With sweat pouring from her rubber gloves, Blue finds the badly decomposing corpse on the floor of the bedroom. An expensive watch rests untouched on a dresser, and a huge bowl of loose change is covered in dust, both signs that no thief has entered the room.
Blue, whom other detectives call one of the most compassionate and fastidious investigators in the department, will spend the rest of the afternoon calling relatives. But the corpse is too decayed to be identified. She will track down dental records, but they will prove inadequate to make an identification. Technicians will then turn to DNA testing, a time-consuming process that forces authorities to hold the body at the morgue for weeks.
Blue is a single mother with an 11-year-old son. And while she enjoys the unhurried pace of the job and the less-demanding hours, "I'm sure this takes a toll," she says. Her psyche is more fragile now. Because she has seen so many accidental electrocutions, she makes sure her son's radio is nowhere near the bathtub.
Maybe the police psychologist she bumped into at an officer's funeral was right. She told Blue that she'd probably burn out on the death patrol within a year.
Routine and Sympathy
Chris MacWilliams walks toward an apartment building where an 80-year-old woman has been discovered dead. She was not well, having suffered a recent heart attack and stroke.
Inside the apartment, where relatives and friends have gathered, the dead woman's daughter is sitting in a chair, sobbing. MacWilliams, 35, a lean man with spiky hair, a goatee and deep bags under his eyes, crouches next to her.
"My condolences to you and your family for your loss," he begins, in a soothing tone. "I'm here to help get your loved one to her final arrangements. I know this was a traumatic event."
MacWilliams, who joined the force 12 years ago and has been investigating homicides and deaths since 2000, runs quickly through a set of prepared questions. When was the last time the daughter had spoken to her mother? Was she feeling well? Anything out of the ordinary?
The daughter answers in short sentences. She last spoke to her mother two days ago. "Okay," MacWilliams says, his hand reaching out and lingering on the woman's shoulder. "I'm going to go into the bedroom and document the scene, look around for her medications and take some photographs."
From the woman's bedroom, MacWilliams can hear Jon Stewart, the comedian, joking about President Bush. Comedy Central. It's the last station the woman watched.
The detective enters the bedroom and takes photographs of the woman and the scene. He struggles to roll the body over -- it's in terrible shape -- but can't see any obvious signs of trauma. He removes six of eight rings on her fingers, a difficult task because the fingers are swollen. The effort serves no investigative purpose. He just doesn't want the rings to be sawed off at the morgue in order for the family to have them.
Stuffing his rubber gloves into a pocket, he walks into the other room and crouches next to the daughter. He says the body will have to be taken to the medical examiner's office for an autopsy. The woman begins to shake and cry.
MacWilliams leaves the apartment.
"Tomorrow is not promised to anyone," he says. "I know that firsthand."
