Ah. The stick.
'Wouldn't something more accurate be better?' asked Hester.
Of course it would. But what could we do?
My thoughts were interrupted by the waitress. 'Phone for you, Carl.'
I excused myself, and took the call at the phone in the kitchen. It was Sally. The bodies were thawed and Dr. Peters was ready to do the autopsies. Would an officer be available at the Manchester Hospital in the next hour or so? Art was still busy, so it was going to have to be somebody from our department. Right. If I knew Art, he was ducking the autopsy, the same way he did when he was a deputy sheriff. He'd hated autopsies as long as I'd known him…
I walked back to the table. 'Shamrock, I don't have my camera with me. Could we hire you to do some shots for us. In Manchester?'
Nancy knew an opening when she saw one. 'Sure, she will,' she said. 'I'll come, too.'
Hester shot me a glance, and mouthed 'autopsy.' I nodded. She grinned. We do think alike.
The deal was, the department got professional, first-class autopsy shots, for a reasonable price. Shamrock got to take two cameras in, taking whatever shots for herself that she thought she'd need. I'd provide death-related information, and they'd get to hear the comments of Dr. Peters. Just the latter, in itself, was one hell of a lot. I let on as if I was really sticking my neck out, but the truth was we had used professional photographers many times before. Although it was true that the
In exchange, Nancy and Shamrock would latch on to the folks who thought the victims had been cops, and find out what the hell was going on with them. Especially the older male subject at the Borglan place. For us. They'd tell us just the information that was in regard to the cop bit. No obligation to say anything else. Deal? You bet.
'So, how soon do we get to release this stuff?' Nancy got out her notebook, a pen, and poised.
'Not sure,' I said, 'but I can guarantee you get it before anybody else.'
'Gotta have at least twenty-four hours on everybody, or no deal. 'Before anybody else' won't cut it.'
'Okay. But there has to be at least one critical detail held back,' I said. 'Number of shots, for example. Or caliber.'
I turned to Shamrock. 'You ever do an autopsy before? I don't want to have to get you a wastebasket…'
'All the time. Bread and butter since fourth grade.'
'No distractions for the doc,' I said. 'I'm serious. If you start to quease out on us, just excuse yourself, and leave me the camera.'
'Sure, boss,' said Shamrock. 'No problem.'
As we left Hester, she gave me some of the best advice I'd ever had on a case.
'Houseman,' she said, 'the Art business is distracting you from the case. You try too hard to get along with him, you'll end up with a mess.'
'Okay.'
'I mean it. And keep in touch.'
We headed off to Manchester, me going one way, Nancy and Shamrock another, to throw off any of their competition who might be looking at us. Since most of them didn't know me from a hole in the ground, I don't think they ever did catch on.
Dr. Peters had no problem with Shamrock the photographer, as long as he was not identifiable in the photos. Shamrock said there'd be no problem.
She looked at the two bodies, covered by white plastic sheets. 'I, uh, hope I do okay on this…'
'You'll do just fine,' said Dr. Peters. 'Just focus on the areas I tell you. We'll keep them to a minimum, just those that will grossly affect the investigation. Most likely,' he said, pulling back the sheet on the first body, 'just the heads…'
The bodies were both supine, naked, with the heads resting on shaped wood blocks. I'd seen the same kind of headrests in a TV program on Egyptian mummies, used in their embalming process. Commonality of form and function. They still looked damned uncomfortable. Both mouths were open, eyes open, a little mucus in the nostrils of the first one. Part of the thawing process.
External examination of the two victims revealed nothing out of the ordinary, with the exception of the three gunshot wounds. Each had a couple of routine tattoos, poorly drawn and poorly executed, on their upper arms. Their initials, apparently, with M.F.D. underneath.
'What's 'M.F.D.' stand for?' asked Nancy, in a hoarse-sounding voice.
'Mean Fucking Dude,' said Shamrock. Her voice sounded a little weak.
'Oh.'
'Got an eraser? I had it down as Mighty Fuckin' Dumb.' I chuckled.
Actually, it went rather well, as autopsies go. I tended to get in quite close, and had to back away for Shamrock several times. She was having no problems at all, which was kind of too bad, as I had all sorts of 'Shamrock' and 'green' lines ready. Well, she was a bit pale, maybe. Mostly the smell, I think.
There were very clear 'tattoos' on each of the three entrance wounds. Perfect circles made by the impact of unconsumed particles of gunpowder moving out of a gun barrel at several hundred feet per second. Because the particles are so small, they disperse and slow very quickly. Perfect circles such as these meant the end of the gun barrel was in contact with the skin when the shot was fired…
'Contact wounds,' said Dr. Peters. 'No doubt about it.'
You just can't get closer than that.
He washed the head of Victim Number One, filling the drain gutters in the table with pale pink water, which ran down toward the body's feet, and into a clear tube which was plugged into a large container. With the dried blood out of the way, the tattooing was even more pronounced. 'Victim Number One, Royce Colson,' he intoned into his recorder.
'We won't probe,' said Dr. Peters. 'We'll do sections. The X rays have the gross angles for us…'
With that, he incised the skin in a half circle around the top of the skull, and proceeded to fold the scalp down over the victim's face. He picked up a small rotary saw, and began cutting around the circumference of the head, being very careful not to disturb the wounds. As he was beginning to cut, I peered in closer, and saw the entry wound. Small dark hole, with reddish and bluish discoloration around it. Big bruise, or, at least, it would have been. Fascinating to see one under the skin. The cracking of the skull was just barely visible. Not like a fissure or anything, just a hairline crack.
The smell of the hot bone under the saw, coupled with a fine mist rising from the work, lent sort of a surreal air to things. The whine of the saw was occasionally interrupted by a deeper tone as it encountered more pressure when Dr. Peters had to change position.
Nancy left the room. Wise move. I've never understood the derision some people heap on those who have sensibilities. I, for example, can look at blood and entrails all day without a twinge. Yet, if somebody vomits, I likely will, too. Which is the main reason I appreciated somebody having the courtesy to leave before they tossed up their lunch. But I also respected their judgment.
Dr. Peters removed the brain, and placed it on a small cutting board that rested on the victim's chest. 'Let's see where this one ended up,' he said, shining a light into the cranial cavity. 'There! See, the dark spot right there…'
He was pointing to what looked at first like a small lump of clumpy bluish blood. If you looked really close, though, you could see it was a misshapen slug, in a glossy dollop of what appeared to be mucus. Cerebrospinal fluid, plus membrane.
'See,' said Dr. Peters. 'It was coming just about straight down the pipe, so to speak. Just missed the foramen magnum. Good thing, lot harder to find if it went down that road.'
We stood back, while Dr. Peters used a probe to indicate the location of the slug for Shamrock, who took three photos with each camera. Dr. Peters then picked the bullet up, and used a very sharp probe to scratch an initial in the base of the round. He placed it in a bag, and initialed it, along with the date, time, place, and his name. Dr. Peters moved over the victim's chest, to the brain which rested on the cutting board. With all the commentary he was muttering into his tape recorder, and with all the sight-seeing he was helping us with, I couldn't help noticing
