“You were working that case?” Connel y shook her head, but let it go. “What is it, exactly, you’re looking for?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “What did you find?”
Connel y plucked a summary page from the folder. “Ligature mark on the neck consistent with hanging. The rope was nothing special. Something you could buy in a hardware store. Slipknot. More common in a suicide, but it stil works for murder.” Connel y glanced up and over her glasses. “Then there are the wrists.”
“What about them?” I said.
“My examination revealed marks on both of the decedent’s wrists. Can’t be a hundred percent, but they could have been made by a set of handcuffs.” Connel y laid the summary page back down on her desk.
“You have pictures of the autopsy?” I said.
The ME pul ed out a stack of photos. Hubert’s skin looked slightly blue under the lights. White loops of stitching held together the Y incision across his shoulders and down his chest. I passed the photos over to Lawson.
“Here’s a shot of the ligature mark.” Connel y moved another stack of photos across. “And these are the shots of his wrists.”
The ligature mark was a single oblique line three-quarters of the way around Hubert’s neck, purple to the point of black. Lawson picked up a photo of Hubert’s right wrist.
“Can I take a look?” I said. Lawson snapped her eyes onto mine and pushed the picture across.
“Possible cuff marks are here and here,” Connel y said, pointing with her pen.
“Anything else?” I said.
Connel y shrugged. “Blood work was clean. No sign of any drugs introduced into the body.”
I took a closer look at the ligature mark, then both wrists. Lawson stirred beside me.
“Michael, I’ve got a couple of meetings this morning.”
I looked over. “You gotta run?”
She nodded. I glanced at Connel y.
“Be al right if I stick around and go through this stuff some more?”
The ME shrugged. “Okay by me. No one else seems too interested.”
I turned back to Lawson. Her eyes floated across my face. Connel y got up from behind her desk.
“I’ve got a couple of things I need to take care of. Michael, you can look through the materials in here. Agent Lawson, a pleasure to meet you.” The two women shook hands, and Marge Connel y left, closing the door behind her.
“You think this is the best thing, Michael?”
“What can it hurt?” I said, pul ing Hubert Russel ’s autopsy folder toward me.
Katherine Lawson slipped her hand across the back of mine. “Let go of the file and look at me.”
I did, head pounding, heart suddenly rol ing in my chest.
“Hubert’s not your fault.”
I began to speak. She shook her head.
“You had every reason to think he’d be safe in his apartment. I could have, should have, fol owed up and made sure my agents got there quicker than they did. Truth is, there are probably a lot of people who let Hubert down. But you know what, Michael? You’re not one of them.”
“You think I’m wasting my time here?” I said.
“I think you’re chasing a ghost.”
I laughed. “That’s what Jim Doherty told me when I approached him about his old files.”
“This isn’t going to end like that, Michael. Doherty kil ed Hubert. You know it. So do I. It’s time to let it go. Time to heal.”
Then Katherine Lawson leaned in and kissed me. Softly. Her fingertips brushed across my cheek, leaving behind a tenderness I couldn’t afford.
“I gotta do this,” I said.
She hesitated, as if she wanted to say more, but nodded instead. “Let me know if I can help.” Then she stood up and left. I spread Hubert’s file out on the desk and began to sort through it al over again. An hour later, I was elbow deep in autopsy photos when I saw something. Or something that might be something. I found Marge Connel y in the middle of cutting off the top of someone’s skul. I waited for her to finish.
“What?”
“When you get a chance,” I said.
“Is it important?”
“Could be.”
Connel y stepped away from the table, snapped off her gloves, and fol owed me back to her office.
“What is it, Michael? By the way, the agent and you?” Marge raised a discreet eyebrow.
“No,” I said and picked up one of the autopsy photos. “This photo here. Hubert’s left wrist.”
Connel y slipped her glasses back on and squinted. “That’s a shot of the back of the wrist.”
I pul ed out a second photo. “This is the right wrist. Basical y, the same shot.”
“What about it?”
“Here.” I pointed to the left wrist. “About an inch below the indentation you said might be a cuff mark. There’s a second discoloration. Looks like it might be some sort of bruise.”
Marge leaned in and took a closer look. Then she slipped over to her computer and booted it up.
“We have these photos on file. Let me see if I can blow that area up.”
Marge found the shot and began to work on it. I watched as she zoomed in and sharpened the image. After a couple of minutes she sat back.
“That’s the best I can do.”
“What do you think?”
She touched the screen with a pencil. “This area right here is what you’re talking about, right?”
“Yeah.” It was definitely a bruise, more circular than I’d first thought. “Doesn’t seem like it could have been made by the cuff.”
“I agree,” Marge said. “It’s almost round in shape. Damn, I’m sorry I missed this.”
“You didn’t miss it. We got it right here. What do you think?”
“Judging by the discoloration, I’d say it was certainly made at or around the time of death. Beyond that, I don’t know.”
“Guess?”
Marge looked at the photo and tapped the pencil to her teeth. “Let me try a few more things before I give you an answer.”
“Like what?”
“We have a tool we use on bite marks. Brings out the detail in any indentations on the victim’s skin. Not always accepted in court, but pretty damn effective.” Connel y leaned forward and took another look at the photo. “Let me run this through the program. See what we get.”
“How long?”
Marge shrugged. “Hel, we can do it this afternoon. I’l give you a cal.”
“Great. And, Marge, if we find something, what happens to your report?”
The ME smiled. “My report’s done, Michael. Case closed. Just like the city wants it.”
CHAPTER 53
Faces and facts mixed and mingled in a kaleidoscope of color and sound. Jim Doherty, features sunken and feral, nursing his hatred in a tomb of darkness under the city. A shooter named Robles, eyes gray and flat, rifle flashing death along the lakefront. An al ey off Milwaukee Avenue and a young man with a rope around his neck. Rachel, staring into the corners of her mind, watching the past cut her present into little pieces. Katherine Lawson and the trace of her hand on my face. Mayor John J. Wilson. A company cal ed Transco and an autopsy file. A red
