Free The White House: A Flynn Carroll Thriller by Whitley Strieber Page B

the cause of death, which was the cut that had severed the head. The pathologist spoke quietly and crisply, but Flynn could hear the puzzlement in his voice. The cut was about a micrometer thick. It would have been made by a garróte so thin that it could not be seen, but so sharp that it could cut a brick in half and slide through steel as if it were butter.
    â€œOfficer, do you have any information about the weapon?”
    â€œWe do not.”
    The pathologist straightened up. He was a young man, maybe thirty, wearing jeans and a T-shirt. He said, “I don’t know of a blade thin enough to do this.”
    Flynn said nothing.
    â€œI’m going to list the cause as severing of the head by unknown means. Because what I’m seeing here doesn’t make sense. It’s impossible.” He turned to Flynn. “Who are you, anyway? Can you shed any light on this?”
    â€œLet’s get that MRI, take it from there.”
    With the head in a medical transport chest, they took a coroner’s vehicle to George Washington University Hospital. Flynn rode in the back with the chest. He didn’t need questions.
    Fifteen minutes of light traffic brought them to an ambulance entrance. The two attendants got out and took the chest between them. Flynn followed them into the Radiology Department, then down into the subbasement where the radiation facilities were located.
    There were prints on the walls of the waiting area, an attempt to make the place seem cheerful and alive. They didn’t work. All the landscapes did was remind you that you were here, not there.
    The MRI operator came out of his control room as soon as they arrived, and took them back into the facility, through a door marked with a large yellow DANGER sign and a warning that metal objects must not be taken beyond this point.
    Flynn didn’t need to ask the technician whether or not he’d ever scanned a detached head before, because he hadn’t.
    â€œOK, we need to get this done. I want the thinnest slices; I want to see as much detail as I can.”
    The two coroners lifted the head out of its container, and the MRI operator promptly bent double and vomited. “I’m sorry,” he said, “I am so sorry.”
    Flynn put his hand on his shoulder. “Get it back together, get it done. Time is of the essence.”
    â€œBut what—what the hell? What in HELL happened to this man?”
    He’d doubtless see a picture of Doxy somewhere at some point, and be left to wonder, because the story of the kid’s death wouldn’t exactly square with his head’s being separated from his body. Flynn would need a confidentiality agreement brought over here.
    He sat in the dark operator’s room watching the scan take place. For the first few passes, there was nothing. Then there was.
    â€œJesus,” the technician said.
    The third pass had revealed a small pit deep in the brain. It was just above the claustrum.
    He said to the young medical examiner, “Something’s there.”
    â€œCould be. Can’t be sure.” He was silent for a moment. Flynn looked at the image. He wasn’t sure, either. They would need to dissect.
    In the interest of time, Flynn would have liked to have had it done here, but if he did, the story would be all over the hospital in an hour. He said, “We’re going to move to the ME’s office. Gentlemen, I’d like to thank you for your work. Another officer will be along shortly with confidentiality agreements for you to sign. This is a national security matter, and discussing it even among yourselves is illegal. Remember that.”
    The two staffers stared at him wide-eyed.
    Flynn left, followed by the young ME, who insisted on coming into the back of the truck.
    â€œI need to know how to document this,” the kid asked.
    â€œDeath by murder.”
    â€œThis wound in the brain.” He paused. “It’s not a tumor, and the MRI guy