Upside Down

41

Detective Manseur stood beside a raised stainless-steel table in the autopsy suite in the city's morgue. A combination of intense fire and immersion in warm water teaming with carnivorous scavengers was responsible for the condition of the “Rover” body. The corpse's skin was like that of a brisket that had been left sitting on a very hot grill for several hours too long. The face was a hideous mask, and the hardened lips were curled back like the man was snarling at Death. The cadaver's torso stood open and the colorless but moist internal organs, after being weighed and sliced for sampling, were in a garbage bag, which had been reinserted into the cavity to await a suturing. The top of the skull had been set beside the head like a partly shattered bowl; the damaged brain rested in a stainless steel pan on the nearby counter.

Dr. Lawrence Ward, the Orleans Parish Medical Examiner, struck a match to light a cigar the size of a baby's wrist. His massive hands had white hair on the backs of them that showed through the tight latex gloves and matched the mane of hair sprouting on his watermelon-shaped head. Ward's watery eyes focused on his notes, made readable by the glasses perched on the tip of his bulbous nose.

“Your John Doe is approximately seventy inches in height, one hundred and sixty pounds. He's Caucasian. I'll have to do some further tests, but the only dental work, a bridge, is probably European. Age between thirty-five and forty-five. Died within past twenty-four hours. Lack of burning on his backside means he was sitting up during the fire. Safety belt melted to him. He was stripped down to his skin, probably to make our jobs harder. He's got some old injuries that could indicate a life of violence, race car driving, or an athletic background.”

Manseur scribbled the information into his notebook.

“The fire was postmortem. No water in the lungs or fire damage to the throat,” the doctor said through the dense cigar smoke that obscured his features. He turned to the X-rays on the light box. “Homicide.”

“I sort of guessed that. Exact cause?”

“Somebody struck him over the left ear with a blunt object using enough force to fracture his temporal bone and put splinters into his brain. Wound is almost circular. Maybe he caught the end of an aluminum baseball bat. I'm pretty sure he was hit first, because of the bleeding inside the skull and swelling in the brain. Then somebody snapped his neck by twisting his head. That twist stopped his heart, which in turn stopped the inner cranial bleeding.”

“Whoever did that was extremely strong?”

“Wouldn't have to be any Charles Atlas if Mr. Doe was unconscious from the blow, which he most likely was. I'd say the killer knew how to induce the injury. They teach that advanced stuff to Special Forces soldiers-SEALs, Rangers, and the like. I'll do a full body X-ray series and see what else I can pick up.”

“Between the fire and foreign dental work, an identification is going to be a bitch,” Manseur said. Why foreigners?

“You're in luck,” the coroner told him. “The fire didn't completely destroy two of his fingertips, because those fingers weren't totally exposed to the heat.” He made a loose fist that put two fingers against the palm of that hand. “I might have lifted enough detail to get you enough for a partial match. Maybe. Who knows?”

The doctor turned to pick up an index card from the table behind him. When he handed it to Manseur, the detective saw that there were two inked spots with lines, grooves, and clearly visible swirls.

Manseur put the fingerprint card in his pocket, then looked at the gurneys lined up against the far wall. “Dying to get in,” he said.

“We've never needed to advertise.”

“You autopsied the Porter and Lee women?”

“Sure did.”

“Could I see those reports?”

“I gave them to Tinnerino and Doyle. You're not working that case, are you?”

“Just curious. Mind if I peek at the originals?”

“If you want.”

“I want.”

After Manseur had read over the reports and the medical examiner had answered his questions, Manseur left. As he stood in the elevator, he sniffed his coat, wondering if he smelled like he'd been hanging out in the kitchen of a barbecue joint.