by Liliana Hart
My parents’ setup had more to do with their smuggling operation than the protection of the deceased inside. Whatever the reason, I’d lucked out by inheriting one of the top unknown facilities in the state. My security was the best, and my equipment was top of the line. And the guilt I’d felt in the past over benefitting from my parents’ crimes was long gone.
I liked taking the stairs instead of the lift, so we headed into the depths of the cool basement. Lights came on, blindingly white, the second our feet touched the stairs. Lily and Sheldon had left the victim on the gurney in the body bag like I’d requested. I saw Jack take a deep breath and hold it in before slowly releasing it, and I hid my smile. He could stare at dead bodies all day, but the lingering smell of embalming fluid made him queasy every time. He rarely came into the lab with me.
I grabbed a pair of gloves and my camera and then unzipped the body bag. I took my own set of pictures, and then I went ahead and cut off his clothes. I’d learned the hard way to do this while the victim was still in the bag so any fibers or evidence would be caught in the bag. I had a machine to hang the clothes in that would shake off any particulates for me to put into evidence later.
“Hey, Alexa,” I said to the black cylinder in the corner. “Play autopsy playlist.”
“You have an autopsy playlist?” Jack asked, clearly amused.
“Of course,” I said, carefully removing the bags from the victim’s hands. Bon Jovi’s “Wanted, Dead or Alive” came over the speakers and I heard Jack chuckle.
I took samples from beneath the victim’s nails and labeled them, and then took a blood sample to send off to the lab in Richmond, and I took another blood sample so I could run my own tests. I had a lot of the equipment the Richmond lab had, but it was always good to have a backup report, especially in a homicide.
Technology had made examinations a lot more convenient over the past decade or so. I was able to take fingerprints digitally, like they do at the DMV, as long as the prints hadn’t been damaged by weather or water.
“It’s a clear set,” I told Jack, sending him an email copy of the prints as well as printing them on card stock so he could take them with him. Not everyone in the county was as keen on modern technology as we were.
I took a step back from the body, trying to decide how to proceed. Normally, I’d put straps around him and use the lift to carry someone his size to my autopsy table, but I wasn’t entirely sure that was the best way to keep all his guts in place.
“Let’s just lift him,” Jack said, going over to the table to put a pair of gloves on. “I’d rather not have to pick up intestines off the floor.”
“Spoilsport,” I said, rolling the gurney as close to the autopsy table as I could. “On three. One—two—” and then we lifted him to the metal table.
“And that’s my call to head out,” Jack said, leaning over to kiss me goodbye. He stripped off his gloves and tossed them in the trash. “Give me a call when you’ve finished the autopsy. Maybe we’ll have an ID by then.”
“10-4, Sheriff Hot Stuff,” I said. His look was not amused. “What?” I asked. “This book I read said to remember to compliment and pursue your spouse every day so you don’t fall into a rut. I’ll loan you my copy if you want to read it.”
“Sounds like a real page-turner,” he said. “So what should I call you? Dr. Fine Ass? Maybe something paying homage to that heart-shaped freckle on your breast. You know that drives me crazy. Dr. Love Freckle?”
“No,” I said, shaking my head. “Definitely not Dr. Love Freckle.”
“Just as well,” Jack said. “I think that was the name of a porno one of the guys was talking about at the station.”
I snickered and went to collect the clothes that had been left in the body bag. “I’ll concede to Dr. Fine Ass. Or just DFA for short. It’s like my rapper name. The Notorious DFA.”
“This conversation escalated quickly,” he said. “I think the smell has gone to your brain. Text me later, Notorious DFA.”
My attention was already back on the victim by the time I heard the door closing behind him. I turned on the spotlight, and got to work. I generally made notations with a recorder instead of stopping what I was doing to write notes every few seconds, so I turned off the music and turned on my recorder.
“October twenty-eighth. Eleven forty-three a.m.,” I said. “Homicide. Victim is Caucasian male, brown hair, brown eyes. Age approximated between fifty-five and sixty-five years of age. No tattoos or birthmarks. Slight scarring behind ears indicate possible plastic surgery procedure. No other visible surgical marks.
“Cause of death could not be determined from crime scene. Time of death is at least twenty-four hours, but most likely somewhere between thirty-six and forty-eight hours based on stages of decomp and insect activity at crime scene.”
I adjusted the light and took photographs of the ligature marks around his ankles and wrists. “Victim was restrained. Fibers found embedded in the skin are being collected to admit into evidence. It looks like natural rope fibers.”
I studied every inch of the victim’s exterior. “Kneecaps have been broken. And there looks to be burn marks on the thighs and around the groin. Maybe from a cattle prod or taser?” I skipped over his midsection for now, knowing the wound there had been postmortem. “Fingers on both hands are broken. And there are more burn marks under the armpit area on the right side. External examination also reveals multiple broken ribs.” But no cause of death, I thought to myself.
I moved my light again, this time to the face, and examined the wound around the missing eye. “Right eye is missing. Wounds are jagged in nature, making it possible for the loss to be due to a scavenger.” I pulled down the magnifier so I could take a closer look. There was a section of skin around the inner eye that looked as if it had been sliced with something sharp. I made the notations, and then checked the skull for any damage.
“Hematoma at the base of the skull. Feels similar to injuries consistent with the butt end of a pistol. Most probably from impact of the initial incapacitation.”
I went back to the wound across his abdomen. “Victim was gutted postmortem.” I took out my ruler and measured the depth of the wound. “Cut is almost two inches deep, and it’s a clean slice of fourteen inches. There are no hesitations in the cut, and indications suggest most likely done with a sharp smooth blade with no serrations.”
I turned off the recorder and put a block beneath his back to arch the chest up, and then I went about the task of cleaning the body. It was all routine. I took x-rays and developed them, placing the images on the light wall above my desk. It showed me what I already knew—that the victim was beaten and tortured. I noted a couple of old breaks on his right ulna and left femur. Most likely childhood breaks from the remodeling.
But what would tell me the real story was on the inside. I turned my recorder back on, grabbed my scalpel, and made the first Y-cut. I had just removed the ribs when my cell phone started to ring. Jack didn’t normally call when he knew I was in the middle of an autopsy, so I figured it must be important. I took off my gloves and answered the phone.
“What’s up?” I asked.
“We’ve already got a hit on the fingerprints,” he said. “He was in the system.”
“Criminal or public servant?” I asked, thinking those were the two most likely categories of people to have their prints on file.
“A little of both,” he said. “John Donnelly.”
“Why does that name sound familiar?” I asked.
“Because he’s the slimeball attorney that just got Terrence Newman released from prison on a technicality.”
“Ohhhh,” I said, looking at the victim on my table in a new light. “That’s why he sounds familiar. I guess someone wasn’t too happy with Mr. Donnelly. He’s been worked over pretty good.”
“The list is going to be a mile long,” Jack said.
“You’d think someone this high profile would have been reported missing,” I said.
�
��I’m not sure John Donnelly is the kind of person anyone would miss. I’m going to get some more data on him, and I’m keeping this from public record until we can find out if he had any family.”
Jack didn’t bother to disguise his dislike for the victim. “Well,” I said. “This sucks.”
“Yeah, it does. People like John Donnelly don’t deserve justice. And I don’t say that lightly. In fact, I’m not sure I’ve ever said it about a victim before. But the world is better off without him. Sometimes death is too good for people.”
“Maybe so,” I said, trying to think of the right words to say. Jack lived by a very solid code of honor. He believed in justice. And he believed our job was to serve the victim. What he’d just said sounded like something that would come out of my mouth. We hadn’t always seen eye to eye on the cases we’d worked. I had a tendency to work in the gray areas a little. But not Jack.
“Maybe he did deserve to die,” I said. “That’s not our call to make. That’s between him and God. But that doesn’t mean there’s not a killer out there. Maybe he felt killing John Donnelly was justifiable. But maybe he’s got a taste for it now, and has decided his own brand of justice is more satisfying. If we can’t find the killer for this victim, we need to find the killer for future victims.”
Jack sighed. “I know you’re right. I was just venting. Chalk it up to lack of sleep. Meet me at the station when you’re done with the autopsy, and we’ll start asking questions. I want to know why no one bothered to report him missing.”
Jack hung up, and I was left alone with John Donnelly. I put on a fresh pair of gloves and got back to work.
I stared down into the gaping wound where his eye had once been. “You should know by now that in our line of work, justice is always served,” I told him. “Looks like you got yours.”
4
Two hours later, I had cause of death in hand. I didn’t send any digital files, considering the news would leak faster than a rusty bucket if I had. No one could keep their mouths shut in this town. So I printed everything out and sealed it in an envelope.
There wasn’t much more I could do with Mr. Donnelly at this point, so I rolled him into the cooler and cleaned up. By the time I got into the Suburban to head to the sheriff’s office, my stomach was growling. My early morning donuts didn’t have much staying power. I thought about Jack too, knew the French toast was probably the last thing he’d put in his mouth other than coffee, so I swung through a drive-thru and picked up a couple of hamburgers.
It felt like death clung to me, so I rolled down my windows, enjoying the cool afternoon and bright sunshine. It wouldn’t be long before these occasional warm days turned into snow and freezing temperatures.
Everyone else must’ve had the same thought, because the town square was bustling with people and cars. Businesses had their doors open and goods were displayed on the sidewalk. Banners hung across the streets advertising the Halloween party on the square. The courthouse looked like it belonged at a Halloween party year-round, and it loomed tall and Gothic in the center of the square, the gargoyle faces on the corners smiling down obscenely.
The jail, sheriff’s office, fire station and civil building were on the opposite side, attached together in a space that was desperate for expansion, but had nowhere to grow but up. The good news was that a bond had passed to build a new fire station, so once they vacated the premises, Jack would be able to do the renovations to the sheriff’s office and jail that were necessary for the county.
I parked in one of the employee spots in front of the jail, and if I’d been paying attention to who was in front of me, I would’ve parked three blocks away and walked. Tom Daly stood on the sidewalk, staring straight at me. I knew I had a deer-in-the-headlights look, and I wondered if I just stayed as still as possible if I’d become invisible. I debated on whether or not to get out of the car, but then he looked at me oddly and waved.
I blew out a sigh and got out of the car. “Hey, Tom,” I said awkwardly. “How’s it going?”
“It’s going,” he said, shrugging. “How are things with you? Congratulations on your marriage. I guess I haven’t seen you in a while.”
Guilt swamped me. He really was a nice guy. “Thanks,” I said. “Things have been busy. I’ll stop in the shop one day this week and catch you up. We caught a homicide this morning, so I’m heading in to see Jack.”
“I’ll look forward to seeing you,” he said, his hangdog expression brightening a little. “Tell Jack hello for me, and that he’s got our support for reelection.”
“Will do,” I said, my chest tight. “See you soon.”
I walked past him and up the steps that led to the sheriff’s office. I waved my way past the sergeant manning the front desk, and headed back to Jack’s office. He was just hanging up the phone when I walked in.
“Good timing,” he said, eyeing the fast-food bag in my hand. “Is that for me?”
“Yep,” I said, putting the bag and the envelope with the autopsy findings on his desk.
“I love you desperately,” he said. “Have I told you that today?”
“It’s always worth repeating,” I said. “I just ran into Tom Daly. We’ll be stopping by sometime this week to buy donuts for the station.”
Jack’s lips twitched. “You’re trying to make my officers fat. But in this case, I’m all for it.”
“Why did you say I had good timing?” I asked, handing Jack a burger and keeping the other for myself. I sat down in the seat across from him.
“Because I just got off the phone with an officer in Richmond who says they found an abandoned red Porsche Cayenne in a supermarket parking lot. The manager called the police and they came out and ran the plates. Guess who it belongs to?”
“I’m going to go with John Donnelly. There aren’t that many people in King George who could afford to drive around in a car like that.”
“Bingo,” he said. “The officer was calling so I could do a welfare check.”
“I can tell you on good authority that’s pointless. He’s very dead and in my cooler.”
“Did you find cause of death?”
“More or less,” I said. “Let’s just say that Donnelly did not treat his body well. My overall ruling is cardiac arrest. He was tortured, but not to the extent we’ve seen from other victims. His heart literally exploded from the trauma. My guess is he had a heart attack and died before the killer was able to enjoy his job too much.”
“Yikes,” Jack said.
“But here’s the kicker,” I continued. “It’s a miracle he didn’t drop dead of a heart attack before the killer got hold of him. He was in terrible shape. He had blockages in all of his arteries, his liver was a mess and showed signs of chronic alcoholism. He would’ve needed a transplant in the next year. And he had lung cancer to top it all off.”
“Geez,” Jack said. “Ticking time bomb. You’d never guess any of that by seeing him in court. Everyone knows he has a drinking problem, but by outward appearances, he seemed to be in good shape.”
“He’s had plastic surgery,” I said. “Face-lift, liposuction, calf implants, neck lift, eye lift, and nose job. And it looks like he’s been getting regular Botox injections.”
“He’d have a doctor for the injections, right?” Jack asked, and I nodded. “We’ll need to find out who it was and talk to them. No one wants to hire an attorney at that price who looks like they’re about to keel over. Appearances mean something.”
“Maybe he should’ve paid as much attention to his insides,” I said. “Between the cancer, his heart, and his liver, he probably had a matter of weeks, maybe months, to live.”
Jack grunted. “Anything else of interest?”
“Yeah, I ran a tox screen, and his blood alcohol level was .16. Only other contents in his stomach was snack mix—peanuts, pretzels, beer nuts.”
“Like you find at a bar,” he said.
“My thoughts too,” I agreed. “He was twice the legal limit, but leaving a bar and driving ho
me drunk would’ve been par for the course for a guy like Donnelly.”
“I haven’t released his name yet,” Jack said. “I was waiting on you to notify next of kin. He’s got a few kids scattered across the tristate area and a couple of ex-wives. When I was digging, I also found a woman he got pregnant about ten years ago, but he paid her a couple of million dollars to move to another state and have the kid on her own. His current live-in is a woman named Kimberly Kloss. Her name is on the lease of a townhouse they have in Manhattan, and her name also comes up on the title on another red Porsche, only hers is a 911. I’m very interested to ask why she never reported him missing.”
“It just so happens my schedule is free for the rest of the evening,” I said. “Why don’t we pay Ms. Kloss a visit?
John Donnelly’s home was in the High Pointe neighborhood in King George Proper. It was a gated community on the golf course, and everyone drove their golf carts around to luncheons and parties at the club. I much preferred our privacy out in the country and our view of the Potomac.
Jack showed his badge to the gate guard and we motored through a winding neighborhood with beautiful homes and perfectly manicured lawns. There was a large pond with a fountain spurting water in several different arcs, and there were groups scattered along the golf course finishing their afternoon tee times.
Donnelly’s house was a stucco monstrosity with a Spanish tile roof and a lot of windows. I was more interested in the two black cars parked in the front drive with their trunks popped open.
“Looks like someone is taking a trip,” I said, noting the brand-name luggage piled into each trunk.
“Someone is about to be disappointed,” Jack said, parking his Tahoe behind the second car.
We got out of the car and crossed the pavers to oversized double doors that stood wide open. There were people everywhere, and they all seemed to be in a hurry. Women carried stacks of towels and clothing, and men hauled suitcases. A woman was on a ladder, dusting the giant chandelier in the foyer, and another woman was putting new flowers in the big urn on the table.
