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CHAPTER 7

The light green dank cement passageway that wound through the basement of the city’s morgue led to Milos Chang’s autopsy room. It always made Moran’s skin crawl. By the smell of formaldehyde permeating the air the cop knew he was nearing the ‘meat shop,’ as it was known colloquially.

“Hi, Milos,” Moran said when he walked through the glazed door and closed it behind him.

Chang turned from the sink where he was washing his hands. “Be right with you. In the meantime, he’s over there,” the AME said. He jerked his thumb at the naked body of Paul Myer. It laid on top a stainless steel table with holes in its surface to drain the blood and body fluids of its occupants.

Moran gazed at Chang’s stained surgical gown. “Maybe you’d like to change,” he said pointing to the spots.

Chang looked down and then shifted his eyes to Moran. “Nobody here seems to mind.”

Moran looked past Chang to the row of refrigerated compartments. They were aligned in alphabetical order and took up the length of the wall. He shook his head— Morgue humor—he thought and walked away.

When he reached Myer’s body, he gazed down and immediately brought his hand to his mouth and nose. “You forgot to finish sewing him up.”

“Look at the greenish discoloration of his abdomen, neck, and shoulders,” the AME called out from across the room. “Confirms what I thought. Myer was in the water for about three days.”

Moran peered at the partially decomposed body, winced and nodded. Then Chang appeared with a large x-ray in his latex-gloved hands. “Wanted you to see this,” he said, and moved to a nearby glass-viewing panel. He slipped the x-ray into the clips and turned on the panel’s backlight.

When Moran inched forward, he squinted at several small images of a brain. “That’s Myer?”

Chang nodded and pointed to a dark spot the size of a quarter in the left frontal part of one of the images. “That’s blood,” Chang said and moved to the image next to it. “And it was caused by something blunt. See the fracture near the frontal lobe?”

Moran leaned forward and nodded.

“That’s what killed Paul Myer,” Chang said matter-of-factly. He turned off the backlight.

“What?”

“Step over here,” Chang continued and drew the lieutenant to Myer’s body.

When they got to the table, Moran wrinkled his nose, pursed his lips and willed himself to stare at the exposed left side of Myer’s skull just behind the ear.

Chang pawed under the table and brought up a small basin with two bullets in it.

“Here are the bullets I removed from the skull,” Chang said.

Moran gazed inside the basin’s contents. “Wait a minute. One’s a .22 and the other’s a .38. You sure about this?”

“Of course I’m sure, I did the autopsy myself. But like I said, the bullets were not the cause of death.”

Moran gave the AME a sharp look. “This better be good, Milos.”

“Look closely at the wounds behind the ear.”

Moran peered at the bullet holes.

“Notice anything odd?”

Moran leaned in farther, nodded and frowned. “Powder burns. The barrel was up against the skin.”

Chang noticed the lieutenant’s frown. “What’s wrong?”

Moran stepped back and cast the wounds a questioning look.

“Ah… nothing… nothing.”

“You see something I missed?”

Moran shook his head. “Everything’s fine, go on.”

“C’mon, tell me what else you noticed?” Chang pressed.

“No bloodstains around the wounds,” Moran said.

Chang smirked. “That’s because dead people don’t bleed. Look at the contusions. They’re in the same place as the skull fracture.

The fatal blow caused heavy hemorrhaging and accounts for the dark area in his brain. I’d say he was shot thirty to sixty minutes after he was dead.”

“That kind of blow would cause some of the victim’s blood to splatter on the killer,” Moran said. “But why shoot a dead man?”

Chang shrugged. “That’s your department. I only cut and sew. But I will say this. Because he was in the water for that length of time, and with the pollution and river currents, it’ll be nearly impossible to get any fingerprints or traces of the perpetrator.”

Moran walked away tapping his lower lip with his fingertips. “If you’re right, it means we’re dealing with a pretty strong individual. Someone able to wield something heavy enough to kill a person with one blow.”

“Not necessarily. It doesn’t take much to kill someone if he’s struck in the right spot on the temple.”

Moran turned and fixed his eyes on Chang. “Okay, so the perp shot him to throw us off.” He winced, then bent over and massaged his right knee.

“Knee again, uh?” Chang asked.

“Word of advice,” Moran said. “Don’t get shot in the knee,”

Moran said “You should see a doctor,” Chang said.

Moran gave the AME a pained smile. “You mean Mr. Goodwrench. Naw, it’s fine. Must be the dampness in here. What about the blood and skin tissue under Myer’s fingernails and the blood on his shirt?”

“The blood found under the fingernails was type AB. It’s found in only five percent of the population. The same blood type was on the back of his shirt. Myer’s blood type was type O, the most common. I sent the skin under Myer’s nails and a bloodstained fragment from the back of his shirt to Forensics. But don’t hold out much hope. The skin sample may be too microscopic to obtain results, and the bloodstain was too diluted and possibly contaminated after days in the water.”

Moran straightened and stepped forward. “When you did the autopsy on Lacy Wooden, were there any vaginal signs of forcible penetration? I’d like to know if she was raped or had consensual sex before she died.”

“I didn’t perform the autopsy; I was on vacation at the National Poets’ Conference in Hawaii. First time I’ve left since my wife passed away.”

“When are you goin’ to let me read some of your poetry?”

“If it ever gets published, I’ll give you an autographed copy.”

Moran nodded. “For now, send me a copy of Wooden’s autopsy report.” His face was dark, like a hurricane about to make landfall. There was more to Lacy Wooden’s death than the Commish ever imagined.

In another basement in another part of the city, a pallid red light illuminated a dark room. A pair of hand rubber-gloved hands held a set of tongs. They dabbed at an 8x10 inch sheet of photographic paper that floated in a tray of developer. Slowly, the image of Frank Hernandez seated behind the wheel of his car began to emerge.

A moment later, a dark figure silhouetted by the red light moved to a row of clothespins that held six drying photographs strung across the room. The figure gingerly added the seventh picture.

When the stranger stepped back, his gaze floated across the pictures. He had placed them in the order in which they had been taken--from the moment Frank Hernandez had left his building until he climbed into his Camry. A smug smile peeked across the photographer’s face.