I mention all this because, just my luck, the remaining two horsemen were smoking cigarettes in front of the once abandoned and now rehabbed hospital building as I pulled up. I was hoping not to meet them. I wasn’t sure they knew who I was but I recognized them from newspaper articles. They liked face-time.
Which was amazing, given Pestilence’s face.
However, I was looking forward to meeting Gerry’s brother, Tom Beardsley, Junior Detective with CCSD. He’d been given the lead on this investigation and that might mean someone was considering him for a promotion.
I checked my cell phone to see if there was a message from Dr. Bridle. There was. She would be joining me inside shortly. I mustered up the courage to deal with the Horsemen, and climbed out of my car.
Avoiding eye contact, I made my approach to the one story buildings where Jake Stowall’s exam would be performed. As I neared the T in the sidewalk I couldn’t help but overhear part of the detectives’ conversation.
“Pizaro thinks it’s just a coincidence. The women probably moved on, to greener pastures. Barflies do that.”
“Yeah, but not two. Pizaro’s a dickhead. I think Lemon has picked it up. He’s a doer….”
Part of police work, trying to find the missing. And part of ours. LIRI has worked several missing persons’ cases over the past three years.
I quietly slipped inside the Forensics Center and began walking down a grim hall. Maybe it wasn’t really grim. Maybe it was just the nature of the facility and the activity I was approaching that made me feel grim.
The Cleveland County Forensic Sciences Center was a combo affair, part county veterinarian lab and part Medical Examiner’s offices, which seemed apropos somehow. Not just because both activities involved autopsies and the medical-slash-legal effort to define cause of death, but also because in death humans are often reduced to little more than animals.
What after all is the difference between corpses and carcasses—except what we lend them? I mused as my shoes tapped out my approach on the linoleum floor. Anyway, the whole combination use facility was a fit to my thinking.
Until sounds of a lowing cow somewhere deep in the gray and dingy white buildings further unnerved me, reminding me that in the veterinarian part some of the patients were still alive. Her complaint lent an air of despair to the activities at hand. Following signs to the elevators, I rounded the corner and found Dr. Karen Bridle waiting.
We made our greetings and my mood lifted.
Bridle was wearing a silk blouse in pale gold under a green suit. Her cocoa ears sparkled with tiny emeralds. Very businesslike, very chic. I wasn’t shabby in my sorrel, roan and black chestnut print dress with solid sorrel matching jacket, black pumps, and saddlebag shaped purse. It was what I thought of as my horse lover’s outfit.
Fumbling with the envelope containing copies of the photographs of Jake Stowall in situ while taking my roan raincoat off, I said, “I still haven’t cleared your entrance to the procedure, but I’m sure we’ll be able to work something out.”
I was thinking Gerry’s son Tom could pull some strings for us, but Karen said, “There won’t be a problem. As I’ve told you, I’m a frequent expert-on-call for the Forensic Science Center. In fact, I’m a bit surprised I wasn’t called in on this procedure, but then…” she paused while the double doors slid open silently. We stepped inside and turned toward the front, alone in the huge steel elevator meant to accommodate rolling beds. As the doors slid shut again, my heart and the hospital Otis descended together.
She continued, “…if the doctor handling this case is the Head County Medical Examiner, Dr. Khoja Marana, that would explain my exclusion. He hates me. He’s very political and I inadvertently went public on what I thought was a botched routine autopsy years ago, and he’s been snotty with me ever since. His name is Hindi Sanskrit for master death.
As the doors slid open, now two stories down, I stood momentarily speechless, but finally asked, “Is that master with an –ing or with an of?”
She chuckled uncharacteristically. “Of, I think. Come on, let’s get hopping. We’re late and I want a good seat.”
Good seat? I’d be pleased with the back row. Maybe in another room.
Still anxious I followed her down bisecting halls. In truth, I’d only attended a couple of autopsies in my second career, as part of some post certification training I volunteered for in San Diego, and that had been with a class of eight that I could get lost in. So my butterflies were aflutter again.
Dead ahead, no pun intended, were the backs of the Dos Malos twins. How had they beaten us down here? I shook myself, mentally, and stepped forward into the deep silence of the final hallway. We joined the small clutch of official looking men—now including the Horsemen--spilling out of a doorway. But we didn’t stay at the back of the pack for long. Just inside the double doors, marked “Exam” on one and “Room #3” on the other, was a small anteroom with a marred steel desk. Sitting at the desk was Gerry Patrone, with her brother Tom. I pushed past the others and led Dr. Bridle with me. I could feel the pack of men bristle as I jumped line.
Another set of double doors led into the autopsy room itself, these with circular windows at head height. They were closed at the moment.
I won’t bother telling you what Gerry was wearing. Her outfit was just too gorgeous. No wild zebras this time, all business, all class. Again, the greetings, this time in hushed tones. Tom Beardsley’s eyes lingered on my face then moved on to search Karen Bridle’s as well. He was memorizing, analyzing. Smart.
“The pathtech is prepping the body inside. When Dr. Marana gets here some of us will go in,” Gerry said.
Okay, I will tell you what she was wearing. A burgundy opera coat, still draped over her shoulders and open to a rose colored faux suede dress. A silk scarf of mixed lavenders and pinks tucked in around her long throat. Her mid-calf burgundy boots matched the heel-length cape, both of which were necessary as the dress barely reached her knees when she stood. Seated…well I won’t be wearing anything that short ever again. Sigh.
Her ears and one delicate hand were adorned with pink opals. This matching purse was another Coach…she must have stock in the company. Same-o pink Gucci watch, tsh-tsh.
A female Sherlock Holmes, perhaps? Under a blond pile of outrageous curls?
Okay, the boys behind me weren’t jostling up for a seat at a postmortem were they? They were preening for Gerry, youngish wife of a magnate.
The doors to the exam room shoved toward us and a tall white coated guy stepped out, fixing the doors in the open position. His name tag announced he was Dr. Marana--not at all what I was expecting. He wasn’t quite Indian, he wasn’t quite Persian, but he was generally Asian. He didn’t have an acne ravaged complexion as I’d expected. Wasn’t under five foot five. Wasn’t fat. Wasn’t, ugly. He was an Asian Will Smith. Unfortunately the wave of chemicals now pouring forth from the opened morgue room was a jarring contrast.
The Asian Will glanced perfunctorily at me, then spotted Dr. Bridle, flashed what I thought was a scowl—but could have been confusion--and swept back into the examination suite practically shouting back at us in a deep baritone voice, “Only room for five of you inside.”
What the hell was this beautiful guy doing in a morgue?
Another cool breath bordering on cold blew out of the exam room as the doors finished swinging closed. It smelled like Death himself was waiting inside.
But there was no time to lose in reverie or fear.
“I’ll wait out here so you two can go in. Hurry,” a now-hovering Gerry whispered in my ear.
Moving quickly, I led Dr. Bridle inside with me and bravely took a place by the body, telling Dr. Marana, “I was the first to discover Jake Stowall’s remains and have been asked to stand in for the family during the autopsy. I asked Dr. Bridle to accompany me.” Not a complete lie. Just a partial.
We’d caught the men off guard, but the rest of the available viewing space was quickly taken up by the white and bla
ck horsemen, and Tom Beardsley. Gerry tossed a meager wave as the closing doors shut her out. I saw relief on her face. Brat.
Behind me I heard the young sheriff’s deputy cough and then gag slightly. I hoped he wouldn’t toss on my clean suit. It was the odor. Jake had been dead and buried for a couple of weeks by now—and before that he’d simmered in the sun out of doors before being found. Although he’d been embalmed, the smell of death was still profound, and now mixed with some damp, earthy fragrance, perhaps gathered from the deep hole he’d been in—maybe seeping through the walls of his flimsy coffin, I mused. This branch of the Stowall’s weren’t rich.
The pathtech offered a small jar of camphor and surgical masks. I wiped some on the mask and gratefully pulled it on. I took out my notepad and pencil, and surreptitiously turned on the recorder hanging on a thin cord around my neck and under my dress.
The table the body rested on was elevated three inches above the normal counter height to accommodate the handsome ME’s height, skewing our view of things somewhat. However, the downward slanting, cold steel bed had the usual indentation to catch fluids, raised edges, and stained clear tubes underneath. Marana took his place diagonally across from me and asked his assistant to lift the sheet from the body. The smell grew in intensity and those of us on the perimeter took an unconscious step back. I bumped into Pestilence and a new smell briefly claimed my nose. Fahrenheit 32, I believe. I know that because a friend of ours wears it. Learner must have taken a bath in the popular men’s cologne for me to notice it over the stench rising from the corpse and the camphor under my nose. Maybe it was a trick of his, to cope with the aromas of decay.
Marana pulled the ceiling microphone lower and began recording his observations.
“The autopsy of Jake Stowall. Mr. Stowall comes to us through exhumation. The Stowall family, using their physician and lawyers, overrode the County M.E.’s initial call for a postmortem.” He looked pointedly at Dr. Bridle as he spoke. “This procedure is court ordered as per Cleveland County Superior Court Judge Gregory Canon. Unfortunately Mr. Stowall was embalmed as required by law for inhumation, effectively removing a significant body of evidence through which the cause of death might have been clarified.
“First observations: Mr. Stowall’s remains have been severely burned in the mid-September wildfires, significantly damaging a second body of evidence, the exposed skin.” His voice fell to a robotic drone as he detailed the visible damage to the upper torso.
To my left, Karen Bridle suddenly interrupted. “May I offer the Medical Examiner a possible solution to the issues you’ve raised at this point?”
Marana lifted his large brown eyes to her face, scowl deepening, but said nothing. I thought I felt something almost physical pass between them. Her chin thrust forward. His head lowered, but then he was tall… Hmmm. Did these two have a history, other than the one Bridle had just mentioned? It was an errant thought that caused me to reassess Karen in the strong exam room lighting. She was really quite lovely. She had an air of nobility about her that increased her beauty—and was only a few inches shorter than the giant Indian with Asian or Iranian or maybe even Chinese features.
Perhaps some distant African relative of Karen’s was a Maasai king… I wondered if she was even aware of his reaction to her, given her remarks in the elevator.
“I took tissue samples from the body when we discovered it, including a small amount of blood.” I remembered her working closely at the body while I had my back turned trying not to vomit when we first discovered it. She pulled a bulky brown envelope from her briefcase, which I then realized was a cooler in disguise.
“Common! That evidence is worthless. How do we know she hasn’t messed with it?” Detective Learner objected rudely. Surprised, I looked at him. Why did he sound like a lawyer for the defense? And, whose defense? Now next to me, Learner’s ugly mouth curved up slightly at the corners, and I realized he’d achieved his goal. His objection was now on the record, actually on the official recording. So, if not the state, then who was Detective Learner representing?
The look of anger on Marana’s face increased, but his eyes remained on Bridle’s face. He growled, “There is a flow to this procedure I cannot allow spectators to interrupt lest a step be omitted.” His narrowed eyes now slid to Detective Learner. “As you well know detective, Dr. Karen Bridle is a board certified forensic specialist who is fully aware of evidentiary collection and transportation procedures. Any further comments during this examination may force me to remove all of you until it is completed. Am I clear?” The pathtech, Larry as it turns out, slid quietly up to Karen and took her offered envelope.
So Marana’s apparent displeasure with Karen Bridle did not preclude his defending her professionally and accepting any evidence she had to offer. She had his respect, and maybe even his love.
Okay, that was a leap, I know. But you had to have been there. These young people today put so many years into their educations that their love lives are often delayed. Perhaps Matt and I could plan a dinner party… Maybe the man she’d been searching for all these years was standing right in front of her, but circumstances, yucky circumstances, prevented her from seeing him in that light. At least it would get her out of the silly relationship she was in with the Sly Senior I’d seen on Applepine Ridge. Guy had to be in his sixties.
The autopsy recaptured my attention.
Jake Stowall’s face and hands had been partially cleaned—debris and some blackened tissue had been removed--as if preparation for viewing had begun and then stopped. Perhaps a relative had intervened, realizing an open casket would be ill advised—or the mortician came to his senses.
The sight of the body brought back the unpleasant memories of photographing his corpse on Applepine Ridge. Except the maggots were mostly gone, also probably cleaned off by the mortician. The dried leaves and bits of fabric also seemed to have been washed away. His naked body now before us was shades of gray dappled with zones of flesh and zones of no flesh and a blackened bloody rawness in between.
My stomach churned as I fought the urge to retreat further. The smart-ass detective next to me made no effort to hide his glee at my discomfort. I didn’t have to have Ruth’s apparent powers to know what he was thinking. Serves the stupid woman right for forcing her way in here.
Dr. Marana finally turned his attention to the grossly swollen leg extending awkwardly off the left side of Jake Stowall’s body.
In his meticulous examination of the corpse Khoja Marana repeatedly noted the extreme damage done by the fires that had whipped through the Cleveland County region where the body was found, and how that damage limited the ability to collect evidence from the surface of the body. But now his monotone recording of the details of the autopsy took on a new pitch.
“The patient’s left leg appears to have been damaged in removal from the burial site, or transportation to the Center.” He then shoved the leg back into place, forcing it to lie straight, ignoring the fact that the swelling he was fighting was caused by extreme internal tissue damage--even ignoring the grotesque tear on the calf.
As an afterthought he added, “The left leg is lacerated and swollen, possibly an injury the patient suffered in his attempts to escape the approaching fires. It is my initial judgment that Jake Stowall died of a heart attack, possibly during the ordeal of burning alive. I reserve my final decision as to cause of death until all tests are completed and the results reviewed. End of notes on Jake Stowall.” He clicked off the microphone and pushed it up toward the ceiling. He was done. What?
His eyes fell first on Karen, then slid to me, as if to say, Are there any questions?
I glanced at Learner. He was smiling.
Of course, I had a question.
“What about the snakebite Dr. Marana? Do you think that might have played any part in his demise?”
At this point I was introduced to what I finally realized was Dr. Marana’s political side. The one Dr. Karen Bridle had mentioned. He began complaining loudly abo
ut the way the body was handled when it was discovered, reiterating his argument that the leg had been damaged by mishandling somewhere down the line. But never once did he look at the swollen, torn leg muscles so clearly the result of some venomous attack.
I grew more certain as Learner began nodding agreement. He was cooperating with the cop. He was going to cover up the real cause of death…the snake bite. The cop was no doubt doing the bidding of someone else, someone with serious political clout.
I calmly handed one set of my photographs to Gerry’s son. And then, while spreading the second set for Marana to see, occasionally turning them toward the detectives, I offered Technicolor proof that the damage done to Jake Stowall’s left leg was clearly visible at the time of discovery, and clearly the result of snakebite.
“The photographs of the crime scene make it obvious this wound occurred before his death,” I said.
“Crime scene? How presumptuous Ms. Lyons. Not all deaths are crimes.”
The voice came from behind me. Pestilence, then.
I said, “This one is.”
The ME rejoined. “And how, in your expert opinion, is that true?”
“Well, Dr. Marana, if you’ll turn your scrutiny to Jake Stowall’s swollen left leg we might actually have an intelligent discussion about how unnatural his death was.” I immediately regretted my sarcasm. Another of my infernal failings is my unconscious mirroring of other people’s emotions--in this case the not-so-good doctor’s. He glanced briefly at the photos now in his hands.
“Ms. Lyons, I have omitted nothing in my examination of this man’s body. He has clearly been bitten by a venomous snake, sometime before his actual death by fire and/or heart attack, and that fact will be included in my written report. You see, you didn’t need to bring your herpetologist expert with you. I’m actually quite capable of noticing when a man has been bitten by a snake.” He turned and offered his gloved hands to his assistant, clearly preparing to leave the room.
Ada Unraveled Page 10
