he liked her. They were a good team, something no M.E. sneered at.
An hour later, Sam found herself back at the OCME, scrubbed, gloved and standing by as a tech got ready to make the Y-incision on Harold Croswell. Fletcher was established two feet to her left, a slight grimace on his face. He reminded her of a greyhound ready to bolt after a stuffed squirrel. Miserable, and desperate to run.
Croswell had been shot at close range twice, once in the chest, once in the forehead. Sam listened with impatience, rubbing her hands together under mental water— one Mississippi, two Mississippi —as Nocek danced around the body with a small ruler and read off the specifics.
“Body is that of an adult male Caucasian measuring seventy-one inches and weighing two hundred ten pounds. Normal presentation…a rectangular ink tattoo in black and yellow with the word Ranger on the upper left biceps… Multiple scars on various aspects of the torso and legs, with darkened areas consistent with old shrapnel wounds… Corneas are cloudy… Three-sixteenth-inch penetrating gunshot wound to the supraorbital ridge… Quarter-inch-diameter distant perforating gunshot on the left side of the chest… Marginal abrasion… No evidence of soot or powder tattooing around the entrance… . Okay, Frederick, please open him up.”
Frederick, a woefully misnamed brute of a man, efficiently slit Croswell from stem to stern.
There was a brief delay while the ribs were cut—the bones snapping in two with a short audible crunch—and the breastplate lifted and removed, then the mess that was the inside of Croswell’s chest appeared.
Nocek poked and prodded in the chest cavity. “Let’s see… Wound track A passes backward and downward through the sixth intercostal space with perforation of the lower lobe of the left lung, the diaphragm and the liver, exits through the tenth intercostal in the back.”
“Shooter was taller than him,” Fletcher muttered, and Sam nodded in affirmation.
Or five feet tall and standing on a box. You could never be one hundred percent certain, but sometimes, police work had to go with the logical answer. Occam’s razor.
Nocek had moved on to the head wound.
“Wound track B slightly downward… Skull fracture, evident fracture of the cribriform plate… Large subarachnoid hemorrhage…”
Nocek looked up, the microscopic lens he wore to see the details inside the brain magnifying his right eye into obscene proportions. He looked a bit like a lopsided fly.
“This was the kill shot, to be blunt.”
“Thank you for that, Dr. Nocek.” Fletcher was looking green. Sam wondered what the problem was. He was a veteran detective, had seen his share of head wounds. This wasn’t particularly gruesome. It was actually rather tidy. Like a large red Milky Way across a gray-matter night sky.
Maybe he was just hungover.
“Let’s take a look at the lungs first, if you please,” Sam asked. Nocek didn’t hesitate; she gathered he was as interested as she was to see if they were loaded with sand granulomas.
Frederick pulled the lungs from the organ scale and set them on the dissection board. It only took Nocek a few moments to lay bare the bronchial tree.
There it was, the same old scar tissue overlaid with fresh granulomas. Just like Sam had seen in Donovan’s lungs.
“That’s the sand you’re talking about?” Fletcher asked.
“Yes,” Sam replied. She took a small swab and ran it lightly across Croswell’s trachea. “There’s more here.”
Nocek took samples, and then broke for a moment, stretching his long arms, the wrists cracking slightly.
“I will let you know what I find with the samples, Dr. Owens. Are you free for a late dinner? I could give you the results then.”
Fletcher coughed into his hand. Sam smiled at Nocek. She didn’t get the sense that he was hitting on her; he wore a wide gold band on his right hand, like many Europeans. Just in case, though, she declined.
“That is a very kind
An hour later, Sam found herself back at the OCME, scrubbed, gloved and standing by as a tech got ready to make the Y-incision on Harold Croswell. Fletcher was established two feet to her left, a slight grimace on his face. He reminded her of a greyhound ready to bolt after a stuffed squirrel. Miserable, and desperate to run.
Croswell had been shot at close range twice, once in the chest, once in the forehead. Sam listened with impatience, rubbing her hands together under mental water— one Mississippi, two Mississippi —as Nocek danced around the body with a small ruler and read off the specifics.
“Body is that of an adult male Caucasian measuring seventy-one inches and weighing two hundred ten pounds. Normal presentation…a rectangular ink tattoo in black and yellow with the word Ranger on the upper left biceps… Multiple scars on various aspects of the torso and legs, with darkened areas consistent with old shrapnel wounds… Corneas are cloudy… Three-sixteenth-inch penetrating gunshot wound to the supraorbital ridge… Quarter-inch-diameter distant perforating gunshot on the left side of the chest… Marginal abrasion… No evidence of soot or powder tattooing around the entrance… . Okay, Frederick, please open him up.”
Frederick, a woefully misnamed brute of a man, efficiently slit Croswell from stem to stern.
There was a brief delay while the ribs were cut—the bones snapping in two with a short audible crunch—and the breastplate lifted and removed, then the mess that was the inside of Croswell’s chest appeared.
Nocek poked and prodded in the chest cavity. “Let’s see… Wound track A passes backward and downward through the sixth intercostal space with perforation of the lower lobe of the left lung, the diaphragm and the liver, exits through the tenth intercostal in the back.”
“Shooter was taller than him,” Fletcher muttered, and Sam nodded in affirmation.
Or five feet tall and standing on a box. You could never be one hundred percent certain, but sometimes, police work had to go with the logical answer. Occam’s razor.
Nocek had moved on to the head wound.
“Wound track B slightly downward… Skull fracture, evident fracture of the cribriform plate… Large subarachnoid hemorrhage…”
Nocek looked up, the microscopic lens he wore to see the details inside the brain magnifying his right eye into obscene proportions. He looked a bit like a lopsided fly.
“This was the kill shot, to be blunt.”
“Thank you for that, Dr. Nocek.” Fletcher was looking green. Sam wondered what the problem was. He was a veteran detective, had seen his share of head wounds. This wasn’t particularly gruesome. It was actually rather tidy. Like a large red Milky Way across a gray-matter night sky.
Maybe he was just hungover.
“Let’s take a look at the lungs first, if you please,” Sam asked. Nocek didn’t hesitate; she gathered he was as interested as she was to see if they were loaded with sand granulomas.
Frederick pulled the lungs from the organ scale and set them on the dissection board. It only took Nocek a few moments to lay bare the bronchial tree.
There it was, the same old scar tissue overlaid with fresh granulomas. Just like Sam had seen in Donovan’s lungs.
“That’s the sand you’re talking about?” Fletcher asked.
“Yes,” Sam replied. She took a small swab and ran it lightly across Croswell’s trachea. “There’s more here.”
Nocek took samples, and then broke for a moment, stretching his long arms, the wrists cracking slightly.
“I will let you know what I find with the samples, Dr. Owens. Are you free for a late dinner? I could give you the results then.”
Fletcher coughed into his hand. Sam smiled at Nocek. She didn’t get the sense that he was hitting on her; he wore a wide gold band on his right hand, like many Europeans. Just in case, though, she declined.
“That is a very kind
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