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Eddings’ death was not Marino’s jurisdiction unless the FBI had already gotten involved, and that would not make sense, either.
    Both Marino and I were consultants for the Bureau’s Criminal Investigative Analysis program, more commonly known as the profiling unit, which specialized in assisting police with unusually heinous and difficult deaths. We routinely got involved in cases outside of our domains, but by invitation only, and it was a little early for Chesapeake to be calling the FBI about anything.
    Detective Roche arrived before Marino did, and he was carrying a paper bag and insisting that I give him gown, gloves, face shield, cap and shoe covers. While he was in the locker room fussing with his biological armor, Danny and I began taking photographs and looking at Eddings exactly as he had come to us, which was still in a full wet suit that continued to slowly drip on the floor.
    â€œHe’s been dead awhile,” I said. “I have a feeling that whatever happened to him occurred shortly after he went into the river.”
    â€œDo we know when that was?” Danny asked as he fit scalpel handles with new blades.
    â€œWe’re assuming it was sometime after dark.”
    â€œHe doesn’t look very old.”
    â€œThirty-two.”
    He stared at Eddings’s face and his own got sad. “It’s like when kids end up in here or that basketball player who dropped dead in the gym the other week.” He looked at me. “Does it ever get to you?”
    â€œI can’t let it get to me because they need me to do a good job for them,” I said as I made notes.
    â€œWhat about when you’re done?” He glanced up.
    â€œWe’re never done, Danny,” I said. “Our hearts will stay broken for the rest of our lives, and we will never be done with the people who pass through here.”
    â€œBecause we can’t forget them.” He lined a bucket with a viscera bag and put it near me on the floor. “At least I can’t.”
    â€œIf we forget them, then something is wrong with us,” I said.
    Roche emerged from the locker room looking like a disposable astronaut in his face shield and paper suit. He kept his distance from the gurney but got as close as he could to me.
    I said to him, “I’ve looked inside the boat. What items have you removed?”
    â€œHis gun and wallet. I got both of them here with me,” he replied. “Over there in the bag. How many pairs of gloves you got on?”
    â€œWhat about a camera, film, anything like that?”
    â€œWhat’s in the boat is all there is. Looks like you got on more than one pair of gloves.” He leaned close, his shoulder pressing against mine.
    â€œI’ve double-gloved.” I moved away from him.
    â€œI guess I need another pair.”
    I unzipped Eddings’ soggy dive boots and said, “They’re in the cabinet over there.”
    With a scalpel I opened the wet suit and dive skin at the seams because they would be too difficult to pull off a fully rigorous body. As I freed him from neoprene, I could see that he was uniformly pink due to the cold. I removed his blue bikini bathing suit, and Danny and I lifted him onto the autopsy table, where we broke the rigidity of the arms and began taking more photographs.
    Eddings had no injuries except several old scars, mostly on his knees. But biology had dealt him an earlier blow called hypospadias, which meant his urethra opened onto the underside of his penis instead of in the center. This moderate defect would have caused him a great deal of anxiety, especially as a boy. As a man he may have suffered sufficient shame that he was reluctant to have sex.
    Certainly, he had never been shy or passive during professional encounters. In fact, I had always found him quite confident and charming, when someone like me was rarely charmed by anyone, least of all a journalist. But I also knew appearances meant nothing