Something utterly unexpected infused her gut as that warm green stare found hers once more.
Hope.
It was a direct result of the gleaming intensity of that stare.
Something had hooked the colonel's curiosity—and it had nothing to do with the lack of visible damage to the translator's brain.
She was dying to prompt the man, but like Riyad, she'd learned to hold her tongue with this particular ME—in nearly identical circumstances. Granted, she'd been six years younger at the time and even more naive.
Though, really, was there an ME alive who tolerated, much less enjoyed, being grilled by a case investigator during an active autopsy? It so, she hadn't met them.
Her patience was rewarded as Tarrington drew his gloved index finger—and their attention—back to the translator's jaw. No, not jaw. Hachemi's lips.
What the—
"You see it, too. Don't you, Rae?"
She nodded.
"See what?" Riyad again.
She suppressed a wince. Would the man never learn?
But the colonel let it slide. "Rictus."
As the spook's brow furrowed, Tarrington tipped his head toward her.
She reached out to trail a finger above and around the translator's mouth, quickly extending the rest of her fingers along with it to conceal her latest tremor. Fortunately, it worked. "Hachemi's lips are pulled back, contracted into a grimace."
An eerie, slightly maniacal one at that.
"And that's significant?"
She shrugged. While she'd seen it before, the fresh glint she'd noted in Tarrington's eyes had already added the rictus to something else.
Something she hadn't noticed.
The colonel's nod confirmed it. "Look at his fingers…and his toes."
She did—and pulled in her breath.
Every single digit was curled down toward the surface of the gurney—including the three fingers John had snapped in Charikar. She'd seen that level of contraction before, in another deceased Afghan's remains, no less. During her first year with CID, a local contractor had suffered convulsions while on Bagram Airbase and died. At the time, the ME who'd been assigned the case had openly speculated as to the cause of death during the postmortem while citing that same rictus and convulsive grip. Toxicology tests had upheld the woman's instincts.
"Tetanus."
Regan had murmured the word under her breath.
Tarrington nodded anyway. "Do you know if Mr. Hachemi's inoculations were up to date?"
"No." But she'd be looking into it, just as soon as this contractor's postmortem was complete.
While rare in the States, tetanus infections were decidedly more common in several parts of the world—including Afghanistan. Mostly because the bacterial spores that caused the deadly disease could be found around the globe, lurking in everyday dust, soil, feces and saliva. Of course, a simple inoculation along with a timely schedule of boosters could and did prevent the disease from developing. But the recipient had to reside in a country where the government and medical profession were dedicated to distributing tetanus vaccines to the masses.
Afghanistan still fell short on that end.
As a local Afghan translator, Hachemi would've been treated for any and all injuries he sustained on the job by military medical personnel in country—and even some injuries that hadn't been sustained on the job. But inoculations wouldn't have been included. For those, Tamir Hachemi would've had to see one of the many non-governmental organizations that provided preventative care to the local population.
If he'd received them. Since Hachemi hadn't even made it to the States yet to exercise his newly granted, naturalized-citizen status, the odds were slim.
And even if the translator had managed to get his initial tetanus inoculation and keep his boosters up to date, written records for any NGO-provided vaccines he had received might not exit. But if they did, she'd find them.
The ME pulled his instrument tray closer. "What about epilepsy? Do you know if Mr. Hachemi suffered from the condition?"
She shook her head at this new possibility, too.
As mitigating factors went, she preferred the first, and by far. But she'd take the potential reprieve offered by either one. "I do know that at least two of the witness statements I took this afternoon mention a final, seizure-like episode after the blow and just before the translator's heart stopped, while he was already laid out on the deck. Also, I don't know if it's significant, but both Corporal Vetter and Staff Sergeant Brandt stated that, during the interrogation, Hachemi claimed his head was pounding. He appeared to be sweating more than usual and thirsty, too. They also saw him rubbing at the back of his neck on and off. Major Garrison noted the rubbing as well."
The colonel's gaze warmed at the mention of John. The tinge returned.
Tarrington knew about their past, all right.
It just didn't matter. Not to her. As much as she liked the colonel as a person, she respected his vast store of medical knowledge and deductive skills so much more.
Tarrington could keep that compassion. She wanted his zeal.
She needed it.
If the ME felt the rictus and those contracted digits didn't match up with the presumed cause and manner of the translator's death—namely, the blow to his face— there was an excellent chance he was right. And that was definitely promising.
For John.
Tarrington followed up her burgeoning hope with another nod. "There's more. Whether it's significant or not, I don't yet know. Not only are his finger and toes contracted, but according to the intake report by the hospital corpsman who received the body aboard this carrier, Mr. Hachemi was also in full rigor upon his arrival."
Two hours after death?
"But—" The spook closed his mouth in the nick of time.
The professional curiosity burning through Tarrington must've put him in a singular mood, because he let the lapse slide with a dismissive sigh. "Yes, yes; the march of rigor
