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is peeled down and left to hang over the face. The ribs are cut away with shears that might be used to prune the dead branches of trees.
    There is no dignity for the victim in any of this. There is only a further reduction, a second stripping away. The Buddhists say that the spirit lingers for a time after death, to watch over the body, to observe the rituals of mourning. As a rule, I’m not one to question another’s beliefs, but as I listened to the whine of a Stryker saw cutting away the top of my victim’s skull, I found myself hoping the Buddhists were wrong, that her spirit wasn’t hovering above that cold metal table, whispering ‘help me, help me, help me’.
    Like I said, I don’t like to watch autopsies, and I didn’t watch this one. Though I was physically present on that Monday at three o’clock in the afternoon, a single glance at the victim, now in an advanced state of decomposition, was enough. The rest of the time, I kept my eyes on the floor. Nevertheless, I did learn a number of facts that were to play a key part in the later stages of the investigation. First, the victim was not in her twenties, as I’d concluded after examining her at the crime scene, but in late adolescence, between sixteen and nineteen years old. Dr Kim Hyong established this fact with an X-ray of the long bones of her forearm where they met her wrist.
    I listened attentively while Hyong recorded this observation, speaking into a microphone clamped to the autopsy table, but I asked no questions. I was more interested in Hyong’s tone of voice, which remained matter-of-fact. There was no doubt in his mind, and nothing to be gained by challenging his conclusion, even if I’d had the expertise to frame a relevant question.
    Hyong wound it up with an appropriately grisly flourish. The victim’s prints could not be taken because the skin on her fingertips had grown slack, a condition known as slippage. Hyong overcame this difficulty by peeling off the skin of each finger, then inserting his right forefinger into the resulting pouch. By gently stretching this pouch with his free hand, he was able to produce a credible set of prints. ‘It’s all in the wrists,’ he explained. ‘All in the wrists.’
    The autopsy finally complete, Hyong took the crime scene photos to a metal shelf extending from the wall opposite the door, where he re-examined them under a large magnifying glass. Knowing my place in Hyong’s scheme of things, I waited patiently for him to complete this examination. A few minutes later, he called my attention to a full-length photo of the victim as I’d discovered her.
    â€˜Tell me what happened here. Tell me why her skin is pink.’ Kim Hyong was short and thick, his torso running in a straight line from his armpits to his hips. His hands, by contrast, were very small, his movements precise enough to appear finicky.
    â€˜I’ve seen this before, doctor, with a suicide. The man—’
    â€˜Carbon monoxide, fine. What else?’
    â€˜Cyanide?’
    â€˜Very good. What else?’
    My first impulse was to smack him, then count the revolutions before he contacted a solid object, say the far wall. But ever the goal-oriented detective, I merely sighed before shrugging my shoulders.
    â€˜I have no idea.’
    â€˜Then answer another question. This woman died from blunt force trauma resulting in severe intracranial hemorrhaging. Now, why would anyone strike her with enough force to produce this level of injury if she’d already been poisoned?’
    â€˜I’ve been trying to figure that out from the time I found her.’
    Hyong glanced at me before shaking his head. ‘Exposure to cold temperatures prior to death will produce lividity anywhere from pink to cherry red. We commonly see this in alcoholics who pass out on the streets in winter, and in cold-water drownings. Of course, we’ll test for carbon monoxide and