I relay to him my conversation with the coroner.
He looks as shocked as I feel. “Shit.”
“Are you up to a trip to the morgue?”
He grimaces. “I don’t think we have a choice.”
With a population of about 5,500, Painters Mill is too small to have its own morgue per se. As Mayor Auggie Brock is so fond of saying in town council meetings, “We don’t have enough dead people.” Up until three years ago, autopsies were farmed out to either Lucas or Stark counties. Now, however, when there’s an unattended death or suspected foul play, Holmes and Coshocton counties have the option of utilizing the morgue facilities at Pomerene Hospital in Millersburg, which now receives funding from both counties.
It takes Glock and me ten minutes to make the drive from Painters Mill to Millersburg. The earlier snow has turned to a cold, driving rain. Fog hovers like smoke in the low-lying fields, creeks, and wooded areas. With the temperature hovering at just above the freezing mark, I suspect driving conditions will deteriorate rapidly once the sun goes down.
Pomerene Hospital is a fifty-five-bed facility located on the north side of town. I park illegally outside the Emergency Services portico. Neither Glock nor I have an umbrella, so we flip up the hoods of our coats and make a run for the double glass doors. Once inside, we pass by the information booth, where a young African-American man in Scooby-Doo scrubs waves us through. I’m still shaking rain from my coat when we step into the elevator that will take us to the basement.
“What’s up with all this fuckin’ rain?” Glock comments as the car descends. “I thought it was supposed to snow in December.”
“Mother Nature likes to keep us on our toes, I guess.”
“That bitch is on crack.”
That elicits a smile from both of us, but I know we’re only working up to our next task. In the back of my mind, I’m already wondering how much animosity existed between Adam and Solly Slabaugh. I wonder if there was enough of it to drive the forsaken uncle to commit murder.
The elevator doors swish open and we step into a hushed gray-tiled hall that reminds me of some deserted underground nuclear facility. We pass a yellow-and-black biohazard sign and go through dual swinging doors mounted with a plaque that reads: MORGUE: AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. A middle-aged woman in a navy dress looks up from her desk when I enter. “Hi, Chief.”
“Hey, Carmen.” The fact that I’m on a first-name basis with the coroner’s administrative assistant tells me I’ve been spending too much time here. “This is Officer Maddox.”
We cross to her desk. Smiling, Glock extends his hand. “Call me Glock.”
“I’m not going to argue with a man who goes by that nickname.” She chuckles. “How’re the roads out there? Guy on the radio says we might be in for some freezing rain.”
“Good for now. Might get a little tricky later.” I glance toward the swinging doors, already dreading what comes next. “Doc in there?”
“Go right in. He’s expecting you.”
“Thanks.”
We go through another set of swinging doors. The medicinal smells of formalin and alcohol and the darker stench of death envelops us like cold, clammy hands as we traverse the hall. The autopsy suite is straight ahead. I can already feel the tension climbing up my shoulders. Glock is silent, but I know he feels it, too. All of us are born with an inherent aversion to death. No matter how many times I make this pilgrimage, it never gets any easier.
To my right is a small alcove where the doc stores supplies, including biohazard protection. To my left, I see Doc Coblentz’s glassed-in office. The miniblinds and door are open, and I can see him sitting at his desk. An old John Lennon Christmas song oozes from a neat little sound system on his credenza.
He looks up when we enter and gives us a somber shake of his head. “I’ll bet you thought you were going to be able to sit this one out.”
I look toward the autopsy suite. “Are you sure about the head trauma?”
He offers a grim nod. “I’m certain. Of course, I can’t rule on the manner or cause of death until I complete the autopsy. But Solomon Slabaugh definitely sustained a substantial blow to the head shortly before his death.”
“Are you sure it happened
“Even though the wound site was compromised with contaminants from the muck, there was some bleeding visible. The victim’s heart was beating. I’m certain.”
“How substantial?”
“There was enough force to break the skin.”
“That’s a lot of force,” Glock comments.
Rising, the doc motions toward the alcove, where the biohazard gear is stowed neatly on the shelf. “Suit up, and I’ll show you.”
Glock and I enter the alcove and hang our coats on hooks mounted on the wall. Anxious to see the head trauma for myself, I quickly don shoe covers, a sea-foam green gown that ties at the back, a hair cap, a disposable mask, and latex gloves. The doc is waiting for us when we emerge.
Our paper gowns crackle as we traverse the hall. The doc pushes open one of two swinging doors and we enter the autopsy room. The temperature is so cold, I almost expect to see my breath, or maybe the cold emanates from someplace inside me.
The thing that always surprises me most when I come here is the smell. Even with a state-of-the-art ventilation system and a constant temperature of sixty-one degrees, the stink of decaying flesh is ever present. I’ve been here more times than I care to count, and no matter how short my stay, I invariably feel the need for a long soapy shower afterward. Not for the first time, I wonder how this veteran pediatrician deals with it day in and day out.
Stark fluorescent light rains down on gleaming stainless-steel counters. To my right, a dozen or more white plastic buckets are stacked on a portable stainless cart. I see trays filled with unfathomable medical instruments, two deep sinks with tall, arcing faucets. A scale that looks as if it belongs in the produce department of the grocery hangs above the counter to my left. Ahead, three draped bodies lie atop guttered aluminum gurneys.
Doc Coblentz crosses to the nearest gurney and pulls down the sheet. Solomon Slabaugh’s face and shoulders loom into view. His skin is gray. Blue lips are stretched taut over yellow teeth. His left eyelid has come up, revealing a filmy eyeball that’s rolled back, exposing the white of his eye. Though the bodies have been rinsed, the stench of manure mingles with the darker, sweeter stink of death, and I get a quivery sensation in my stomach.
“The bodies have been photographed and the clothing sealed in bags,” the doctor begins.
“We’ll want all the clothing and personal effects sent to the BCI lab,” I tell him.
“I figured you would. I’ll have everything couriered immediately.” The doctor tugs the sheet down a few more inches and smoothes the fold. “Because of the manure contamination, I had to rinse the bodies before my preliminary external examination.”
“So we may have lost hair or fiber,” I venture.
“I’m sorry, Kate, but I had no way of knowing at that point that we might have been looking at foul play.” Doc Coblentz looks at me over the tops of his glasses. “It wasn’t until after I’d rinsed the bodies that I noticed the contusion.” He moves to the head of the victim, turns it to one side so that the back of the head is visible from where we stand. Solomon Slabaugh’s hair is still wet and sticks to his scalp like a greasy cap.
“How can you tell there was bleeding, since his body was immersed in liquid manure?” I ask.
“There was a good bit of blood that coagulated and matted in the hair at the back of his head. He was facedown, so that area was not completely immersed. The amount of bleeding indicates the contusion occurred before death. But it was initially difficult to detect.” Using his fingers, Doc Coblentz separates the hair. “See here?”
I see a white scalp and the red-black fissure of an open wound.
“There’s bruising here.” Using a cotton-tipped swab, he indicates the scalp surrounding the wound. “Some of the purpling could have occurred postmortem. But there’s enough bleeding and bruising present for me to safely say
