Predator

7

The autopsy room is small with a tile floor and the usual surgical cart, digital scale, evidence cabinet, autopsy saws and various blades, dissecting boards and a transportable autopsy table latched to the front of a wall-mounted dissecting sink. The walk-in refrigerator is built into a wall, the door partially open.

Thrush handsBentona pair of blue nitrile gloves, asks him, “You want booties or a mask or anything?”

“No thanks,”Bentonsays as Dr. Lonsdale emerges from the refrigerator, pushing a stainless-steel cadaver carrier bearing the pouched body.

“We need to make this quick,” he says as he parks near the sink and locks two of the swivel casters. “I’m already in deep shit with my wife. It’s her birthday.”

He unzips the pouch and spreads it open. The victim has raggedly cut short, black hair that is damp and still gory with bits of brain and other tissue. There is almost nothing left of her face. It looks as if a small bomb blew up inside her head, which is rather much what happened.

“Shot in the mouth,” Dr. Lonsdale says, and he is young with an intensity that borders on impatience. “Massive skull fractures, brain pulpifaction, which of course we usually associate with suicides, but nothing else about this case is consistent with suicide. It appears to me that her head was tilted pretty far back when the trigger was pulled, explaining why her face is basically shot off, some of her teeth blown out. Again, not uncommon in suicides.”

He switches on a magnifying lamp and positions it close to the head.

“No need to pry open her mouth,” he comments. “Since she has no face left. Thank God for small favors.”

Bentonleans close and smells the sweet, putrid stench of decomposing blood.

“Soot on the palate, the tongue,” Dr. Lonsdale continues. “Superficial lacerations of the tongue, the perioral skin and nasolabial fold due to the bulging-out effect when gases from the shotgun blast expand. Not a pretty way to die.”

He unzips the pouch the rest of the way.

“Saved the best for last,” Thrush says. “What do you make of it? Reminds me of Crazy Horse.”

“You mean the Indian?” Dr. Lonsdale gives him a quizzical look as he unscrews the lid from a small glass jar filled with a clear liquid.

“Yeah. I think he put red handprints on his horse’s ass.”

There are red handprints on the woman, on her breasts, abdomen and upper inner thighs, andBentonpositions the magnifying lamp closer.

Dr. Lonsdale swabs the edge of a handprint and says, “Isopropyl alcohol, a solvent like that will get it off. Obviously, it’s not water-soluble and brings to mind the sort of stuff people use for temporary tattooing. Some type of paint or dye. Could also have been done in permanent Magic Marker, I suppose.”

“I’m assuming you haven’t seen this in any other cases around here,”Bentonsays.

“Not at all.”

The magnified handprints are well defined with clean margins, as if made with a stencil, andBentonlooks for feathering strokes of a brush, for anything that might indicate how the paint, ink or dye was applied. He can’t tell, but based on the density of color, he suspects the body art is recent.

“I suppose she could have gotten this at some point earlier. In other words, it’s unrelated to her death,” Dr. Lonsdale adds.

“That’s what I’m thinking,” Thrush agrees. “There’s a lot of witchcraft around here withSalemand all.”

“What I’m wondering is how quickly something like this begins to fade,”Bentonsays. “Have you measured them to see if they’re the same size as her hand?” He indicates the body.

“They look bigger to me,” Thrush says, holding out his own hand.

“What about her back?”Bentonasks.

“One on each buttock, one between her shoulder blades,” Dr. Lonsdale replies. “Look like a man’s size, the hands do.”

“Yeah,” Thrush says.

Dr. Lonsdale pulls the body partially on its side, andBentonstudies the handprints on the back.

“Looks like she has some sort of abrasion here,” he says, noting a scraped area on the handprint between the shoulder blades. “Some inflammation.”

“I’m not clear on all the details,” Dr. Lonsdale replies. “It’s not my case.”

“Looks as if it was painted after she got the scrape,”Bentonsays. “Am I seeing welts, too?”

“Maybe some localized swelling. Histology should answer that. It’s not my case,” he reminds them. “I didn’t participate in her autopsy,” he is sure to remind them. “I glanced at her. That was it before I just now rolled her out. I did look over the autopsy report.”

Should the chief’s work be negligent or incompetent, he’s not about to take the blame.

“Any idea how long she’s been dead?”Bentonasks.

“Well, the cold temperatures would have slowed rigor.”

“Frozen when she was found?”

“Not yet. Apparently, her body temperature when she got here was thirty-eight degrees. Fahrenheit. I didn’t go to the scene. I can’t give you those details.”

“The temperature atten o’clockthis morning was twenty-one degrees,” Thrush tellsBenton. “The weather conditions are on the disk I gave you.”

“So the autopsy report has already been dictated,”Bentonsays.

“It’s on the disk,” Thrush answers.

“Trace evidence?”

“Some soil, fibers, other debris adhering to blood,” Thrush replies. “I’ll get them run in the labs as quick as I can.”

“Tell me about the shotgun shell you recovered,”Bentonsays to him.

“Inside her rectum. You couldn’t see it from the outside, but it showed up on x-ray. Damnest thing. When they first showed me the film, I thought maybe the shell was under her body on the x-ray tray. Had no idea the damn thing was inside her.”

“What kind?”

“Remington Express Magnum, twelve-gauge.”

“Well, if she shot herself, she’s certainly not the one who shoved the shell up her rectum after the fact,”Bentonsays. “You running it through NIBIN?”

“Already in the works,” Thrush says. “The firing pin left a nice drag mark. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”