I carry the slide to a counter where there’s a polarizing light microscope, and, turning the objective lens to 100×, I adjust the focus and peer through the binocular eyepiece. The fiber is actually a group of them fused together, multicolored, like bundles of electrical wiring, pale green and peach but predominantly blue.
“Synthetic.” I return to the table. “Beyond that, Ernie will have to figure it out,” I add as I continue to think of the bluish Lycra fibers recovered in Dr. Venter’s case. “In her hair, in her teeth, up into her sinuses.” I remove a plastic speculum from its sterile wrapper. “That makes me strongly suspect she was suffocated with a fabric that’s stretchy and a multifilament synthetic weave is going to have some flexibility.”
“Like the polyester pants I used to wear as a kid.” Anne clips fingernails, collecting them in an envelope. “Just stretchy enough to show every roll of flab, and, yes, as hard as it is to believe, I was a bit of a butterball and never went to the prom. So the fibers aren’t from the cloth she was wrapped in because it’s white.”
“No, they’re definitely not from that,” I answer. “The white cloth was the finishing touch after she was dead. He kept her someplace where he could pose her body, leaving her in the position she’s in now until rigor was fixed enough to move her.”
“You can tell that how?” Lucy stands back from the table, watching us.
“Her postmortem artifacts,” I reply. “The position she’s in now was the one she was in as she cooled and began to stiffen as her livor and rigor formed.”
“He positioned her arm out like that deliberately.” Lucy holds hers out and drops her wrist.
“Yes.”
“Like a clay sculpture hardening,” Anne says.
“That’s bizarre.” Lucy ponders such a detail. “Why?”
“Why do any of these people do what they do?” Anne replies.
“It must mean something.”
“I think for people like this they don’t even know what it means.” Anne hands me an envelope to initial. “They do these awful things but if you asked them why, they have no idea.”
“That’s probably true,” I agree.
“It may go back to when they were a baby or too young to remember,” Anne says. “You know, like the time when I slammed this door and didn’t know a cat was back there and broke its tail. I never got over it, but what if that was my signature if I were a criminal? I was traumatized when I was ten and always do something to cats. I break their tails.”
“You know what?” Lucy says. “You’re sick.”
“Tell her I’m not,” Anne says to me.
We begin to swab orifices, all of them.
“She was wrapped in something else while she was alive,” Lucy returns her attention to what’s on my table.
“It would explain the fibers under her nails, in her hair and mouth,” I reply as my mind sorts through possibilities.
A way to restrain his victims without leaving a mark, I recall thinking as I reviewed the D.C. case reports.
I remember sitting up in bed and envisioning each excruciating death, a transparent plastic bag from a spa store called Octopus taped over a victim’s head, her face turning a dusky bluish red, her eyes wide and terrified as arterial blood pumps and veins are obstructed by duct tape around her neck, a shower of pinpoint hemorrhages appearing on her lids and conjunctiva. It’s like attaching a balloon to the end of a hose. Water gushes in and has no place to go and pressure builds and the balloon ruptures, and I imagine the roaring in the victim’s head and her desperation to breathe. But Gail Shipton had no bag over her head and maybe he didn’t use the plastic bags to kill any of his victims.
Maybe Dr. Venter’s hypothesis is correct. The bags are a morbid ornament the killer incorporates into the way he symbolically poses the bodies when he leaves them displayed and he didn’t bother with that finishing touch in Gail Shipton’s case because she interrupted his ritual and fantasy by dying prematurely. It could be he actually suffocates his victims with a soft, stretchy fabric, possibly one made of Lycra, and this could explain their lack of defense injuries. It could explain the fibers deep in Gail Shipton’s nasal cavities and in Julianne Goulet’s airway and lungs.
People being smothered fight like hell and there’s no evidence these women did. As Benton says, it’s as if they died willingly, and that just isn’t possible. People don’t. In suicidal asphyxiations, biology has the final say after they have decided their lives away and set the plan into motion. They claw at the noose around their neck as they dangle and flail after they’ve kicked over what they were standing on. They rip at the bag over their head and they fight until the end when they drown. Pain and panic change their minds as every cell screams to stay alive and I imagine wrapping someone from head to toe in a synthetic fabric that has some give. Something stretchy.
The pelvic exam reveals no evidence of sexual assault, no semen, no contusions or inflammation, and I work swiftly. I have a mission in mind, an additional scientific step before the autopsy, and snapping a new blade into the scalpel I make the Y incision, running down the length of torso, detouring around the navel. I reflect back tissue but don’t remove the breastplate of ribs just yet. I find the bifurcation of the aorta in front of the sacroiliac joints at the pelvic brim. Using angiocatheters, I cannulate the left external iliac artery and begin pumping in large syringes of pink embalming fluid laced with a non-ionic contrast agent that will light up neon white on CT.
It fills out arteries and veins, and they expand visibly beneath the surface of the skin as if Gail Shipton’s blood is circulating again. She almost looks alive and yet my station in the autopsy room smells like a funeral home.
“Let’s get her back into the scanner.” I take off my gloves and face shield. “We’ll see if something was going on with her vascular structures. Let’s see if she went into cardiac arrest before he had the chance to murder her.”
“What are you thinking killed her exactly?” Lucy asks.
“This likely is going to be a diagnosis of exclusion,” I reply. “Determining what didn’t kill her might help us figure out what did. I know, for example, that at some point her blood pressure went through the roof, causing petechial hemorrhages in the conjunctiva of her eyes.”
I detach the autopsy table from the sink and release the brakes on the swivel caster wheels.
“I’m entertaining the possibility that she died of cardiac arrest while being shocked with a stun gun,” I explain, “or perhaps while he was attempting to smother her with something that left fibers in her nose and mouth. She may have been struggling to breathe but I don’t think she struggled long, not as long as it usually would take to smother someone, especially if the killer does it slowly, sadistically, enjoys drawing it out.”
“Like he waits until they pass out, then loosens the cloth so they can breathe, and does it over and over again,” Anne suggests.
“Possibly, but not with Gail. Not with a pneumothorax. Did she ever complain to you about chest pain, about any cardiac problems?” I ask Lucy.
“Not specifically. I know she complained of being really stressed. As I mentioned, sometimes she said she felt short of breath. She sighed a lot, was tired a lot, but that could have been from anxiety, and she didn’t exercise. The most she’d do was walk on a treadmill.” She stares at Gail Shipton’s face, her own a hard mask that gets more rigid with each minute that passes.
“Are you hanging in there?” I ask her.
“What do you expect?”
“You don’t have to be here.”
“Yes I do. It doesn’t bother me the way you think it would.”
We wheel Gail Shipton across the autopsy room.
“She did this to herself,” Lucy says. “That’s what bothers me.”
“She didn’t do it,” I reply. “Someone else did.”
“I’m not blaming her for what he did. But I’m blaming her for what she set into motion.”
“Let’s not blame her,” I say to
my niece. “No one ever deserves to be murdered, I don’t give a damn what they do.”
Back inside large-scale x-ray, we cover the scanner’s table with clean sheets and position the body on its back. I push more embalming fluid through the iliac artery and Anne presses a button and the table slides in with a quiet hum. She angles the gantry, pressing a red button to landmark where the laser lines intersect at the head.
“We’ll start the scan at the carina, the lowest tracheal cartilage, and scan to the top of the orbit,” I instruct.
We retreat to Anne’s console behind glass and turn on the bright red X-Ray in Use warning sign and shut the door. The level of radiation in that room is safe only if you’re dead.
“Virtual 3-D volume rendering from inside out,” I decide. “Thin, thin cuts, one-millimeter, with an increment between them. What do you think?”
“Point-seventy-five by point-five will do.” Anne uses her computer to turn on the scanner.
It begins to pulse. Buzz-buzz-bloop-bloop — warming up. We hear the sounds of the x-ray tube rotating, and she selects Chest on the menu, opening a box on the area of interest, which is the structures of the heart. That’s what we’ll start with. I want to know if Gail Shipton suffered from some vascular defect that might have made her vulnerable to a sudden death that, as Benton suggests, cheated the Capital Murderer.
When he shot her with a stun gun did she go into an arrhythmia and die before he could suffocate her? Did her heart quit while she was struggling violently to breathe and he didn’t get to finish torturing her? I have a suspicion that the pinpoint hemorrhages in the conjunctiva of her eyes might be related to a blood flow constriction, possibly a problem with one or more of her valves. The Washington, D.C., victims had a light scattering of petechiae across the cheeks and eyelids but Gail Shipton’s ruptured capillary vessels are profoundly florid.
What happened to you?
“If you follow the contrast agent through her vessels,” I explain to Lucy, “you can see the structures in exquisite detail, nice and bright like well-lit roads. And here’s the problem. Right here.” I point at the computer display. “In real time we’re seeing a defect she likely had no idea about.”
“Wow, that’s too bad.” Anne moves the cursor, opening a new box and grabbing the image. “It’s always scary to think what might be inside us just waiting to ruin our day.”
I show Lucy the narrowing of a coronary artery that caused an insufficient blood flow to the heart.
“Aortic valvular stenosis, which has caused thickening of the muscle wall of the left pumping chamber,” I note. “Possibly this is a congenital condition or maybe as a child she suffered a bacterial infection that caused inflammation and scarring. Strep throat, for example, that turned into rheumatic fever.” I recall what Bryce said about Gail Shipton’s teeth. “That might be why she had enamel malformation, if she was on an antibiotic such as tetracycline.”
“What would this valve problem do to her?” Lucy asks.
“Over time her heart would have continued to lose its ability to efficiently pump blood, eventually reaching a point when the muscle would no longer expand.”
“Meaning she was a candidate for heart failure. In other words, she wasn’t looking at a healthy long life,” Lucy says as if that’s what she wants to believe.
“Who knows what anybody has to look forward to?” Anne says. “Remember Jim Fixx, the running guru? He goes out for his daily jog and drops dead of a heart attack. Rich people on the golf course get struck by lightning. Patsy Cline went down in a plane crash. Elvis died on the toilet and that sure as hell wasn’t what he had in mind when he got up that morning at Graceland.”
“She would have had fatigue, shortness of breath, heart palpitations. She might have felt faint during exertion, which is consistent with what you’ve described to me,” I say to Lucy as I study the scan. “She may have had swollen ankles and feet.”
“Sometimes she complained about her shoes being tight.” Lucy sounds more entranced than somber or sad. “She liked slip-ons, sandals.”
I envision the green faux-crocodile leather flat Marino found behind the Psi Bar.
“Sounds like she was already decompensating. Did she have routine physicals?” I ask.
“I don’t know except she hated doctors.”
“Her heart had to pump harder than it should have,” I continue to explain.
“She hated people, really,” Lucy says. “She was introverted and antisocial and I should have known better when she tried to pick us up.”
“Pick you up?” Anne turns in her chair, her mouth agape. “She tried to pick you and Janet up in a bar? Well, that’s living dangerously.”
“At the Psi one night last spring,” she says and I recall that in the spring I didn’t yet know Janet was back in Lucy’s life.
I don’t like to be reminded of what my niece doesn’t tell me. By now I should be callous to her secrets and deceptions or at least no longer give that part of her nature a second thought. Why should I care in the least when so much of what she withholds I’m better off not knowing? I’ve asked myself that for the better part of thirty years, since Lucy was an enfant terrible getting into my computer, my desk, my personal life, into every facet of my being. She knew Gail Shipton and isn’t bothered to see her dead, to see her internal organs, to smell death and feel how cold it is.
“She sent drinks over. Then she pulled out a chair at our table and we started talking. Initially I thought there was something off about her, but around MIT?” Lucy shrugs. “People are a little different. That night was the friendliest I ever saw her for a reason. It was an act.”
“The act of someone who was a walking heart attack,” Anne says. “If you think of the valves as doors, hers didn’t open and close properly. It’s hard to imagine she didn’t feel a fluttering in her chest or maybe angina.”
“She would have just thought it was stress,” Lucy says. “Which is part of Carin’s case against Double S. The stress of what they did to Gail was affecting her health, causing shortness of breath, tightness of the chest, acute anxiety that was crippling her ability to work.”
“If you’re going to make a case about it, then why not get a physical?” Anne asks.
“Gail didn’t want it disproven. She didn’t want a clean bill of health.”
“The irony is she wouldn’t have gotten one. See the narrowing of the mitral valve?” I point it out on the scan. “It may also have been leaky.”
“You get what you get when you pick your victim,” Anne remarks. “Acute physical distress and she probably died on the f’ing bastard.”
“We know she died on him one way or other.” Lucy stares at the 3-D image of Gail Shipton’s damaged heart as if it’s a metaphor for who she really was. “Flawed,” she adds. “Too damn bad you can’t see it in everyone,” she says with a trace of frost.
“Her cause of death is going to be cardiac arrest due to valvular stenosis with contributing factors of a left pneumothorax and acute physical distress due to being shot by a stun gun,” I conclude.
“A homicide by heart disease,” Anne says cynically. “Defense attorneys will have a field day with that one. They’ll say she was ripped off by Double S and died of a broken heart,” she adds as the door suddenly flies open.
Bryce rushes into the room like a turbulent wind, a call sheet in hand that’s filled with his carefully formed, copious script.
“Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit!” he exclaims as he hands the sheet of paper to me, what I can tell at a glance is information about a case just called in by Marino. “They’ve had a horrible massacre in Concord!”
32
The V-10 sound of Lucy’s SUV is a cross between a Humvee and a Ferrari, a chugging and growling with an underlying two-beat rhythm of thick rubber tread on asphalt, a combination of thrumming and clop-clopping. The massive wheels seem to float over the roughest pavement as if my cognac leather seat is a cloud.
My niece calls her latest acqui
sition a land crusher with air suspension and I accepted her offer of transportation, having no intention of riding with Rusty and Harold in the large-capacity removal vehicle we refer to as a bread truck. I won’t be ready for them for quite a while and I also wasn’t about to stop somewhere to gas up whatever Bryce found for me in the lot. My docs are overwhelmed with autopsies stacked up and more on the way and I didn’t want to bring one of them to the scene or borrow Anne. Lucy can help me and Marino will be there.
I feel better inside an armored vehicle that brings to mind Darth Vader or Middle Eastern potentates who have galactic wars and bombs and bullets to worry about. I’m relieved to be in Lucy’s SUV. I’m relieved to be with her. The information Marino relayed to me over the phone as we were pulling out of the bay is scant. But it’s ghastly, almost unbelievably so. The 911 call this morning about an active shooter wasn’t completely wrong in its implications that a madman in Concord may have just gone on a killing spree.
But the suspicious person seen running through Minute Man Park late this morning wasn’t there to spray bullets at schoolchildren on an outing. It’s unlikely he knew the children would be there when he fled through acres of forest separating the Revolutionary War battleground from the rolling pastureland, outbuildings and main office and house of Double S, a horse farm and financial firm where at least three people are dead in what Marino described to me as a “Jack the Ripper bloodbath.”
The victims didn’t know what hit them, Marino said, their throats cut while they were getting something to eat or sitting in their chairs. The suspect, who witnesses describe as a young male dressed in jeans and a dark hoodie with an Andy Warhol — like image of Marilyn Monroe on it, burst out of the woods and flew over a wooden footbridge. He leapt through a swarm of fourth graders on a path “scattering them like bowling pins,” in Marino’s words. The man raced across Liberty Street and into a public parking lot thick with cars.
There was so much panic and confusion, no one seemed to know what happened to him after backfires that sounded like gunshots, with children and teachers grabbing one another and running and diving to the ground. When police units and SWAT showed up the man wasn’t to be found. No one recalled a vehicle speeding away or even noticing one shortly after the incident. The Medflight helicopter was turned around and the police probably would have assumed the entire incident was a false alarm were it not for one important detail.
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