The Body Reader by Anne Frasier

apologize for the air quality,” Ingrid said. “Our air system is acting up. My husband had me take off my clothes before I stepped from the garage into the house last night. Even after I showered, he still complained.”
    Uriah tried to breathe shallowly through his mouth. That made him feel light-headed.
    “I know it’s unpleasant, but this won’t take long,” Ingrid said. “I have a few things I thought you should see.”
    She moved deeper into the room, motioning for them to follow. “What I wanted to show you . . .” She pulled back the sheet, uncovering the girl with the dandelion hair. “Cutting.” She pointed. “Self-mutilation.” The girl’s stomach was a crisscross of scars.
    “Recent?” Uriah asked.
    “Some fairly new, but some older.”
    “How much older?”
    “Years. On top of the cutting, I found signs of sexual abuse. Bruising and tissue damage. Some old scarring, but some recent. Maybe less than twenty-four hours old.”
    Uriah looked at Jude. He could see she was thinking her theory had merit. In reality, it meant suicide was all the more likely. The poor girl had been in mental distress for a long time. Add sexual abuse to that . . .
    “Also, her lungs were filled with water.”
    “Drowning,” Uriah said. No surprise there.
    “Lake water?” Jude asked.
    “I’m glad you brought that up.” Ingrid pushed the overhead lamp aside. “The water we found in her lungs had a high level of chlorine in it.”
    That was unexpected. “Interesting.” Uriah might have to toss everything he’d been thinking about suicide. Also? No sign of gloat on Jude’s face. He had to give her credit for that. And no mention of body reading. He’d give her credit for that too. Right now it seemed to be their little secret. He hoped to keep it that way—something that surprised him, given his feelings about Jude coming on board in the first place. One whisper of her “gift” and she’d be out of there. Ortega would see it as proof of Jude’s instability.
    “So she drowned, or was drowned, most likely in a swimming pool,” he said.
    “That’s correct. There’s no freshwater in her lungs. She was dead before she was put in the lake.”
    “Anything else? Signs of struggle?”
    “Nothing under the nails, but there’s bruising on the arms that might or might not be significant.”
    “Drugs?”
    “No signs of needle usage, but we’re running toxicology labs.” Ingrid covered the body. “Should have the results in a couple of days.”
    “Thanks.”
    Uriah bailed from the room, ripped off his mask, and gulped air—immediately regretting it, since the prep room smelled almost as bad as the autopsy suite. Jude followed at a leisurely pace.
    “You were right,” Uriah said once they were outside, in the unmarked car, heading to the girl’s house to interview the parents. A cold call—nobody would be expecting them.
    “What do you think? A relative? Boyfriend?” Jude asked. “Assaults her, then, fearing she’ll tell someone, drowns her, fills her pockets with rocks, and tosses her in the lake to make it look like suicide?”
    “A valid theory.”
    The GPS told him to turn. He turned.
    “So you approve of my outfit?” Jude asked.
    Like most things about her, the unexpected question was unnerving. When she’d arrived at the department that morning, he’d been surprised to see her wearing something almost stylish: black pants, a white shirt, and a black fitted jacket. Uriah wasn’t into clothes, but in their job it was important to have the right threads. A suit generated a certain amount of respect for the position.
    “I never said anything about how you were dressed yesterday.”
    “You didn’t have to.”
    “Of course not.”
    “I’d planned on seeing what my boyfriend had done with my clothes, but I kept putting it off. And then I realized none of it would fit me anymore anyway.”
    “You could get them altered. I know a guy in Uptown. Believe it or not, I got this suit at a