Blood Orchid

19

Holly gave the medical examiner a couple of hours’ head start, then went to his office. She had seen more than one autopsy, and more than one was enough. When she walked into his lab, the ME was just finishing.

“Hey,” he said.

“What’s the story?” she asked, nodding at the corpse on the table under the sheet.

The ME consulted his notes on a clipboard. “Well-developed male, closer to thirty than forty, Hispanic, very probably Cuban. Death was from a single gunshot to the back of the head, probably while kneeling, hard-nosed bullet, forty-caliber, went through intact, took out the front teeth.”

“Anything I don’t already know?”

“Did you know he was Cuban?”

“The man who owned the dock where he was found thought so. Why do you?”

“Amalgam fillings,” the ME replied. “They still do them in Cuba, but not here so much. He had a mouth full of socialist-era dentistry.”

“Would that indicate that he was somebody special, having access to dental care?”

“Nah. The Cubans pride themselves on their medical system.”

“Did you find any other marks on the body?” She didn’t want to lead him.

“Bruised knuckles on the right hand; he might have taken a swing at whoever shot him.”

“Anything else?”

The ME peered at her. “Sounds like you have something in mind.”

“I do, but I’d rather you told me.”

“Come on, Chief, tell me.”

She walked over to the table and hoisted the cloth covering the body above the knees. “Take a look at that,” she said, pointing at the left knee.

The doctor looked at it. “Oh,” he said. “All right.” He began writing on his clipboard. “Severe bruising of the left knee.” He made a note of it.

“How old?” Holly asked.

“Hard to say: a few days, I guess.”

Holly parted the hair on her left temple. “Take a look at this.”

The ME looked at her head. “You’ve got severe bruising, too; are you and the deceased related?”

“It’s the age of the bruise I’m talking about,” she said.

“You think you and the deceased heal at the same rate, and in different parts of the body?”

“Come on, Doctor, could the two bruises have occurred at the same time?”

“You mean, you think the deceased might have bruised his knee while applying it to your temple?”

“No, that’s not what I mean. Answer my question, please.”

“Well, yes, his bruise and yours could have occurred on the same day. I wouldn’t want to put my professional weight behind that in court, if it came to that.”

“Thank you,” she said. Like pulling teeth. “How long has he been dead?”

“Since the wee hours of this morning,” the ME replied. “That’s my best guess; his being in the water most of the night screwed up body temperature as a way of determining time of death more precisely. He would have cooled off faster.”

“What else can you tell me about him?”

“He’s very well built, probably works out on a regular basis. His clothes were expensive-Italian labels-and he had a good manicure. If you blow-dried his hair, he’d probably have a good haircut, too, but river water doesn’t improve the look.”

“Any jewelry?”

“He’s got a whiter band on his left wrist, indicating that he or somebody else removed a wristwatch. And there’s this.” The doctor walked to a counter, picked up a plastic container, and emptied it into Holly’s hand. The contents consisted of a small gold locket on a light, matching chain, and a diamond stud earring of about half a carat.

“Looks like something a girl would wear,” she said, examining the stud.

“A lot of men wear earrings these days,” the doctor replied. “I can’t imagine why.”

Holly picked up the locket and opened it. A little Indian River water drained out. Inside was a photograph of a pretty Latino girl, perhaps in her early twenties. Holly dug out the photograph with a fingernail and looked on the back. Nothing. “Looks like a Polaroid, trimmed to fit the locket.”

“Well, somebody loved him, then,” the doctor sighed.

“Where are his clothes?” she asked.

The doctor pointed to another counter.

Holly walked over to the pile and went through them. Everything was black, the shirt silk and the trousers cotton. He had worn briefs, bikini cut, also black. The socks were cotton, the shoes Italian, Bruno Magli. They were moccasin-like, soft with rubber studs on the soles. “Driving shoes,” Holly said aloud. Also good cat-burglar shoes; they wouldn’t make much noise against a floor. “No wallet?”

“Nope, though there was some money and some car keys. In the container there.” He pointed to the counter.

Holly found a thick wad of bills, a set of keys to a Chrysler product, and some change. “Twelve hundred and eight dollars,” she said, counting the damp currency.

“Maybe it was payday,” the ME said.

“Maybe it was, at that,” Holly agreed. “Or maybe recently. Did you pull his prints and get a dental impression?”

The doctor handed over a fingerprint card. “Here are the prints. I didn’t take a dental impression because we’re never going to find his dentist, this side of Havana, anyway, and the Cubans are not going to give us his dental records.”

“Do you have any other ideas about the body?”

“It was a mob execution, but these days, who knows which mob? Cuban? Colombian? Italian? Mexican? Oh, he could be Mexican; they still do amalgam fillings, too, but this feels Cuban to me.”

“Better take the dental impression then, in case he turns out to be Mexican.”

“If you say so,” the doctor said wearily.

“Tell you what, forget the dental impression, but if we have to exhume him later to get it, you do the digging. Deal?”

“I’ll take the impression.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” Holly said. “I’ll get back and run the prints.”

“Let me know what you come up with,” the ME said. “I always like to match what you find against what I guess.”

“What kind of a record do you have, guessing?” she asked.

“Pretty damned good,” he said, grinning.

Later, at her desk, Holly shook the locket out of the evidence bag and looked at the photograph inside again. “Well, sweetheart, you won’t be seeing him again, and you’ll always wonder why.” Then she looked at the car keys among the effects. She pressed a button on the phone. “Hurd?”

“Yes, Chief?”

“Got a minute?”

“Sure, be right there.” He stood in her doorway a moment later.

She tossed him the car keys. “Track down somebody at Daimler-Chrysler and see if the number on the ignition key will tell us what kind of car it was and give us the VIN number.”

“Sure thing,” Hurd said.

“And don’t forget to log your possession of the keys on the chain-of-evidence form.”

“Right. Something I’d like to talk to you about later, if you have the time.”

“Talk about it now, if you like.”

“This is more important,” Hurd said. “Want me to run any prints?”

She handed him the card. “Almost forgot.”

Hurd went back to his own office, and Holly wondered what she’d do without him.