the trauma occurred while he was still alive.”
“Any idea what might have made that sort of wound?” Glock asks.
I glance at Glock, to find him staring down at the corpse with the rapt attention of a kid working on some fascinating science project. He’s one of those people who can remove himself from the emotional aspect of almost any situation. He keeps his cool, doesn’t get angry or outraged. That’s one of many traits that makes him such a good cop. I wish I could do the same. On the other hand, maybe my passion for the job is the instrument that drives me forward when it would be so much easier to quit.
“A blunt object, more than likely,” the doc answers. “Probably quite heavy, or at least wielded with some force. Something sharp would have opened the flesh even more. The edges of the wound would be more cleanly cut. There would be less bruising. Less swelling.” He crosses to a light box on the wall next to an overhead cabinet. “I suspected there might be some fracturing, so I took the liberty of taking an X-ray.” Moving to the counter, he picks up a film and takes it to the wall-mounted illuminator. He flips on the light, then shoves the film beneath the ledge.
A monochrome image of Solomon Slabaugh’s skull materializes. Taking a pen from his lab coat, the coroner indicates the upper-rear section of the skull. “You can see here that there’s a break in the outline of the parietal vault. See this small crescent?”
Glock and I move closer. I find myself squinting. Though the image is slightly blurred, I can make out the minute indentation in the curvature of the skull. “A fracture?” I ask.
He smiles, as if I’m an astute pupil who’s pleased him with the correct answer to a difficult question. “It’s a fracture of the right parietal bone. There’s also an acute extradural hematoma. The convexity here displaced the brain matter, producing the small crescent.”
I stare at the image. “Is it possible this could have happened a while back? Maybe he fell or was in some kind of accident and didn’t realize he had a fracture?”
The doc shakes his head. “This injury would likely have caused a concussion. There would have been pain. Confusion. Nausea. Possibly even unconsciousness. Of course, I’ll know more once I open the cranium and examine the brain. But I’m ninety-nine percent certain this injury occurred very shortly before his death.”
“Are we talking minutes? Hours?”
He shrugs. “I can’t say for certain. My best guess would be a matter of minutes.”
“Is it what killed him?” Glock asks.
“I can’t rule on COD until I complete the autopsy.”
The three of us stare down at the body. Above us, the buzz of the fluorescent lights seems inordinately loud. “Is it possible he struck the back of his head on the concrete wall of the pit when he fell in?”
“At first glance, I surmised the same scenario.” The doctor gives me a look that tells me there’s a gotcha moment on the way. “Then I discovered this.” Lowering the sheet, he lifts the dead man’s right hand.
The skin is gray and mottled. The fingers are clawlike; several fingernails are broken to the quick, as if he’d tried to claw his way out of the pit. Disturbing images scratch at my brain, but I quickly bank them. Then I notice the small red-black mouth of a cut on one of the fingers and I feel myself go still inside.
“Those three fingers are broken,” the doc says. “At first, I thought perhaps it had happened during the fall.”
“That seems like a logical train of thought,” Glock says.
“Until I looked at the X-rays.” The doc picks up another film and takes it to the X-ray illuminator. He removes the first film, jams the second one into place.
I stare at the film. Even with my proletarian eye, I see clearly that three of the four finger bones are broken at the same general point.
Glock asks the obvious question. “So what caused the fractures?”
The doctor picks up the dead man’s hand. “The index, middle, and ring fingers are fractured,” he says. “The breaks are clean, with little or no chipping. As you can see, the flesh of the index finger has been incised, as well.” The doc looks at me over the tops of his bifocals. “I would say this man was hanging onto the side of the pit and someone struck his fingers with a relatively sharp object.”
“Causing him to fall to his death,” Glock says.
“That would be my guess,” Doc Coblentz replies.
A horrific sight flashes in my mind’s eye. A man fighting to save himself from certain death. Someone else making damn sure he didn’t succeed.
I look at Glock, and I know we’re both wondering the same thing. “Would a boot or shoe have done it?” I ask.
“This type of injury would require a relatively sharp object or, at the very least, something heavy.”
“Murder straight up,” Glock says.
“Is it possible he was hanging on to the side of the pit until the weight of his body broke his fingers?” I ask.
“That’s a good question, Kate, but the answer is no. That kind of stress would not cause this type of fracture. It certainly wouldn’t have opened the flesh. Had this man been hanging on to the side of the pit with his fingers for any length of time, the metacarpophalangeal joint might have eventually dislocated, causing him to lose his grip. As you can see, the joints are intact.”
I nod, but my mind is reeling. I can’t fathom someone killing an Amish father in such a cold-blooded manner. “Did you find anything unusual with the other two victims?”
“Not during the prelim exam.”
“How soon can you finish the autopsies?” I ask.
“I’ll need at least a couple of hours per body.”
I nod, but I’m deeply troubled by these new developments. “In that case, we’ll get out of your hair. Thanks for the heads-up.” I start toward the door.
I hear Glock behind me as I leave the autopsy suite. In the alcove, I yank off my gown and gear and toss everything into the biohazard receptacle. I hear Glock doing the same, but I don’t look at him. I don’t want him to see the emotions banging around inside me: outrage, anger, a keen sense of injustice. Contrary to popular belief, those kinds of emotions are not a cop’s best friend, particularly if you’re female and trying to maintain some semblance of credibility. But when I think about the four orphaned children, the emotions swamp me all over again.
It’s still raining when we leave through the Emergency Services exit. Neither of us bothers with a hood this time. In the face of such a brutal act of murder, petty discomforts seem enormously inconsequential.
By the time I yank open the door of the Explorer and slide inside, I’ve gotten myself under control.
“Pretty damn cold-blooded,” Glock comments as he slides in beside me.
“We need to talk to those kids.” I shove the key into the ignition.
“You think they saw something?”
“Or someone.”
“If that’s the case, why didn’t they mention it?”
“Maybe we didn’t ask the right questions.” I think back to my interview with them and shake my head. “I didn’t ask them specifically if they’d seen anyone else at the scene.”
“Still, you’d think they’d have mentioned it.”
“True. But they had an awful lot to deal with. They’d just lost their parents and uncle. They were upset and not thinking clearly.”
“Or scared,” he adds.
Considering all the implications of that, I shove the Explorer into gear and start down the lane toward the road. “Only one way to find out.”
CHAPTER 5
John Tomasetti unpacked the last moving box, set the framed commendation on his desk, and looked around at his new digs. The office was bigger than most—big enough to piss off some of the more senior agents. A window looked out over the newish business park dotted with winter-dead Bradford pear trees. The rosewood desk had a matching credenza with a hutch. There was a comfortable leather chair with adjustable lumbar support. Not bad for
