not in the mood to put up with any shit, but I try to ignore his tone. “The reports and pictures I saw indicate that she landed on her face. What I'd like to know is how did she crack the back of her skull?”
“Let me see my report.” The coroner takes the pages from my slim file. I grimace inwardly. He hadn't washed his hands after touching the corpse during his discussion with McGee. I stand at his side and point out the mention of the injury to the rear of her head. The doctor grunts, then shakes the autopsy photographs out of the envelope. In them the thin girl is naked on the same steel table, posed in sad postures for the camera. Sure enough, one of the photos shows the vivid yellow bruise and jagged tear of parted skin at the back of Kate Danning's freshly shaved scalp. I also point out to him the picture of her at the base of the cliff and the small bit of matted hair visible on the back of her head.
“It looks to me like she struck it on the way down. There's your explanation, Agent. She bounced on the cliff.” He's smiling again.
In my already fragile emotional state, the pictures have affected me strongly; I want to wipe the smile off his face with my knuckles.
I show him the eight-by-ten of the sheer cliff, vertical to overhanging, as well as the picture of it I'd found in the Vedauwoo guidebook. Trying to control the aggressiveness I'm feeling but not doing a very good job, I say, “Show me what she bounced off of, Doctor.”
The coroner remains adamant. “Well, young man, that's the only way she could have gotten that. Maybe you should go up there and jump off yourself—see what pops you in the head.”
“How about we go up there together and I throw you off?”
His spine jerks straight and he glares at me. I glare back. I expect a rebuke from McGee, but it doesn't come. He's shuffling through the autopsy photos. I'd offered to show them to him before, in the hotel, but he'd declined.
“Gustavson,” he suddenly barks, “what the hell's that?” He holds up a shot of the crushed face and chest. With a thick finger he draws a line across the girl's throat. There is an angry red mark there. The coroner takes the photo from him and looks at it closely.
“Oh yes, I remember that. She was wearing a necklace of some sort. A piece of colored string, if I remember correctly. I couldn't untie it and had to cut it off. It must have caught on something, probably when she hit the back of her head.”
“You keep the goddamn necklace?”
“No, I put it in the incinerator. It was inexpensive and not very glamorous, for a girl with such wealthy parents.”
I glance at McGee and see that he looks as worked up as I feel. His labored breaths are increasing rather than diminishing. His fierce blue eyes blaze above his beard. Heat and blood are brightening his face. “You did the cut on Lee, right? She was strangled. . . . With a narrow pink cord . . . I've seen the fucking pictures. . . . And she was using meth. Just like Danning . . . or at least had been. . . . Are you catching my drift, Gustavson?” He says the doctor's name as if it's an insult.
Gustavson turns away. “Coincidence.” He slides all the photos back into the envelope and tosses it rudely on top of my other papers on the counter.
“Christ!” McGee continues. “Did you check for binding marks on Danning?” He steps closer to the coroner. I can see the doctor wince at the smell of McGee's cigar-flavored breath.
“No, Mr. McGee. There was no need—that girl fell off a cliff, damn it.”
McGee moves even closer and Gustavson steps back, looking cornered. “Landed facedown? And got a fractured skull in back? . . . Never looked into a strangle mark . . . on her neck? Christ, you better not . . . have fucked this one up too.”
“I hope you at least did a rape kit,” I say.
“I was told it wasn't necessary.”
“Who the fuck told you that!” McGee swings his cane in a low, agitated arc. With a sharp crack it strikes the
“Let me see my report.” The coroner takes the pages from my slim file. I grimace inwardly. He hadn't washed his hands after touching the corpse during his discussion with McGee. I stand at his side and point out the mention of the injury to the rear of her head. The doctor grunts, then shakes the autopsy photographs out of the envelope. In them the thin girl is naked on the same steel table, posed in sad postures for the camera. Sure enough, one of the photos shows the vivid yellow bruise and jagged tear of parted skin at the back of Kate Danning's freshly shaved scalp. I also point out to him the picture of her at the base of the cliff and the small bit of matted hair visible on the back of her head.
“It looks to me like she struck it on the way down. There's your explanation, Agent. She bounced on the cliff.” He's smiling again.
In my already fragile emotional state, the pictures have affected me strongly; I want to wipe the smile off his face with my knuckles.
I show him the eight-by-ten of the sheer cliff, vertical to overhanging, as well as the picture of it I'd found in the Vedauwoo guidebook. Trying to control the aggressiveness I'm feeling but not doing a very good job, I say, “Show me what she bounced off of, Doctor.”
The coroner remains adamant. “Well, young man, that's the only way she could have gotten that. Maybe you should go up there and jump off yourself—see what pops you in the head.”
“How about we go up there together and I throw you off?”
His spine jerks straight and he glares at me. I glare back. I expect a rebuke from McGee, but it doesn't come. He's shuffling through the autopsy photos. I'd offered to show them to him before, in the hotel, but he'd declined.
“Gustavson,” he suddenly barks, “what the hell's that?” He holds up a shot of the crushed face and chest. With a thick finger he draws a line across the girl's throat. There is an angry red mark there. The coroner takes the photo from him and looks at it closely.
“Oh yes, I remember that. She was wearing a necklace of some sort. A piece of colored string, if I remember correctly. I couldn't untie it and had to cut it off. It must have caught on something, probably when she hit the back of her head.”
“You keep the goddamn necklace?”
“No, I put it in the incinerator. It was inexpensive and not very glamorous, for a girl with such wealthy parents.”
I glance at McGee and see that he looks as worked up as I feel. His labored breaths are increasing rather than diminishing. His fierce blue eyes blaze above his beard. Heat and blood are brightening his face. “You did the cut on Lee, right? She was strangled. . . . With a narrow pink cord . . . I've seen the fucking pictures. . . . And she was using meth. Just like Danning . . . or at least had been. . . . Are you catching my drift, Gustavson?” He says the doctor's name as if it's an insult.
Gustavson turns away. “Coincidence.” He slides all the photos back into the envelope and tosses it rudely on top of my other papers on the counter.
“Christ!” McGee continues. “Did you check for binding marks on Danning?” He steps closer to the coroner. I can see the doctor wince at the smell of McGee's cigar-flavored breath.
“No, Mr. McGee. There was no need—that girl fell off a cliff, damn it.”
McGee moves even closer and Gustavson steps back, looking cornered. “Landed facedown? And got a fractured skull in back? . . . Never looked into a strangle mark . . . on her neck? Christ, you better not . . . have fucked this one up too.”
“I hope you at least did a rape kit,” I say.
“I was told it wasn't necessary.”
“Who the fuck told you that!” McGee swings his cane in a low, agitated arc. With a sharp crack it strikes the
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