made him him was now far away and would never be seen again. The body hadn’t been opened up, but the damage to his face had dried into a blackish purple mask. They hadn’t bothered topping him with a sheet.
“No relatives scheduled to see the body here, that’s why he’s uncovered. I can-” Behr cut her off with a head shake.
“Full autopsy planned?”
“Not unless someone requests it. Cause of death’s pretty clear. Pellets have been removed for evidence.” She picked up a tin dish and rattled it, lead shot rolling around inside. Behr took a look.
“Double-aught buck,” she said.
“Twelve-gauge?” Behr asked, pro forma.
“Nope, ten.”
“Damn, a goose gun.” This was a bit of a surprise. A 10-gauge was a lot less usual than a 12. “Handload or store bought?” Behr asked.
“Can’t really tell unless casings were recovered. Probably store bought. If you’re thinking about fingerprints on the buckshot, forget about it. Not after this kind of cavitation.”
Behr’s eyes skimmed over the body. There were old scars covering Aurelio. His knees looked like they’d been gone over with a belt sander, and other patches of skin sported abrasions-mat burns-that would’ve taken years to heal down completely. His right ear was mostly gone from the gunshot, the left one was a bit cauliflowered. Aurelio didn’t generally advocate the headfirst wrestling style that had caused it, but he hadn’t developed the finer points in his game until he’d already sustained some damage. Behr looked for major swelling or contusions, perhaps a broken bone that would tell a story. He wasn’t finding what he was looking for. It was growing increasingly difficult for him to keep his mind clear, so he couldn’t be sure he wasn’t missing it. The initial notes from the exam rested on a table beside the slab and Behr picked them up, but the words swam in front of his eyes.
“Closed casket for certain,” Jean mused. “Screw the damn thing shut. Or get him a George W. Bush mask.”
“Bodies don’t bruise postmortem, right?” Behr wondered aloud.
“Right, generally speaking.”
“So if there were any injuries like that, they’d have to have been sustained while he was alive.”
“That’s the way it works.” She cocked her head and looked at him. “First day at the carnival?”
“Sorry, I’m just trying to think straight.”
“What are you doing on this anyway, Frank? You didn’t say and I didn’t think to ask.”
“He’s my friend, Jean. Was.”
“Ah, fuck me Uncle Sal!” she said. “Jeez, that’s a real V8 move.” She smacked herself in the head. “I thought it was business.”
“Forget it. It is business now.” Behr looked around at the white tile and steel surfaces of the room, scrubbed clean and disinfected of germs and meaning. “What about… what about the back of the body? Did he get hit from behind? Was there any evidence of bludgeoning?”
Jean grabbed the exam notes from Behr and threw on a pair of cheaters. She snapped on a latex glove and began going over the body carefully as she referred to the notes.
“Okay,” she said, her tone suddenly businesslike, “posterior side was checked. It’s clean. No contusions or skull fracture caused by bludgeoning.”
“What about bruising on the scalp. The ones caused by rod-shaped-”
“Tramline bruises. You think he got hit with the gun barrel?”
Behr shrugged.
“That’s a special dissection if there’s any indication,” she said gravely.
“They’ll have to peel the scalp?” Behr asked.
She nodded and continued. “According to X-rays, we’ve got calcification in knuckles, wrists, and some toes. This guy was, what, a professional fighter? There are lots of fractures that healed up over the years.” She got near what was left of Aurelio’s lower jaw. “My colleague who caught this one, Dr. Rodale, he’s real thorough…” She leaned in close in a way Behr did not envy. “He found broken lower teeth and lacerations inside the mouth that bled up. That means before the gunshot.”
“He was hit.”
“Or the gun was jammed in his mouth. Shotgun barrel can do that real easy.”
“But the shot?”
“Not in the mouth.”
Behr nodded. Now he could see powder tattooing, and that the muzzle had been placed beneath Aurelio’s chin. After another minute or so of inspection with no talking between them, Jean stripped off the latex glove and put the notes down.
“Come on,” she said, “they’ll be getting back from dinner break soon.” She led Behr down the hall to her office, where she sat him on a stool and poured some of the Johnnie Walker into two lab beakers. She sat behind her desk and they touched glasses over it. Behr drank, but she didn’t. He told her the details of the events that had led him there.
“If you don’t mind my saying, Frank, maybe you’re not the best guy to be looking into this,” she offered when he was done.
“No?” he said, peering over the top of his glass. “Who’d be better?” She thought about that one for a while, but had no answer. Finally there was just quiet that went on as if it always would. Then he finished up his Scotch and stood. She came around her desk, and this time she did hug him.
“You take care, you got me?” she said.
He nodded. “Let me know about any tramlines.”
“You stay pro on this thing.”
“Thanks, Jean,” he said, wondering exactly what that meant anymore.
• • •
On his way home, Behr drove to Aurelio’s place. It had been a hell of a day, and he had the Scotch in him, and he knew he should probably shut it down for the night, but he really wanted to get a look inside the house. His feeling didn’t change even when he passed by and saw the unmarked police unit sitting on the address, an officer reclined low and just visible over the car door. Behr continued on, turning around the corner onto the next block, where he parked. He sat looking past a small brick cottage, through a line of scraggly trees, at the back of Aurelio’s place. In the black of the night, he thought, he could make it over the low chain-link fence, through the trees, and to the back door without being seen. He could get in and inspect the place, except for the front room, with his Mini Maglite. He could probably do it all without getting caught. He sat there thinking on it for five or ten minutes.
“Dumb,” he finally said aloud. He dropped his car into gear and drove home.
TWELVE
Southeastside Man Killed in Apparent Robbery Attempt,” read the Star’s headline. Behr was at the Caro Group, in a waiting room that smelled of fine woodwork, leather sofas, and freshly brewed dark-roast coffee. The place smelled like money. He had a cup of the strong, perfect stuff on the table at his knee as he read the account of Aurelio’s death. The details were few in the short, vague piece, perhaps because police had nothing, or because that’s all they wanted to release. After reading it twice, Behr tossed the paper on the coffee table with disgust and waited.
“Mr. Behr, they’re ready for you,” Ms. Swanton said. She wore heavy makeup, matronly business attire, and had her hair set in an old-fashioned helmet. She was as solid as a Sherman tank, and about as inviting. He sank into the carpet up to his ankles as he followed her down a hallway lined with certificates of civic recognition the company had received from the city. It sure didn’t feel like a Saturday in the office, as there were plenty of busy people around. He passed a room, door partially open, that had bakers’ racks full of the black, hard-sided cases that protected and transported high-end surveillance equipment. Infrared cameras, hardline wiretaps, relays, cell phone wiretaps, cell phone scramblers, night vision, voice stress analyzers-all the tools of the trade that he couldn’t afford. Some of them even worked some of the time.
