He had worked at the central morgue in Puebla for more than fifteen years, and very little could still shake him.
Very little.
But the body lying on the frozen steel that night was not just another corpse.
It was a nun.
The young woman was still wearing her black habit, perfectly arranged over her slender frame.
Her face looked strangely peaceful, almost radiant, as if she weren’t dead at all, but merely sleeping after hours of prayer.
She had been brought from the Convent of Santa Clara on the outskirts of the city with a direct order for an autopsy.
Her death had come far too suddenly.
None of the doctors at the convent had been able to explain why.
“What is it?” Fonseca asked, approaching.
Camilo swallowed hard.
“There’s a tear in the fabric… on her back. At first, I thought it was a tattoo.”
Fonseca frowned.
“It happens. Not all nuns enter the convent young.”
But even he didn’t believe his own words.
