it under the fume hood before he slices it open,” Maura explained to Jane. “Just to be safe.”
    “Is it really that dangerous?”
    “When cyanide salts are exposed to gastric acid, they can form toxic gas. Open that stomach and you release the gas into the air. That’s why they’re wearing respirator hoods. And why he’s not going to cut into that stomach until it’s under a fume hood.”
    Through the window, they watched Gruber lift the clamped and resected stomach out of the abdomen. He carried it to the fume hood cabinet and glanced at his assistant.
    “Anything showing up on the GasBadge?”
    “Not a blip.”
    “Okay. Bring that monitor closer. Let’s see what happens when I start cutting.” Gruber paused, staring down at the glistening organ, as though bracing for the consequence of what he was about to do. The fume hood blocked Maura’s view of the actual incision. What she saw was Gruber’s profile, his head craned forward, his shoulders hunched in concentration as he sliced. Abruptly he straightened and looked at his assistant.
    “Well?”
    “Nothing. It’s not reading cyanide, chlorine, or ammonia gas.”
    Gruber turned to the window, his face obscured by the fogged mask. “There are no mucosal lesions, no corrosive changes in the stomach. I have to conclude that we’re probably not dealing with cyanide poisoning.”
    “Then what killed her?” asked Pasternak.
    “At this point, Detective, I’d be guessing. I suppose they could have ingested strychnine, but the body shows no lingering opisthotonos.”
    “What?”
    “Abnormal arching and rigidity of the back.”
    “What about that other finding, in the lungs?”
    “Her pulmonary edema could be due to anything from opiates to phosgene. I can’t give you an answer. I’m afraid this is all going to come down to the tox screen.” He pulled off his fogged respirator hood and heaved out a sigh, as though relieved to be free of that claustrophobic mask. “Right now, I’m thinking this is a pharmaceutical death. A drug of some kind.”
    “But the stomach’s empty?” said Maura. “You didn’t find any capsule remnants?”
    “The