Free Dangerous Attachments (Dr. Sylvia Strange Book 1) by Sarah Lovett

a world of its own where Angel Tapia had been locked away. The nurse, LaRue, had taken a very long dinner break. And C.O. Anderson had monitored hall traffic.
    Sylvia opened her eyes, stood, and turned panning all four walls. Whoever removed Angel's finger had planned his crime in advance, he'd also been flexible—
    She froze and stared at the stainless steel cabinets. She could see her reflection. Or actually, she saw her hair and her eyes. The rest of her face was obscured by a dull film of . . . what? She stepped close enough to run her index finger across the surface. A gritty powder had collected on her skin. She sniffed: Ajax? Some kind of cleanser. But it was on too thick to be left over from a routine scrub. She finished her examination of Angel's quarantine room and left the hospital.
    Sylvia found Main's inmate services meeting room deserted although an empty cigarette pack, the smell of smoke, and the scrawled greeting— WELCOME FRIENDS —on the blackboard were all evidence of an earlier AA, NA, or spiritual meeting.

    She dumped a stack of files on the long wooden table. The prison's psych offices were in use all day as part of an annual mental health screening. For her purposes, she preferred the barnlike atmosphere of the meeting room; she wanted to spread out.
    She sat in a worn vinyl chair and placed a two-inch-thick orange file on her left. Two years ago, a colleague who specialized in the treatment of post-traumatic stress disorder had interviewed members of the pen's general population who were Vietnam veterans. Sylvia had a copy of his abbreviated reports; they included general findings, brief statistics, and a list of interviewees.
    The competent amputation of Angel Tapia's finger clearly indicated the cutter had some medical background. The possibilities included a nurse, an E.M.T., an army medic. She didn't know of any medical doctors doing time . . . or veterinarians, for that matter.
    On her right, Sylvia set down a massive manila envelope. It contained a report authorized by the state's attorney general, February 1981. Subject: Known and suspected predators during the 1980 riot. Some were now dead, others had been transferred, a few had been released. But a half-dozen of the men were alive and well in Main.
    For the next two hours, she read and reread documents. She scratched almost-illegible notes on a memo pad: name of each victim and every known detail of the crime, psych diagnoses of known predators. Several words were circled, others crossed out, and arrows pierced clouds. At a certain point, her thoughts lost their thread of logic and drifted like paper boats on alake. She stayed almost immobile as minutes ticked by until she suddenly reached for her notes and scribbled
Man with a mission
.
    If Rosie's instinct was correct, if the body snatcher's collecting dated back to the riot, he was in for the long haul. He wasn't in a hurry and his attacks were not random. His work was important; details were important. Specific parts? Perhaps a right hand was more important than a left, and a pinkie more important than a thumb. Or perhaps Angel Tapia's pinkie was what mattered? His mutilation was certainly premeditated. Sylvia was convinced the body snatcher's mission made perfect sense—to him if to nobody else.
    She heard a horn honk outside the building, glanced at the clock, and wasn't surprised to find another hour had passed. Lost hours had become routine lately.
    She went back to her notes and stared at the phrases she'd circled.
Sunglasses crushed, mirror smashed, chrome surface dulled, window soaped
. These were details from three different crime scenes where body parts went missing.
    She stood, stretched, and walked to a window. Outside wire and glass, the sky had darkened; the clouds were chunks of charcoal. Sylvia's spine ached, so did her head. She leaned a shoulder against the wall, removed her glasses, and massaged her temples. A rhythmic noise, like a fountain or a gurgling brook,