injuries. As for the damage to his skull, I’m not sure when that happened yet.”
Summer pictured Raines on his knees in front of the jury, starring in Gundy’s final role: an innocent victim pleading for mercy. “What else?”
“The killer was right-handed.”
“So are most people. Did you find my client’s fingerprints inside the condo?”
“Ask the cops. I don’t do windows and I don’t do fingerprints—unless I’m ID-ing a body.”
“What about hair fibers?”
“From your client?”
“Yes.”
“Curiously, no.”
Summer had read the report but was glad to hear it confirmed. “How about other hair fibers?”
“Lots.” Chantelle giggled. “Apparently, our Mr. Gundy entertained frequently.”
“Male, female?”
“You know we cannot ascertain gender from hair fibers.”
“What about dyes, shampoos? Can’t that be an indication?”
“These days, boys act like girls, girls act like boys.”
“What kind of hair are we talking about? Blond? Brunette? Redhead? Anyone dye their hair?”
“All of the above.”
“Really? He did entertain a lot. Clothing fibers?”
“From your client? The police didn’t bring me any.”
“How are you going to testify with regards to the murder?”
“I’ll tell what I know. That judging from his internal injuries, Mr. Gundy was either kicked or thrown from the second floor and hit glass. He suffered massive hematoma, damaged kidneys, a broken spleen, and cracked ribs. He was also struck repeatedly on the back of his head with a blunt instrument: the bottle. When I complete the toxicology tests, I’ll have a better idea of what exactly killed him.”
“Anything special about the lipstick?”
“You can buy it at any cosmetics counter.”
The crane cranked to life again, gears grinding, straps straining. As the coffin rose, Boyd spread the tarp underneath. It was brought to rest a few feet from Chantelle.
“Should we take a peek?” Summer asked, half-serious.
“Trust me,” Chantelle said. “Not a good idea after eating cream cheese.”
After winding their way through tombstones, Chantelle and Summer waited by the truck while Boyd and his co-digger transported the coffin over.
Chantelle glanced at Strickland’s autopsy report. “I don’t understand how you expect me to confirm Mr. Strickland’s death without something to compare him to. No fingerprints—hell, no fingers left. No head or teeth either, so forget about comparing the remains to his dental records, even if we could locate those.”
“Check the DNA against this.” Summer handed Chantelle the letter Strickland had sent to Wib. It had taken a subpoena, and Mahakavi had been none too happy about it.
“What’s this?” Chantelle asked after Summer showed her what was written. “You want me to look for fingerprints on the paper? Did he sign it in blood?”
Summer pressed on. “He must have licked the stamp and the envelope closed. I want you to analyze his saliva. It must be there mixed in with the glue.”
“That’s crazy.”
“If archaeologists can use DNA analysis to identify 4000-year-old mummies, you should have no problem,” Summer said.
“I’m no archaeologist—OK, OK,” Chantelle said, pre-empting Summer. “How do you know we’ll find anything?”
“Strickland was no germ freak. He must have licked the stamp and the envelope to seal it. And why wouldn’t he? They didn’t have DNA analysis in his heyday.”
The diggers, bearing the coffin, approached in the wasted light of morning. Summer watched as they stowed the coffin in the back of her truck.
Boyd smirked as he handed Chantelle a clipboard. “I told you, Chan,” he said. “Maybe you got these university degrees, but I know coffins.”
Chantelle checked her watch, filled in the time. “You win this time, Boyd. Tell you what: I’ll buy the first round at Kelly’s.”
“After work?”
Chantelle signed the paperwork with a flourish. “Sure.”
After Boyd and his partner left,
Summer pictured Raines on his knees in front of the jury, starring in Gundy’s final role: an innocent victim pleading for mercy. “What else?”
“The killer was right-handed.”
“So are most people. Did you find my client’s fingerprints inside the condo?”
“Ask the cops. I don’t do windows and I don’t do fingerprints—unless I’m ID-ing a body.”
“What about hair fibers?”
“From your client?”
“Yes.”
“Curiously, no.”
Summer had read the report but was glad to hear it confirmed. “How about other hair fibers?”
“Lots.” Chantelle giggled. “Apparently, our Mr. Gundy entertained frequently.”
“Male, female?”
“You know we cannot ascertain gender from hair fibers.”
“What about dyes, shampoos? Can’t that be an indication?”
“These days, boys act like girls, girls act like boys.”
“What kind of hair are we talking about? Blond? Brunette? Redhead? Anyone dye their hair?”
“All of the above.”
“Really? He did entertain a lot. Clothing fibers?”
“From your client? The police didn’t bring me any.”
“How are you going to testify with regards to the murder?”
“I’ll tell what I know. That judging from his internal injuries, Mr. Gundy was either kicked or thrown from the second floor and hit glass. He suffered massive hematoma, damaged kidneys, a broken spleen, and cracked ribs. He was also struck repeatedly on the back of his head with a blunt instrument: the bottle. When I complete the toxicology tests, I’ll have a better idea of what exactly killed him.”
“Anything special about the lipstick?”
“You can buy it at any cosmetics counter.”
The crane cranked to life again, gears grinding, straps straining. As the coffin rose, Boyd spread the tarp underneath. It was brought to rest a few feet from Chantelle.
“Should we take a peek?” Summer asked, half-serious.
“Trust me,” Chantelle said. “Not a good idea after eating cream cheese.”
After winding their way through tombstones, Chantelle and Summer waited by the truck while Boyd and his co-digger transported the coffin over.
Chantelle glanced at Strickland’s autopsy report. “I don’t understand how you expect me to confirm Mr. Strickland’s death without something to compare him to. No fingerprints—hell, no fingers left. No head or teeth either, so forget about comparing the remains to his dental records, even if we could locate those.”
“Check the DNA against this.” Summer handed Chantelle the letter Strickland had sent to Wib. It had taken a subpoena, and Mahakavi had been none too happy about it.
“What’s this?” Chantelle asked after Summer showed her what was written. “You want me to look for fingerprints on the paper? Did he sign it in blood?”
Summer pressed on. “He must have licked the stamp and the envelope closed. I want you to analyze his saliva. It must be there mixed in with the glue.”
“That’s crazy.”
“If archaeologists can use DNA analysis to identify 4000-year-old mummies, you should have no problem,” Summer said.
“I’m no archaeologist—OK, OK,” Chantelle said, pre-empting Summer. “How do you know we’ll find anything?”
“Strickland was no germ freak. He must have licked the stamp and the envelope to seal it. And why wouldn’t he? They didn’t have DNA analysis in his heyday.”
The diggers, bearing the coffin, approached in the wasted light of morning. Summer watched as they stowed the coffin in the back of her truck.
Boyd smirked as he handed Chantelle a clipboard. “I told you, Chan,” he said. “Maybe you got these university degrees, but I know coffins.”
Chantelle checked her watch, filled in the time. “You win this time, Boyd. Tell you what: I’ll buy the first round at Kelly’s.”
“After work?”
Chantelle signed the paperwork with a flourish. “Sure.”
After Boyd and his partner left,
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