Cutting Edge

when Coffey pulled out a large organ, Nora recognized it as the lungs.

“See the lungs? No internal smoke damage. The throat isn’t burned, at least to the degree that it would be if he were breathing when the room filled with smoke.”

“That makes me feel marginally better,” Nora said. “Then how did he die? These?” She gestured to the knifelike incisions on the torso and arms.

“I honestly don’t know.”

Coffey continued with the autopsy, and Nora refrained from asking too many questions.

“Look at his heart,” Coffey said.

Nora didn’t know what she was looking at, but looked anyway.

“Did you see that?” he asked.

“What?”

“Exactly! There was little to no blood pressure when he died. Usually I get a spurt when I cut out the heart, but only a little trickled out.”

“You mean there was low blood pressure when he died?”

“Yes. Considering the amount of blood on the jeans, he very well could have bled to death.”

“From what evidence? Can you state with certainty he died of exsanguination?”

He looked irritated. “You have all the evidence I have. Right now I can only tell you how he didn’t die. He didn’t die in the fire, from burns or smoke inhalation. He was dead when the fire started.”

“But how can someone die from shallow wounds like these?”

Coffey said, “I don’t know. I’ve ordered his medical records, and I talked to his doctor just before you arrived. He wasn’t a hemophiliac, he wasn’t on any medication-prescription at least-that would hinder his blood’s ability to clot, such as warfarin. I’ve taken blood samples and hope to get tox reports back by tomorrow morning. I rushed them.”

Nora was stumped. “So you can’t confirm he died of exsanguination?”

“I’m not putting it in writing-if he did die of a Class Four hemorrhage, then there would be a secondary determination, but I have to run some more tests, check the bloodwork, maybe run some more tissue and blood tests. I’m not closing it yet.”

“I didn’t see blood evidence at the scene. Would it have been destroyed by the fire?” Nora asked.

“No-there was no blood at the scene. Your crime-scene folks cut out the carpet after I bagged the body. I didn’t see even a noticeable bloodstain-if any. But you’ll have to ask them.”

Pete asked, “What about the marks on his back? What does that mean?”

“Right, that’s the other thing. So his body didn’t leave the usual discoloration, though there was some pooling. But the weight of his body did press into a hard, uneven surface. I also found trace fibers on his back, which I’ve bagged as evidence.”

Nora said, “I’d like samples for the FBI lab. We can expedite the tests.”

“Great, because otherwise I’d send it to the state. We have a great lab for most things, but for trace evidence we have a very small department. I’ll have a sample of everything couriered over to your office.”

“Thank you,” Nora said.

“Do you think the marks mean Payne wasn’t killed at Butcher-Payne?” Pete asked.

“They might. Because the fire messed with the rate of decomposition, I can’t give you a time of death-in fact, I can’t even give you a tight window. I can say that rigor mortis had already begun before the fire. He had been dead a minimum of six hours. Possibly longer, up to twenty-four hours. But your investigation may yield a better window. He died approximately eight hours after eating. We’re running those tests now because I couldn’t tell by sight what he’d last eaten.”

Pete excused himself and left the room.

Nora said, “The fire started around one-thirty in the morning. So he’d already been dead for six hours.” That put the latest time of death at approximately seven-thirty Sunday evening, the earliest Saturday afternoon.

Nora emailed Duke and asked him if he’d yet accessed the security logs for the weekend. What if Payne was dead in the office long before the arsonists arrived? That seemed an unlikely coincidence, but something she needed to rule out.

“So what do you think caused those marks, Dr. Coffey?” Nora asked.

“I think the body was transported shortly after death. Rigor mortis set in while lying on a hard, smoothly ridged surface.”

“Smoothly ridged? That seems an oxymoron.”

“I won’t put this in writing until I get a mold done and compare with the books, but I think he was in the back of a pickup truck for several hours after he was killed. The truck was likely enclosed or I would have seen evidence of greater insect activity.”

“And because it would be obvious to passersby that a partially naked dead man was in the back.”

He cracked a grin. “Right.”

“So we’re looking for a pickup truck with a camper shell or another similar secure top.”

“And probably a long-bed. The vic is six feet two inches tall. He was at a diagonal in the truck-you can tell by the ridges. And he was flat-they didn’t break rigor to move him.”

Pete stepped back into the room. “Fish and Game just arrived at Butcher-Payne. The guy in charge is looking for you.”

Sean Rogan slid into a plastic chair in the cafeteria of Rose College, stabbed the salad in front of him with his fork, pretending he was punching Duke in the face.

Play the part, Duke said. Be one of them, Duke said. You’ll be fine, Duke said.

Duke could go pound sand for all Sean cared. He hated college, had hated MIT while he was there, straight A’s notwithstanding.

Straight A’s except for one damn B minus in English from that stodgy female professor who didn’t like him.

Sean slumped in his seat and ate the leaves in front of him. How could people survive on this rabbit food? His nose twitched, the warm, tantalizing scent of grilled hamburgers making his stomach growl.

Duke owed him big time.

Jonah is dead.

Sean sighed away his anger and devoured the salad. Then he downed two of the four pints of milk in front of him. At least the milk satisfied the hollow feeling in his stomach.

“You drink milk?”

Sean looked up as he wiped his lips with his napkin. A cute brunette who didn’t wear makeup-and didn’t need it-stood in front of him with her tray in one hand and her other hand on her hip.

“I have problems with my bones,” he lied automatically. “My doctor insisted that I drink milk for the calcium.” He prayed she didn’t ask any details, because he’d have to make them up.

“You can take pills for that.”

“He said it wasn’t the same.” Sean didn’t know what he was saying, but it sounded good. If he had to pretend to be a vegetarian for the next week or two, he could live-but he was not giving up milk. Not even for Duke.

She put her tray down on the table and her pretty ass in the chair across from him. The raw veggies on her plate wouldn’t be able to keep Sean thinking coherently for five minutes, let alone sustain him for an hour.

“Doctors are all quacks,” she said. “I have a great nutritionist. I can hook you up with him if you want.”

“Sounds good,” he said. Nutritionist? What would he tell Sean that he didn’t already know? Eat a well-balanced meal, stay away from sugar, exercise. “I didn’t catch your name?”

“Anya.”

“Anya. That’s nice. Russian?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. I never asked.”

“Asked?”

“My parents.”

“Why?”