Conspiracy

69

The doctor who had examined Forester was one of three part-time coroners, all paid a modest retainer by the county to be on call. Full-time, he was a general practitioner, and his days were very full — or at least his office was when Lia went to see him. Even so, he squeezed her in between two appointments without her having to read more than one of the issues of Glamour magazine piled in the waiting room.

“Do you get a lot of gunshot wounds up here?” Lia asked, after the doctor had reviewed the basics of the autopsy report.

“I know what you’re getting at.” He smiled, but there was an edge to his voice. “Small-town guy, looks at a hom i cide maybe once or twice a year, if that. Right? Part-time guy.

How’s he supposed to know what he’s looking at, right?”

“It crossed my mind.”

“Admittedly, we don’t have many hom i cides here. Which is why the coroners are part-time.” He reached down and pulled a file from the bottom drawer of his desk, opened it, and slid a photo forward. It showed what the bullet had done to the back of Forester’s head. Lia had seen a black-and-white copy; it looked more gruesome in color.

“I have seen that sort of thing before,” said the doctor. “A lot, actually. I worked in trauma medicine in New York City for about five years after my internship. I have to tell you, this is a textbook case.”

Lia leafed through the rest of the photos the doctor had.

Most hadn’t been included in the formal report, though nothing in them jumped out at her.

“The Secret Service has copies of the report,” said the doctor. “They had their own doctors look at the body, of course.”

“Isn’t it true, though, that you can’t tell whether it was suicide from the wounds?” Lia asked. “Someone could have held the gun to his mouth.”

“Technically, you’re right. But his mouth was closed around the barrel, the direction of the bullet was exactly as you’d expect if he were holding it himself, there were no signs that he was being held down or that he’d been in a fight.”

“He’d had some drinks.”

“Sure. His blood alcohol content was oh-point-one-one.

Legally intoxicated if he were driving, but not stumbling-down drunk. He wouldn’t have been unconscious. The pathology report on the organs was handled by the state police initially. They all came back negative. There weren’t any signs of drug abuse, no pills at the scene. Really does look like a suicide. I’ve seen a couple like this. Very ugly.” Lia put the report and photos back in the folder. Staging a death to make it look like suicide wasn’t impossible, and despite what the doctor said, she still had her doubts that he was expert enough to pick it up. But the police had said the same thing.

So was she resisting? Because she knew a little about Forester?

“Depression is a funny thing,” said the doctor, finally finished sending the files. “We look for logic, but sometimes it’s not there.” He rose. “I know people have a hard time with suicides. Accepting it. But I think it’s pretty clear that’s what happened in this case.”