Weapons of choice

They seemed to walk for miles along a single corridor, forcing him to high-step over dozens of knee knockers as they passed through watertight doors. Then they had to climb down a series of switchback metal staircases. That was a private kind of hell with his leg, but damned if he was gonna give this bitch the satisfaction of seeing him fall behind or hearing him whine about his troubles.

Just when he thought it was going to be too much, they stepped off the lower level of the main passage and into a smaller walkway that seemed to run right across the ship. Another turn took them through a pair of heavy swinging doors that looked like they were made of clear rubber or something.

The letters WCIU were stenciled on the doors, but Cherry recognized the smell immediately. They were in some kind of morgue.

The forensic laboratory of the War Crimes Investigation Unit was familiar turf to Captain Margie Francois. She'd been attached to two such units during the previous fifteen years, earning a medal from the United Nations Human Rights Commission for her work in identifying the members of a "special purposes" battalion of the Iranian army, which was active during the second Iran-Iraq war. The purpose of the battalion had been to spread terror among subject Iraqis by a program of systematic rape.

Francois was first and foremost a Marine Corps combat surgeon, but she was also cross-trained as a special victims investigator. She had the graduation certificate from Quantico and a mass of emotional scar tissue to show for it.

As the wait for Detective Cherry dragged on, she worked hard at damping down the first sparks of her temper. There were six people in the morgue with her. Dr. Brumm, from the coroner's office in Honolulu. Assistant District Attorney Crew, standing in for the district attorney. Lieutenant Commander Helen Wassman, formerly the medical officer on the Leyte Gulf. Ensign Mitsuka, surviving senior officer on the Siranui. And Captain Hugh Lunn, from the Clinton's Legal Affairs Division, who doubled as the head of the War Crimes Unit when it was operational-it wasn't at this point, but Lunn was there as the senior legal affairs officer in the task force.

They were all waiting on Cherry.

The morgue wasn't meant to hold so many observers, so the space was cramped. They all wore masks, but only the doctors, Francois and Wassman, were gloved and gowned. The " 'temps," Brumm and Crew, had arrived together, but seemed uncomfortable talking in front of the Multinational Force personnel. They were obviously ill at ease in Mitsuka's presence, and Francois suspected they hadn't been too happy riding in the backseat while a couple of chicks drove the postmortem process, either. But the look of dismay on Dr. Brumm's face-at the array of unusual lab equipment-was reason enough to disqualify him from a hands-on role in the postmortem.

The naked bodies of Anderson and Miyazaki lay on stainless-steel benches in the middle of the room. The Japanese officer rested stiffly on the table nearest to Francois. His toes were pointed straight at the laboratory door, as if he were diving into a pool. Gravity had pooled his blood, giving the underside of his corpse a bruised appearance that contrasted with the waxy yellow color, turning noticeably to green, elsewhere on his body.

Anderson was posed more dramatically. One fist was clenched and her right leg was drawn up toward her stomach. Her left leg was bent backward at the knee. It had obviously been broken with great force. Her dark skin meant that the green tinge of putrefaction wasn't as immediately evident, but she still looked unreal, like a posed wax model. Everybody in the room avoided staring at her private parts. Something terrible had been done there.

Francois checked the clock again. Fifteen minutes late. She could feel her face coloring with anger. She didn't know either victim personally, but she always took this shitty sort of business personally. It was why she'd turned down so many requests to participate in other war crimes investigations over the years. It dredged up memories.

"Detective Cherry was shot in the leg last year," said ADA Crew. "He finds it hard to get around."

"And they couldn't send anybody else?" asked Francois, barely controlling her irritation.

Crew shrugged.

"They're shorthanded. A lot of cops joined up the day after Pearl. Cherry caught the case. It was his turf the stiff… the bodies washed up on."

Francois was about to snap a comment at Crew's indelicate choice of language when Detective Cherry came through the swing doors.

Jesus Christ, what a bag of shit, she thought.

"Sorry I'm so early," the cop said with a lopsided grin.

Francois had never seen a man so obviously teetering on the edge of a massive coronary, and a stroke, and liver failure, and God only knew what else, all at the same time.