Probable cause of death, hypoxia due to throttling.'
Charlie Riggs turned to the assistant ME. 'Manual strangulation. Any evidence of sexual battery?'
'Nothing…visible,' he stammered. 'No contusions or lacerations other than the head and neck injuries. I swabbed the genitalia. No visible semen. However, vaginal secretions are consistent with…uh…sexual activity in close proximity to death.'
'You'll check the smear for spermatozoa, of course.'
'Yes, sir. I thought I'd use methylene blue.'
Charlie Riggs shook his head. 'You'll never distinguish sperm cells from artifacts with that stain. Try hematoxylin and eosin for better differentiation.'
'Yes, sir.'
'What else, what other tests?'
'Well…I don't know.'
'What if the fellow's had a vasectomy, or he's an alcoholic with cirrhosis? Won't find any wagging tails there, eh?'
'In that event,' the young doctor recited, as if taking his oral exams, 'acid phosphatase determination will reveal the presence of seminal fluid. If the man's a secreter, we can identify A, B, or H blood types.'
'Verus,' Charlie said, beaming, a professor whose student had finally caught on. 'Be alert to every detail. Don't believe that old saw Mortui non mordent-'
'I never did,' I chimed in.
''Dead men carry no tales.' Hah! They can tell us stories horribile dictu, horrible to relate, but essential to our understanding of their deaths.'
The young doctor was nodding his head vigorously.
'Now, what about odor?' Charlie Riggs asked.
'Beg your pardon?'
'Vaginal odor? It's okay to take your sweet time with the lab tests, but you've got one chance to work up the crime scene. Just don't forget to use the old schnoz.'
'Tell him about the time you opened a stomach and ID'd the restaurant by smelling the beer in the barbecue sauce,' I prompted Charlie.
'Only one ribs joint in town had sauce like that,' Charlie said. 'Wasn't hard to figure where he had his last supper, then a waiter identified his dining companion, a hired killer.'
The assistant ME bit his lip, shot an embarrassed look toward Pam Maxson, and sank to his knees. His head disappeared between two pale, slightly chubby thighs.
'Three-to-one the kid says he smells barbecue sauce,' Detective Rodriguez whispered to me. He had been in the department twenty years and had little time for rookies in any field.
A voice without a face came from the general vicinity of the corpse's pudendum. 'What smells should I be… uh…looking for?'
'Anything, son!' Charlie boomed. 'The latex of a condom or a surgical glove, maybe soap, talcum, or a douche scented with lily of the valley, even a man's distinctive cologne. Some men splash it on their privates, you know. Maybe we find a guy who's crazy for Aqua Velva.'
'Or Listerine,' Rodriguez suggested, 'depending on his proclivities.'
There was the sound of a bloodhound sniffing, then the assistant ME picked himself up, looked sheepishly toward Charlie, and said, 'Sorry, sir, but…it's just plain pussy to me.'
'Oh, never mind. You'll want to do a complete autopsy, of course. Take a good look at the neck. I'd advise elevating the shoulders, eviscerate the body, and remove the brain. If you want a dry field, don't dissect the neck until the blood has stopped draining. Don't let the homicide detectives rush you. Take your time.'
The kiddie coroner nodded, then piped up, 'I'd say the assailant was right-handed, Dr. Riggs.'
From behind me I heard a snicker. ' Fantastico,' Detective Rodriguez said. 'I'll put out a BOLO for all right- handed guys.'
Doc Riggs was more diplomatic. 'And how do you reach that conclusion, Doctor…?'
Charlie squinted at the name tag.
'Whitson,' the alleged doctor proclaimed. 'Well, there's a single abrasion on the right side of the neck and four on the left. So the assailant's right thumb would have made the single abrasion, the fingers of his right hand the rest.'
'Assuming she was strangled from the front,' Charlie added politely.
'I thought of that, sir. You can tell from the concavity of the crescents that the strangulation occurred from the front.'
Charlie made a little tsk-tsking sound. He didn't want to lecture the lad in front of spectators, but he had no choice. He examined the neck. 'All I can tell is that the nail on the ring finger is jagged. In a couple of days, it will grow back, so the information is of very little use. As for the crescent, the direction of the concavity can be misleading. The crescent will be reversed, as often as not. Here, I'll show you. Jake, roll up your sleeve.'
'Why me?' I protested. 'I haven't forgotten your electrocution experiment.'
'It was only two hundredths of an amp, Jake, and I turned it off as soon as you went into muscular paralysis. Now be a good scout.'
Everyone was watching, so the good scout rolled up his sleeve. Charlie looked around and spotted Pamela Maxson, who was intently studying titles of the shelved books in the small apartment.
'Pamela, perhaps you can inflict some pain on Jake for a moment,' Charlie wondered cheerfully.
'Gladly,' she chimed in. She placed a cool hand on my forearm and dug five fingernails deep into my skin.
'I'll always remember the first time we touched,' I told her, showing my All-Conference smile.
She dug deeper, letting up just before severing the radial artery. I held up my arm, and sure enough, the crescents went the opposite direction of each nail's shape. Charlie was explaining something about the free edge of the arch of the nail having no purchase and therefore creating the reverse crescent and how fallacious it was to infer much from fingernail marks. I just looked at the little dents in my arm and said to Pamela Maxson, 'I'll bet you leave a mark on every man you meet.'
'With some,' she replied, 'it takes a sledgehammer.'
Having exhausted my store of witty repartee, I stood silently, surveying the scene. The apartment was sparsely furnished in Yuppie Modern-white tile and green plants, a large-screen TV, and CD player, a few bookshelves. There was a galley kitchen with a few pots and pans and a cupboard containing bran cereal, microwave popcorn, bottled spaghetti sauce, and spinach pasta from a gourmet market. The oven was practically sterile, indicating either an immaculate cook or no cook at all. The refrigerator had four different flavors of yogurt, none of which had expired, bottled water, an eye mask filled with what looked like antifreeze, and not much else. The bedroom and bathroom were down a hall, but I hadn't seen them yet.
Young Dr. Whitson picked up his camera and click-clicked through several rolls of film, shooting the body, the furniture, and even one or two of me. Charlie puttered around the body for a while, giving more tips to the young pathologist. Pamela Maxson walked through the little apartment, her green eyes bright, taking everything in, letting nothing out.
Nick Fox motioned me onto the small balcony where we were alone. I looked him in the eye. I was half a foot taller, but he had impressive width. A stocky fireplug of explosive energy. 'Marsha Diamond,' he said. 'Ever see her on Live at Five?'
I shook my head. Usually, I'm still working then. If not, I'm playing volleyball on the beach or fishing with Charlie. Afternoon television is for those in traction. Physical or mental.
'I want you to be a special prosecutor and lead the investigation,' Nick said. 'Present a case to the grand jury when you've got a suspect.'
'Why can't your office handle it?'
He didn't hesitate, just shrugged those big shoulders. 'Conflict of interest. I was seeing her. Not heavy-duty. But I'd slip over here in the mornings or she'd come by my place at night. It's sure to come out in the investigation.
Before I could ask, he said, 'I've been separated for six months. Irretrievably broken and all that.'
'So the first statement I take is from you,' I said.
He showed the hint of a smile. 'Should I have my alibi ready?'
