Gin turned her attention to the body, and immediately noticed something shocking: there was already a Y-incision similar to the kind made in an autopsy in the dead man’s torso. It had been sewn shut using what appeared to be shiny red nylon cord, the type used for crafting or gift wrap. It was a serviceable job, other than the materials used and the size of the stitches.
“Yeah,” Stephen said in a tone of confusion. “Got to say I’ve never seen anything like this before. Never even heard of anything like this before.”
“Neither have I,” Gin agreed, bending down to take a closer look. Without any means of preserving the body, the incision area was badly degraded, but otherwise surprisingly precise. The end of the cord had been neatly knotted below the final stitch.
“Do you think this was done by someone with training?” Wheeler asked. She didn’t appear to be put off by the sight, and Gin remembered that she had come up through the ranks of homicide herself.
“Hard to know, though the stitch is different—we don’t typically use an overcast stitch. So I’d say no. Just to catch you up to speed, Gin,” he added, “analysis of the post-mortem blood sample showed heroin and alcohol.”
“Signs of chronic use, I assume?” Gin asked, basing her assessment on faint track marks visible near the wrists and telangiectasia, or prominent cutaneous blood vessels of the face, evident even despite the swelling and decomposition of the skin.
“Yes, and we’ll get a better read from tox, obviously, for what it’s worth.”
“You’ll be able to determine if this was an overdose?”
“No, unfortunately,” Stephen said. “The levels won’t necessarily reflect those at time of death, especially since we can’t pinpoint when it was.”
“But given their presence at detectable levels, it’s reasonable to assume he was intoxicated.”
Stephen nodded. “Other than that, there is ample evidence of chronic exposure. These open lacerations on his ankles are from untreated varicose veins—they probably burst days before death. Here—these squiggly lines—that’s from a parasitic infestation. And this ulcer on the ear is an untreated carcinoma. Oh—and here, you see, he’s lost most of his toenails—he’s got damage to the soft tissue and nerves consistent with immersion foot.” He glanced at Wheeler. “That’s common in the homeless.”
“I remember,” she said grimly. Like, Gin, she’d probably seen too many exposure deaths while working the streets.
“Now it’s hard to be certain, but I’m seeing indications of possible strangulation.” He pointed to dark, bruise-like marks on the throat. “Because of the condition of the body, these aren’t distinct enough to be sure, but the discoloration here could be from asphyxia. Then again, it might not—and in half of strangulation deaths, there are no external marks at all. So it’s problematic.”
“But how else would you explain that?” Bruce demanded, pointing at the patchy ring of apparent bruising.
“I agree, it’s a strong possibility that he was strangled—I just can’t offer any guarantees.”
“Noted.”
“Okay. Moving on…” Stephen appeared to visibly steel himself, picking up a small pair of angled dissecting scissors. He snipped every few stitches carefully and removed them with tweezers, dropping the bits of cord onto a tray. He then used forceps to carefully lift the flaps of flesh on either side, folding them out of the way. Finally, he lifted the chest plate, which was typically removed in one piece during autopsy.
It fell apart in his hands.
“What the…”
Gin moved automatically to help him, then stopped herself. Instead, one of the technicians took one piece so that it didn’t fall back into the cavity and set it aside, while Stephen did the same with the other. Usually, bone saw or electric saw was used to cut each rib, and then the connective tissue was snipped away, and the entire plate removed in one piece with the cartilage and muscle attached. Then it was returned in one piece before the body was sewn closed.
But in this case, cuts seemed to have been made in several places, using a rougher tool that didn’t leave a clean edge.
“It was as if whoever did this didn’t know where to start,” Stephen said. “They may have—what the hell?”
He reached into the cavity, plucking out tissue that had come free of the ribs. Underneath were several round, purplish objects.
“What is that?” Wheeler asked.
“I don’t…” Stephen reached for a pair of forceps and carefully lifted the first object, laying it on the steel tray.
It was a plastic bag, the common kitchen zipper-top variety rather than the kind usually used to return the organs to the body cavity after they were examined and weighed. The contents looked like spoiled meat, swimming in viscous purple fluid. Stephen lifted out three more bags, each similar to the first, and laid them on the table. “That’s it,” he said.
“Are those his organs?” Wheeler asked.
“Not sure.” Stephen teased open the first bag’s zippered tops and upended its contents. The noxious odor in the room deepened. “It’s a heart, anyway, but…”
“I don’t understand,” Wheeler said.
No one spoke as Stephen opened the other three packages, all of which contained nearly identical organs.
“Four hearts,” Stephen said. “Obviously, decomposition is advanced, and liquification has begun.”
“Those aren’t human,” Gin said, breathing through her mouth as she leaned closer to the table. “I think they’re pig.”
“How can you tell? I mean, I haven’t seen a lot of them, but they look the same,” Wheeler said.
“Here,” Gin said, pointing to a large vessel to the rear of one of the hearts. “The cardinal vein in a pig is notably larger. Also, the shape is slightly different—more rounded, and the muscle is coarser, and kind of crumbly.”
“So someone took out this man’s organs, and replaced them with four pig hearts?”
“We’ll do further testing to be sure,” Stephen said.
Something was nagging at Gin’s brain, as she processed the horror of what was in front of her. “I’ve seen this before,” she said. “Or not this, but … something.”
“Well, I can say with certainty that I have never seen anything like this, ever.” Stephen appeared visibly shaken.
“Me either,” the technician said.
“Something ritualistic?” Wheeler asked. “There wasn’t anything like this in Douglas Gluck’s autopsy, was there?”
“No, in his case the original incision and the stitching that closed it were undisturbed. I don’t think he had been tampered with.”
“And you can’t draw any conclusions about the cause of death, I assume?”
“Not in the condition the body is in. It could have been any number of things. Without the internal organs, it’s anyone’s guess. Is there anything else you’d like to see, Captain?” Stephen asked politely.
“No, I think that’ll do. But do copy me on all reports relating to this case.”
“Of course.”
“And Gin, that goes for you too. I know I eventually see everything you turn in, but please consider this a priority. When can you have your report back to us?”
Gin thought fast. She’d hoped to spend time at the school today, but she could arrange to work on her proposal over the weekend. “I can get it to you by this evening.”
“That will be fine. And I am sure I don’t need to remind either of you to keep this information to yourselves.”
Stephen offered to walk out with Gin, as the techs began photographing and weighing the matter that had been bagged and placed in the body cavity. “I know you’ll want to get started on that report, but do you have time for lunch?”
Gin deliberated; she’d promised to text Tuck when the autopsy was over, but she welcomed the chance to brainstorm with Stephen. “I’m afraid I can’t do lunch, but I could squeeze in a quick cup of coffee.”
They decided to go to a popular little coffee shop nearby
on the Strip. As they walked in the late morning bustle, enjoying the sunshine, Stephen shared that the morale around the offices had been terrible.
“Not only is everyone anxious about the internal investigation, but no one knows what to make of Wheeler getting involved like this. I mean, obviously, this case presents a challenge for her election chances, so that part’s clear. But like today—she’s been showing up all over the place where she doesn’t make a habit of going. I heard from my friend in Narcotics that she’s been showing up at their daily briefing on a regular basis. I don’t remember that ever happening before.”
“Do you think she could be trying to conduct aspects of the investigation of her own? Like maybe she or her superiors don’t feel they are getting sufficient traction on the internal probe—the official one anyway—and they’ve elected to keep parts of it out of her subordinates’ hands and have her on the ground directly?”
“Well, if that were true, you could make a case that she’s investigating me. Because she’s never come to one of my autopsies before and I have to tell you, Gin, I kind of hope she doesn’t make a habit of it. I was so nervous in there … I was sure I was going to make some spectacular mistake and you were going to have to bail me out.”
Gin saw an opportunity. “Actually, speaking of bailing people out … Tuck once told me that you got him out of some hot water years ago when he was a sergeant.”
“Oh, that.” Stephen chuckled. “He way overstates my contribution to that case. I just noticed the inconsistency on the report, that’s all. A shooting victim’s family insisted that the responding officers let him bleed out on purpose, but I was able to determine time of death as preceding the officers’ arrival. Honestly, I think he could have defended the officers’ actions pretty easily if it had ever made it to court. He’s got—had, anyway—a pretty solid reputation. He just demands too much from himself, if you want my opinion. He’s the one who couldn’t accept that he hadn’t been able to resolve it himself.”
“But you and he became close … at least that’s what I took away from the conversation.”
Stephen shrugged. “Sure, he’s a great guy. But I mean we don’t get together outside of work or anything. Don’t get me wrong, if there were more hours in the day, I’d love to get together with him for a bike ride or a few beers, but he’s got his daughter and I’ve got the wife and kids, and, well, that’s a luxury that’s going to have to wait until things settle down at home.”
Gin was disappointed—it didn’t sound like Stephen was the source Tuck had been unwilling to name, after all. They’d arrived at the little coffee shop, and Stephen bought two lattes and two macaroons, which they carried to an iron table in the tiny outdoor seating area. As they were sitting down, Stephen’s phone rang. He glanced at his screen. “Sorry, Gin, I’d better get this—it’s the Westmoreland County guys.”
He answered and exchanged a quick greeting, then listened for a few moments, then said a terse goodbye, hung up and let out a breath. “Well—we’ve got a fingerprint ID match. That was Paul Singh, he’s a records officer over there. Our special guest this morning was Brian Dumbauld, age sixty-four, and not only has he been homeless for the last six years, he’s got a sheet as long as my arm dating back well before then. The last few years it’s been mostly minor stuff, vagrancy and public intoxication, and crimes of opportunity—purse snatching, shoplifting. One scuffle with another homeless man that sent the other guy to the hospital.”
“Where did all of this take place?” Gin asked.
“Mostly McKeesport and Denton, it sounds like, but I’ll have the full report in the next half hour. I’ll forward it to you as soon as I get it.”
“So whoever removed Paul Gluck from his grave left a homeless man there in his place, after performing a disembowelment and replacing the organs with four pigs’ hearts.” Gin thought for a moment. “I don’t think we’re any closer to understanding what happened and why than we were before. Any brilliant ideas, Stephen?”
Stephen popped the last of the macaroon in his mouth, thinking while he chewed. “Nope, not a one,” he finally said. “Luckily, that’s out of my pay grade, anyway. And I have to say, on days like today, I’m pretty happy about that.”
“I know what you mean,” Gin said, wondering what Stephen would say if he knew how deep she’d gotten involved in this case. Remarkably, news of her kidnapping—and even the home break-in—didn’t seem to have made the rounds here yet. But that would change the minute one person got wind of it: the grapevine was spectacularly efficient.
Gin and Stephen threw away their trash and started walking back.
“Listen, there’s something I should have said before, when we were talking about Tuck. I know that you and he have become friends,” Stephen said, “and I just want to tell you—well, I guess I wanted to say that, for what my opinion is worth, there’s no chance that he’s guilty of the things people are saying he did.”
“Thank you, Stephen, but I try not to listen to gossip. All I know is that he was forced to step down.” At the mention of Tuck, Gin glanced at her watch. “Stephen, I’m sorry, but I’m meeting someone and I should probably get going. Let’s do this again soon—my treat next time.”
“Sure thing, Gin. Maybe one of these days when things slow down, we can talk about something other than work.”
“I’d love that,” Gin said.
But she suspected that they both knew that day was unlikely to come.
22
Gin texted Tuck that she was on her way, and drove through Schenley Park, past the Botanical Gardens, to the historic neighborhood known as Squirrel Hill. She parked near the top of a street on the considerably less gentrified edge of the neighborhood, where shabby old houses lined blocks anchored with corner markets and bars. She had been here once before, and knew that the unmarked brick building between an apartment building and a body shop housed an old-school tavern.
She opened the door and took a moment to adjust to the darkness and the smell of stale beer, and was greeted with a wolf whistle.
“Hey, pretty lady, wanna car date? I’ve got cash.”
Gin spotted Tuck sitting at the bar in front of a huge pile of chicken wings on a paper plate, and sat down on the stool next to him. The bartender who’d been there last time gave her the same bored, indifferent nod, and she ordered a soft drink.
“Did you pick this place to deliberately embarrass me?” Gin asked, as the bartender slid a glass in front of her.
“What, do you mean Chuck? He doesn’t listen to anything anyone says. And there’s nobody else here. Dig in, I got plenty of wings. They’re from a joint down the street—best in town.”
Gin sampled a wing, grabbing for her water glass as the spicy sauce made its way down her throat.
“I should have mentioned they’re a bit spicy,” Tuck said, taking a drink of his beer. “If you don’t mind me thinking you’re a wimp, the ones on this side are mild.”
“You did that on purpose,” Gin accused, gasping from the heat of the sauce.
“Who, me?” Tuck smirked. “Anyway, you first. What have you got for me, Inspector Gadget?”
Gin told him about her interaction with Logan, emphasizing his evasiveness and underplaying the violent end of the protest, but Tuck still chided her.
“What the hell were you thinking, Gin? People have died at those damn protests. Do you think that just because you managed to get out of that closet some lunatic locked you in, suddenly you’re bulletproof?”
“I was never in any danger,” Gin protested, knowing it wasn’t true. “And if I hadn’t been there, I wouldn’t have had an opportunity to get Logan to open up.”
“You drove him in your personal car. That’s a huge risk, Gin, and a liability to the department, too.”
“I—I can’t believe you’re saying that.” Too late, she realized he was messing with her. “Besides—when have you ever cared about the department’s exposure?”
“But that’s me. I’m armed, I’m tr
ained, I’m tough. You’re a—a cupcake in a lab coat.”
“Wow, thanks. For your information, I gained Logan’s trust. I learned more from him than anyone else has.”
“You just keep telling yourself that. But if you do something like that again, I’m going to make sure you’re grounded. Now tell me about the autopsy.”
Gin tried to ignore the mixture of anger, frustration, and other, more confusing emotions his words provoked, and filled him in on the details of the autopsy in as clinical language as possible. She skipped over the more routine parts, describing the puzzling contents of the body cavity and the amateur incision and stitching.
“Damn,” Tuck sighed, pushing the plate of bones away. “Gotta say, that’s a little tough to stomach, even for me.”
“So you’ve got no idea what that might have signified.”
“Nope. Sometimes the criminal mind eludes me.”
“I have to say … I know this will sound weird, but it reminds me of something.”
“That is weird. Maybe you need to take a break from your job—go get your hair done or buy shoes or something.”
“Wow, Tuck, every once in a while, I start to think you’re evolving, and then … besides, what’s wrong with my hair?”
“Nothing, as far as I can tell. But you know women.” He shuddered in mock horror. “Actually, the hair thing is on my mind because Cherie and I have … well, it’s a little complicated. The visit to the specialist is kind of a tough thing for her. All the tests, the questions … anyway, a few years back I started bribing her. Made a deal with her that after it was over, she could pick a special outing, anything she wanted, within reason. We’ve gone to the zoo, the movies, ice skating.”
“Sounds like a good way to reduce the stress of a difficult situation.”
“Yeah, except this year—well, there’s no other way to say it. She wants to cause me as much suffering as possible, I guess. We’re going to the spa. Hair, nails, the whole nine yards.”
In the Darkest Hour Page 21
