Nazis in Washington.”
“You reckon?” Pinker said, with a laugh.
“I mean, real Nazis, Detective,” the doctor said, coolly.
Pinker wasn’t retreating. “We don’t have much idea how real he was. Far as we know, he was a thrash-metal singer. Those assholes play at being tough guys-Nazis, satanists, Charlie Manson fans, whatever. Doesn’t mean they actually believe in that crap.”
“Is that so?” The M.E. didn’t sound overly convinced. “We’ve already photographed, measured, weighed, x- rayed and fingerprinted the body. I’ve also searched for trace evidence and done the external examination.” She glanced at them. “You were late. I have four more autopsies scheduled today.”
“That’s all right, Doc,” Simmons said. He knew how tedious those procedures could be. “What did you find?”
“Without too many long words,” Pinker added. He remembered floundering in a tidal wave of technical verbiage the last time.
Marion Gilbert raised a perfectly plucked eyebrow and glanced at the report handed to her by a technician. “Male Caucasian, aged around forty to forty-five, height six feet four inches, weight 267 pounds. Hair black, dyed. Eyes brown.” She indicated the dead man’s chest and arms. “Obviously the main identifying features are the tattoos.”
Pinker took them in. “Swastika, Iron Cross, Mein Kampf and an arrow pointing to his crotch. Nice.”
“You should see his back,” the M.E. said, shaking her head. “It says ‘I Am the Final Solution.’” She glanced at Pinker. “That makes him a real Nazi in my book.”
The detective shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not. You gotta keep an open mind in our business.”
Marion Gilbert rolled her eyes. “Moving on. His clothing has been sent for further analysis. I found hairs on his T-shirt that weren’t his. They’re black, but not so long-probably from the woman he assaulted. Or from-”
“The assholes in the band,” Pinker said. “They’re all as hairy as-”
“You’ve located them?” the doctor asked.
Simmons nodded. “They were the ones who called the MPDC.”
“They’re all crying like little kids,” Pinker added.
The doctor gave him a frozen look. “There were skin and fiber traces under his nails. Analysis is being undertaken. The victim had knee surgery in the not too distant past. There’s also an appendix scar, from prelaparoscopy days.”
“I’m presuming the time of death squares with the parameters we’ve got,” Simmons said. “The band members said he got into the van around eight-fifteen and they found him around eight-fifty.”
“The gig was due to start at nine and the first patrolmen were on the scene at nine-oh-two,” Pinker said.
“The M.E. noted the body and ambient temperatures, plus the fact that rigor mortis hadn’t begun, suggest that death occurred no earlier than eight o’clock anyway.”
“Any sign that the body had been moved?” Simmons asked.
“No abrasions or bruising to suggest that. I take it you’re investigating the band members.”
“Oh, yes,” Pinker said. “As well as the bar owner, his son and a scumbag dope dealer who lives upstairs. Also some fans who were waiting in the bar.”
“Speaking of drugs,” Dr. Gilbert said, “there were traces of cocaine on the victim’s nostrils. Though the condition of his nose made examination difficult.”
Simmons looked down at Loki’s flattened and bloodied nose. “The way I see it, the killer hit him in the face-”
“Twice,” the M.E. said, pointing at the broken and swollen skin on the left cheek. “There are two contusions on the back of the head that I would say came from impact with a hard surface.”
Simmons nodded. “And then he stuck the skewers into his ears.”
“Correct.”
“Do you think the vic was conscious when that happened?” Pinker asked.
“He might have been,” the doctor replied.
“Real nice,” Pinker said.
Simmons gave him an irritated glance. “So cause of death was…”
“Penetrating trauma to the brain.”
“In stereo,” Pinker added.
The other two stared at him.
He shrugged. “Am I wrong? And obviously the wounds weren’t self-inflicted.”
The M.E. looked at the skewers that were protruding from the victim’s ears. “It’s theoretically possible that he could have done it himself.”
“But unlikely,” Simmons said. “Given that he doesn’t have any knuckle injuries to suggest he punched himself in the face twice, and we didn’t find any blunt instrument in the van with his blood on it. How about the number of assailants? Could there have been more than one?”
“I’ll remove the skewers shortly so they can be checked for prints and traces,” the doctor said. “One person could have done it. But it would have needed a lot of nerve. I would think the back of the van would have been too confined a place for two killers, especially with the woman in there, as well. Is she all right?”
“She’s been sedated,” Pinker replied. “But before that she told us she hadn’t seen anything. The vic knocked her out before he got his.” He sighed. “So, capital murder it is, by person or persons unknown.”
“I take it there were no witnesses?” Marion Gilbert asked. “Before, during or after the murder?”
“We haven’t found any yet,” Simmons said. “We’re still looking, of course.”
“Of course you are.” The M.E. nodded at him with more warmth than she’d been extending to Pinker. She looked down at the dead man’s chest and the swastika on it. “Time for me to dissect.”
Pinker took a step back.
“Oh, aren’t you staying?” the doctor asked.
“I’ll leave you to it.”
Simmons watched his partner go and shook his head. The little man was full of himself until things got ugly in the morgue.
At the door Pinker stopped and looked around. “Oh, Doctor?” he said, a smile on his lips. “I’m betting the tympanic membrane is in a bad way, to say nothing of the malleus, incus and stapes.” He raised both hands and moved his index fingers. “Like I said, in glorious stereo.”
Marion Gilbert shook her head. “He’s got a smart mouth.”
Simmons grinned. “But you can’t fault his memory.”
Later, Clem Simmons found his partner in the homicide squad room. Pinker was on the phone, a soda can in his other hand.
“Okay,” he said, “I’ve got the address. We’ll be around later in the afternoon.”
Simmons sat down at his desk with a grunt. “Anything juicy?”
“Doubt it, Clem. Some kid who was at Hinkey’s earlier in the evening. Says he didn’t see anything suspicious, but we’d better check him out.”
Simmons was looking at his notepad. “Anything from the CSIs?”
“Nothing to get hard about. They’re gonna examine some fibers they found on the blanket from the van.”
“Could be from the band members. Or the Jewish girl.”
Pinker screwed up his eyes. “You reckon one of the band could have killed him?”
“Or more than one of them.” Simmons stifled a yawn. “It’s a possibility. You talked to them, Vers. Did they give you the idea that they could put a skewer in a kebab without stabbing themselves?”
“Not really. They’re all dope heads. So who did it? Some anti-Nazi and anti-satanic-thrash-metal freak?”
“Obviously a line of inquiry we’ll have to follow. I’ll get the computer geeks to see if there were any threats on the relevant Web sites and discussion groups.”
“What about Hickey and his fat-bellied son?”
“They can stew a while longer. You never know what they might suddenly remember.
