I made an appointment with Donna Sue Rahll for 0915, at the Sheriff's Department. I went in out of uniform, to put her at her ease. That worked about half the time, and blue jeans were a lot warmer than uniform trousers.
Art was in Oelwein, interviewing the mother of the two victims, so I got to do the preliminary interview of Donna Sue all by myself. As it turned out, she was a bright, fairly attractive girl, who considered Freddie to be a phase of her life she'd just as soon forget. About the first sentence out of her was to the effect that she hadn't wished to associate with Fred for the last seven or eight months.
"So, I don't know why I'm here," she said. The second sentence.
I could tell that she was hoping for a short interview, because she'd left her blue parka on. Unzipped, though, to reveal the orange lining. There was hope.
"Any particular reason you broke up?"
She looked me right in the eye. "I don't see that that's any of your business."
"It isn't," I replied. "But it may be the state's business. There's a lot of interest in Fred right now."
She sighed. "This is all confidential?"
"Unless it has a direct bearing on facts material to the investigation. Then you may be questioned regarding things, in court."
"If I know something about the case, you mean."
"That's right," I said.
She stood, and said her good-bye line. "Well, since I don't know anything 'material,' about any kind of case, I'll leave, now."
"I think you might know more than you think," I said. "Why don't you sit back down for a minute."
She stopped, but didn't sit. At least the parka hadn't been zipped yet.
"I want to ask about Fred's two cousins, Dirk and Royce…"
She flicked out an insincere little smile. "The Colson brothers? The 'Weasels'?"
"Pardon?" I said.
"The 'Weasels.' That's what we call them."
"Why?" I asked, leaning back in my chair. I had her.
She sat back down. "Because they're greasy little shit-heads who have no respect for anybody, and lie and steal and stick their noses in and think they're just great."
Well. It came out in a rush, and I suspect she felt a lot better for having said it. It sure helped me.
"Stick their noses in what?" I was already pretty sure about the "steal" part.
"Everybody's business." She exhaled hard, and started to shrug out of her coat. "They just cause a lot of trouble." She looked at me. "Why? What have they done now?"
It took me just a second. Then the little lightbulb came on in my head. We hadn't released the names of the victims yet. And if she'd severed relations with Fred, she might not have a way of knowing.
"You don't talk to Fred and his crowd much these days?"
"I have no time for them. If I saw one of them coming toward me, I'd cross the street."
"Ah." I gave her my most serious and concerned look. "Well, I'm sorry. Really. I assumed…"
"What?"
Had her good. "That you knew they were dead."
I figured I was ready for about any kind of reaction, but was surprised when she simply said, "That doesn't surprise me."
"It doesn't? Why not?"
"They 'party hearty,' and they drive too fast. We've all been telling ' em that. For years."
"Wasn't a car wreck," I said. I paused for effect, for all the good it did me. "They were murdered."
Her eyebrows shot up. "Murdered? Like, by somebody else?"
"That's what it looks like." By somebody else, indeed.
"Well," she said, "well, shit. Huh. Whadda ya know…" She paused. "That's something. Well, you guys know who did it?"
"It's beginning to look like it might be Fred."
"Oh, no. No, no, no way. Oh, no," and she started to chuckle. "No, not Fred. No."
In about ten minutes, she explained to me just what a foolish idea it was. Fred, in her experience, was absolutely determined to avoid conflict at any cost. He would take the path of least resistance every time. She'd known Fred since high school, and he'd always been that way. The only times she'd ever seen him angry, it was at himself.
"He'd do things like let the other kids keep their beer in his locker. Really. Just so he wouldn't have to argue with them. He'd fidget all day, worried that the principal would find out. But he'd never say no."
"Because the principal was one step removed, and the kids were right there?"
"Yeah," Donna Sue thought for a second. "Like that. You know he was busted for DWI back in high school?"
"Oh," I said, "yeah… I'm the one who got him."
"Well, you know the only reason he drove that night is that the kid who was the designated driver had gotten it for DWI before, couldn't afford to get busted again, and got drunk at the party anyway?"
"Didn't know that."
"Just like the beer in the locker. Knew he shouldn't do it, but just to avoid the hassle…" She shrugged. "Like I say, he's always been that way."
Judy came in with the coffee. It helped.
"What if," I said, "somebody asked him to do something he just couldn't bring himself to do? Could he get violent?"
"No way. If it got that bad, I swear to God, he'd just move to California or somewhere." She sipped her coffee. "He's just not aggressive at all."
"How about his two cousins? The 'Weasels'?"
"They're mostly just liars. Were, I guess." She shook her head. "They'd get him to do shit, you know? Like keep stuff for 'em that was hot."
"Were they violent?"
"Not really."
"I mean, like, if they got caught at a burglary… do you think they'd get violent then?"
"I don't think so," she said. "They'd just try to lie their way out of it. They could get pretty outrageous, sometimes."
"Oh?"
"Yeah. They used to laugh about one time, in Oelwein, when they were caught behind a store one night. They were thinkin' about sneaking in through the rest room window, and the owner came out with, like, the garbage. He started to jump in their shit in a big way. So they told him they were undercover cops. Convinced him, too." She giggled.
Bingo. Oh, Bingo indeed. "Really?"
"Oh, sure. They did that more than once, I think. It worked." She shook her head. "They could convince you the sun came out at night. Look you right in the eye and lie, lie, lie. Never blink."
When Art got back from Oelwein, I ran my interview with Donna Sue by him.
"And?" said Art, sort of impatiently.
"It explains a bunch of the stuff that's been bothering me," I said. "Why people kept assuming the two victims were cops, for one thing. Why it just didn't ring true. Why there had to be somebody involved we weren't aware of."
"Why's that? I must be missing something," said Art. "I didn't think she provided any other names?"
"Impersonating cops," I said. "If the wrong person was in that house, he might have killed them because they convinced whoever it was that they were cops."
"What you're doing is this: You have a theory that says Fred didn't do it. Okay? Yet all the real evidence points to the fact that he did. Then you feel that a story told by Fred's ex-girlfriend, about two dead men who can't contradict her, that you have no proof ever even happened… confirms your theory." Art shook his head. "This now requires the presence and the involvement of a third party, based on a supposition by you, based on a tale by another party." He shrugged. "Can't buy that, Carl."
I gritted my teeth. "But I think that's what happened."
"Based solely on your instinct," he said. Just a bit too sarcastically, for my taste.
"You have to start somewhere," I replied, evenly. "Your so-called instinct tells you where to dig. You dig, you get the evidence, you may solve the case. I don't guess a case. I never guess. You should know that by now."
"I didn't say 'guess,'" he said.
"Do you realize the ramifications here? If I'm right, that would mean that Cletus had prior knowledge of the murders before he got to the house. He said something about the dead being cops." I paused, to let that sink in. "And that would mean, in turn, that he had contact with the killer or killers, who was the only person who would have heard them say they were cops. Of course, you would then have to characterize the killer as someone who would kill cops, as opposed to someone who would be relieved if they said they were fuzz."
"All based on a conversation that we can't prove ever occurred," said Art.
"You gotta admit, though, it does cover the territory," I said.
"So did the theory," said Art, "that had the sun revolving around the earth."
Well, he had me there.
"Tell you what," said Art, finally. "Make you a deal. You do this lead, your lead, and we'll do the straight-up case. If you score, fine. Okay?"
No way. If I did that, I'd take myself out of the mainstream investigation. Let him proceed, without me, the local yokel, getting in the way.
"Naw," I said, in my best aw shucks voice. "The officer with primary jurisdiction makes the deals." I said it very pleasantly. I couldn't afford to be offended. "I'll follow that lead, but not exclusively. I'll still work on the main case. But I'll go into my theory, at the same time."
He thought a second. Legally, it was my case all the way, and he was assisting. He knew that. But he also knew that without DCI, we were going to be left high and dry. He had to know that. God knows, I did.
"Damn it, Carl. The last thing we need is for the defense to get hold of something like this. As far as I can see, it's only going to be enough to confuse a jury. Which means that a killer walks."
The bit about a killer walking sort of pissed me off. I hate that sort of melodramatic crap.
"Look at it like this: If it occurred to me, it can occur to the defense," I said. "Even if my lead goes nowhere, we can at least be ready for the other side when they bring it up. Show 'em just why it doesn't work." I shrugged. "I don't mind the extra work." Top that.
"Okay. Fine. Fine with me." He held up his hands. "But don't come up with another theory. This is plenty."
A peace offering. Tentatively accepted. "Promise," I said. "What did you find out in Oelwein?"
Not a lot, as it turned out. Nora, the mother of the two victims, was distraught, but had no idea who might have done it. A female cousin of the victims thought it might have been "some farmer." Oelwein PD had nothing on file indicating that there was a feud or any other sort of problem that had anybody mad enough at the brothers to kill them. One of the more remarkable things, apparently, was the tacit acknowledgment by just about everybody that the brothers were, in fact, thieves.
"Fred's involvement in the burglaries or thefts never came up," said Art. "They may be grief-stricken, but they aren't stupid. Which means that we still have only his word that he drove for them." He stood. "I have to be getting back to Cedar Falls. We're going to be doing a polygraph on a suspect in a murder from Mason City. I have to be there."
Understood.
"When will you be back up?"
"Tomorrow, I hope. Why don't I just touch base with Davies, while I'm there?"
"Did you talk to Sergeant Thurman in Oelwein?" I asked, as Art was going out the door. He hadn't. I put in a call to him. Phil Thurman was an excellent officer, and had originally worked for our department before transferring to Oelwein PD. More money, better hours. His first cop job had been with us, I'd been sort of his training officer, and he'd been a real breath of fresh air. We'd hated to see him go.
"Sergeant Thurman."
"Phil, it's Houseman. How are ya?"
"Dad! Hey, understand you had a cool double murder up there! You got all the luck…"
"Sorry you left?"
"Just about! What can I do for you guys?"
I asked him about the dead Colson brothers. He certainly knew them. "Yeah, those two been a pain in the ass for five years or more."
I asked him about Fred. He knew him, too. "The quiet one. He was with those two a lot. Not a bad kid, you know? Just not too smart about who he hung with."
I asked him about the impersonation of an officer story. He hadn't exactly heard about that one. "Sounds just like 'em, though. Hell, it sounds just like half our store owners, for that matter." He did think that, since the store was open after dark, at least in the account I had, he might be able to track it down. Most stores in Oelwein, as in Maitland, closed at five o'clock.
"Good enough," I said.
I told Lamar what Phil had said and asked Lamar if he'd like to have lunch at the buffet in the pavilion of the General Beauregard, moored at Frieberg. He declined, but I decided to drive up anyway. Hester Gorse was working the gaming boat up there, and I really wanted to discuss the case with her. I needed an unbiased opinion. I also needed a really good meal, out of the reach and notice of the local media. It was only twenty miles or so.
I called Hester at her office at the boat.
"Houseman, by God! You been busy?"
Just hearing her voice cheered me up. "'Busy' ain't the word for it. Like to do lunch? I can bring you up to date, and see if I can get Art assigned to Minnesota."
"Yeah," she said, "I heard. Things okay other than that?"
"Things are interesting. Two corpses, no real suspects. How 'bout it?"
"Oh, you do know how to convince a girl. Sure. Love to." I could hear the grin in her voice.
The General Beauregard was moored in the Mississippi River, separated from its associated pavilion by a railroad track and a highway, both of which paralleled the river. The bluffs that formed the prehistoric banks of the river rose to over 100 feet, within a block or two of the boat. It was really a pretty setting. Even with the river frozen over, and the stark black trees outlined against the white snow.
The pavilion was a combination theater, office, and restaurant complex, containing everything to make the boat into a casino, as opposed to a simple floating slot machine. Iowa law forbade gambling on the land, so the boat was more or less a dedicated gambling platform. The pavilion provided the rest of a mini-Las Vegas aspect to the operation. Nice, in a way. Families could use the pavilion facilities without being near gaming, which some seemed to prefer.
Iowa also required that the Division of Criminal Investigation maintain a presence at each and every casino. The legislature neglected to provide any additional agents for that purpose, so General Crim. had to spread itself even thinner than usual to accommodate the mandate. They accomplished that by three-month assigned tours. No exceptions. This was Hester's turn in an eighteen-month rotation.
I hadn't seen her for several months, and hadn't actually worked a case with her for over a year. She was one of the best agents I'd ever worked with, and totally reliable. And very, very smart.
She was also a few years younger, and very fit. Something I tried never to bring into a conversation, and something she brought up every chance she got. She was waiting near the buffet entrance.
"Hi." She grinned broadly. "Looks like life agrees with you."
"Everything but work," I said. "It's a tough one this time. Great case, though. Fascinating."
We spent about half an hour in her office, and I ran through the basic details of the double murder. She was into it instantly.
"I don't think it was Fred, either," she said, "based on what you've given me. Does Art think it was him?"
"Yeah."
"You've got to understand, he thinks he's under pressure to produce a conclusion." She held up her hand, forestalling my protest. "I know, but it's true. You know him as well as anybody does. He's always wanted to be the best, and in his mind, the best is also the fastest to get the bad guy."
I finished up by telling her about everybody assuming that it was a pair of cops who'd been killed.
"That's what we call a clue, Houseman," she said, seriously.
We found a table in the main dining room, off in a corner. A couple of people spoke to me as we walked through the place, and a couple more eyed me closely. People I knew. I was with an attractive woman, not my wife. They were checking Hester out, and could be relied upon to keep an eye on us throughout lunch. I loved it.
I was in a fine mood. Hester noticed. "The case really tripped your trigger, didn't it?"
"Oh, yeah." I smiled. It really was good to see her. "I'll buy."
"Wow, Houseman. This must be the case dreams are made of. It's affected your mind."
We put our coats on the chair backs, and hit the buffet line.
I gave in to my conscience, and had the grilled chicken plate, with whipped potatoes, peas, carrots, and a roll. $4.50. Hester just picked up a taco salad. $2.98. Less than $10.00. I was encouraged. Easily affordable. Not that I'm cheap…
Just as the food arrived, so did our favorite reporter, Nancy Mitchell. She'd been through a particular kind of hell on our last murder case. She'd not only witnessed a murder, she'd also been threatened and generally put through the wringer. Helping us out, at out request. We owed Nancy, and we owed her big-time.
"How're my favorite cops?"
"Have a seat," I said. "What the hell are you doing here?"
"Well, since you can't provide any information, it was time to work on a feature article about the boat. And have a great lunch, at the same time." She pulled out her chair.
"Lunch is on Carl," said Hester. "Great to see you again."
"I'd like you to meet Shamrock," said Nancy. "She's my photographer this week."
"She's welcome to join us, too," said Hester, standing and reaching out her hand to the pretty blonde with the cameras. "I'm Hester Gorse, DCI, and this is Carl Houseman, Nation County. He's buying lunch today."
I stood, as well, and shook Shamrock's hand. She was about twenty-two or -three, small, slight, and about as pretty a young woman as had graced Nation County in years. Really small, I noticed as I stood. More than a foot shorter than I was. Not more than ninety pounds, I'd guess. With camera. She looked like she was in junior high. Well, from my perspective, at any rate.
"Shamrock really your name?" Cops. We say things like that.
"Yours really Carl?" Big grin.
I was beginning to feel hemmed in. "I'm buying, cut me some slack." I grinned, and sat back down.
She laughed. I sure hoped that she didn't go the way of Nancy 's last photographer. Shamrock could grow on you.
"So, Nancy," I said, "what brings you here?"
Nancy looked at Shamrock. "He just sounds that dumb. He's really not."
"You gotta take that on trust," said Hester.
"Should I leave?" I asked.
"Not till the bill comes," said Hester.
"The murders brought me to Maitland," said Nancy.
"I hope you packed," I said. "You're gonna be here a while."
Nancy glanced around. "Lamar going to join you?"
"No," I said.
"Then I'll stay," she said, barely able to keep a straight face. "Wouldn't want to make him mad… We'll hit the line," she said, "and be back in a second."
Nancy came back with a taco salad. Shamrock appeared with a cheeseburger, cheese balls, and chocolate milk. Youth. Hers came to $4.50. Not too bad.
"So," said Nancy. "How you two comin' on this one?"
"Grinding it out," I said. Instantly on guard. Nancy was, after all, the press. "And it's not us two, either. Hester's just having lunch with me… Really," I said. "She's on boat rotation."
"Oh, sure," said Nancy. "Then you haven't told her of any of your great leaps of intuition this time?"
Hester laughed. "Now that you mention it…"
Thankfully, that got us off on what I would term "Houseman's intuition," intuition in general, and ended up with women's natural intellectual superiority over men. It also got us to the end of the meal. Hester and I were engineering a graceful escape, when Nancy scored.
"So, before you two go running off, how come we were hearing that it was two cops that were killed in there?" She knew she had us. I could tell, because she was still seated as we were standing. She knew we weren't going anywhere. The carrot had been dangled.
We sat back down. "Where did you hear that?" I must have looked interested or something. A crack in the poker face.
"Well, first from a neighbor down the road. Then from an older man at the Borglan place."
Unfortunately, we all now ordered dessert. Another $9.00 plus tax. Pie all around.
"We heard some of that, too," said Hester, pressing her fork through a slice of lemon meringue. "Do you know who these men were?"
"I think one was a Grossman… hired man or something," said Nancy. "I'd have to look around for the second one's name…" She carefully balanced large red cherries on the end of her fork, with fragments of a beautifully crumbly sugared crust clinging to the thick syrup.
"We don't know where that came from," I said, which was pretty much true. Just who might have started it when they were interrupted in a burglary. But they hadn't told anybody, that was for sure. So I wasn't really lying.
"They were sure convinced," said Shamrock. She took a bite of French Silk, topped with whipped cream and chocolate shavings.
"Well, there weren't cops killed. So I don't know how that got going," I said, again. I fiddled with my pumpkin pie, sans whipped cream. My diet program.
"Maybe somebody thought they were cops?" asked Nancy. "Good lead story, any way you cut it."
Ah. The stick.
"Wouldn't something more accurate be better?" asked Hester.
Of course it would. But what could we do?
My thoughts were interrupted by the waitress. "Phone for you, Carl."
I excused myself, and took the call at the phone in the kitchen. It was Sally. The bodies were thawed and Dr. Peters was ready to do the autopsies. Would an officer be available at the Manchester Hospital in the next hour or so? Art was still busy, so it was going to have to be somebody from our department. Right. If I knew Art, he was ducking the autopsy, the same way he did when he was a deputy sheriff. He'd hated autopsies as long as I'd known him…
I walked back to the table. "Shamrock, I don't have my camera with me. Could we hire you to do some shots for us. In Manchester?"
Nancy knew an opening when she saw one. "Sure, she will," she said. "I'll come, too."
Hester shot me a glance, and mouthed "autopsy." I nodded. She grinned. We do think alike.
The deal was, the department got professional, first-class autopsy shots, for a reasonable price. Shamrock got to take two cameras in, taking whatever shots for herself that she thought she'd need. I'd provide death-related information, and they'd get to hear the comments of Dr. Peters. Just the latter, in itself, was one hell of a lot. I let on as if I was really sticking my neck out, but the truth was we had used professional photographers many times before. Although it was true that the Maitland Examiner newspaper was usually the provider. Nonetheless, it was a precedent, and I felt covered. There was a chance that Lamar would be pissed, but if the results justified this…
In exchange, Nancy and Shamrock would latch on to the folks who thought the victims had been cops, and find out what the hell was going on with them. Especially the older male subject at the Borglan place. For us. They'd tell us just the information that was in regard to the cop bit. No obligation to say anything else. Deal? You bet.
"So, how soon do we get to release this stuff?" Nancy got out her notebook, a pen, and poised.
"Not sure," I said, "but I can guarantee you get it before anybody else."
"Gotta have at least twenty-four hours on everybody, or no deal. 'Before anybody else' won't cut it."
"Okay. But there has to be at least one critical detail held back," I said. "Number of shots, for example. Or caliber."
"Number of shots?" said Nancy. "Oooh, I like it when you talk like that."
I turned to Shamrock. "You ever do an autopsy before? I don't want to have to get you a wastebasket…"
"All the time. Bread and butter since fourth grade."
"No distractions for the doc," I said. "I'm serious. If you start to quease out on us, just excuse yourself, and leave me the camera."
"Sure, boss," said Shamrock. "No problem."
As we left Hester, she gave me some of the best advice I'd ever had on a case.
"Houseman," she said, "the Art business is distracting you from the case. You try too hard to get along with him, you'll end up with a mess."
"Okay."
"I mean it. And keep in touch."
We headed off to Manchester, me going one way, Nancy and Shamrock another, to throw off any of their competition who might be looking at us. Since most of them didn't know me from a hole in the ground, I don't think they ever did catch on.
Dr. Peters had no problem with Shamrock the photographer, as long as he was not identifiable in the photos. Shamrock said there'd be no problem.
She looked at the two bodies, covered by white plastic sheets. "I, uh, hope I do okay on this…"
"You'll do just fine," said Dr. Peters. "Just focus on the areas I tell you. We'll keep them to a minimum, just those that will grossly affect the investigation. Most likely," he said, pulling back the sheet on the first body, "just the heads…"
The bodies were both supine, naked, with the heads resting on shaped wood blocks. I'd seen the same kind of headrests in a TV program on Egyptian mummies, used in their embalming process. Commonality of form and function. They still looked damned uncomfortable. Both mouths were open, eyes open, a little mucus in the nostrils of the first one. Part of the thawing process.
External examination of the two victims revealed nothing out of the ordinary, with the exception of the three gunshot wounds. Each had a couple of routine tattoos, poorly drawn and poorly executed, on their upper arms. Their initials, apparently, with M.F.D. underneath.
"What's 'M.F.D.' stand for?" asked Nancy, in a hoarse-sounding voice.
"Mean Fucking Dude," said Shamrock. Her voice sounded a little weak.
"Oh."
"Got an eraser? I had it down as Mighty Fuckin' Dumb." I chuckled.
Actually, it went rather well, as autopsies go. I tended to get in quite close, and had to back away for Shamrock several times. She was having no problems at all, which was kind of too bad, as I had all sorts of "Shamrock" and "green" lines ready. Well, she was a bit pale, maybe. Mostly the smell, I think.
There were very clear "tattoos" on each of the three entrance wounds. Perfect circles made by the impact of unconsumed particles of gunpowder moving out of a gun barrel at several hundred feet per second. Because the particles are so small, they disperse and slow very quickly. Perfect circles such as these meant the end of the gun barrel was in contact with the skin when the shot was fired…
"Contact wounds," said Dr. Peters. "No doubt about it."
You just can't get closer than that.
He washed the head of Victim Number One, filling the drain gutters in the table with pale pink water, which ran down toward the body's feet, and into a clear tube which was plugged into a large container. With the dried blood out of the way, the tattooing was even more pronounced. "Victim Number One, Royce Colson," he intoned into his recorder.
"We won't probe," said Dr. Peters. "We'll do sections. The X rays have the gross angles for us…"
With that, he incised the skin in a half circle around the top of the skull, and proceeded to fold the scalp down over the victim's face. He picked up a small rotary saw, and began cutting around the circumference of the head, being very careful not to disturb the wounds. As he was beginning to cut, I peered in closer, and saw the entry wound. Small dark hole, with reddish and bluish discoloration around it. Big bruise, or, at least, it would have been. Fascinating to see one under the skin. The cracking of the skull was just barely visible. Not like a fissure or anything, just a hairline crack.
The smell of the hot bone under the saw, coupled with a fine mist rising from the work, lent sort of a surreal air to things. The whine of the saw was occasionally interrupted by a deeper tone as it encountered more pressure when Dr. Peters had to change position.
Nancy left the room. Wise move. I've never understood the derision some people heap on those who have sensibilities. I, for example, can look at blood and entrails all day without a twinge. Yet, if somebody vomits, I likely will, too. Which is the main reason I appreciated somebody having the courtesy to leave before they tossed up their lunch. But I also respected their judgment.
Dr. Peters removed the brain, and placed it on a small cutting board that rested on the victim's chest. "Let's see where this one ended up," he said, shining a light into the cranial cavity. "There! See, the dark spot right there…"
He was pointing to what looked at first like a small lump of clumpy bluish blood. If you looked really close, though, you could see it was a misshapen slug, in a glossy dollop of what appeared to be mucus. Cerebrospinal fluid, plus membrane.
"See," said Dr. Peters. "It was coming just about straight down the pipe, so to speak. Just missed the foramen magnum. Good thing, lot harder to find if it went down that road."
We stood back, while Dr. Peters used a probe to indicate the location of the slug for Shamrock, who took three photos with each camera. Dr. Peters then picked the bullet up, and used a very sharp probe to scratch an initial in the base of the round. He placed it in a bag, and initialed it, along with the date, time, place, and his name. Dr. Peters moved over the victim's chest, to the brain which rested on the cutting board. With all the commentary he was muttering into his tape recorder, and with all the sight-seeing he was helping us with, I couldn't help noticing that he was very, very gentle with the cadaver. Almost like it was capable of being injured further. He reached over to a stainless-steel tray, and picked up a large knife. Looked to me every bit like a large piece of cutlery you'd find in a kitchen. Complete with a black plastic handle.
"Where'd you get the knives?" I was just making conversation, really. Mildly curious.
"Katie's Kitchen Korner," said Dr. Peters, as he judiciously sliced into the brain. "Set of four assorted sizes. Great for this sort of thing." He laid a large portion of the brain aside. "Not nearly as much as they'd ask for the same sort of equipment in a surgical supply store. And surgical supply stores rarely have sales." He probed the tissues with gloved fingers. "Don't need a scalpel for this… it's not like we have to worry about scars or healing…"
"Oh." I was imagining a TV commercial… And, wait, there's more…
"Wonderful set," he continued. "Great place to shop."
"Sure is," said Shamrock. "I got a ten-inch frying pan and a French whisk there last month."
"The whisks that were on special, near the checkout counter?" asked Dr. Peters.
"You bet," she said. "Great for meringue…"
That got her points.
"Ah, here we are," said Dr. Peters. "The bullet's track."
He pointed at the sectioned brain, and I was very hard put to see what he was talking about. "Where?"
"Here. Tissues swell back after the passage of a projectile like this one… but see the perforation in the membrane here… and the depression in this white tissue here?"
That I did. We studied the track for a few seconds. No real reason, but it was important evidence, even though we ourselves wouldn't be testifying about it. After a few moments, Dr. Peters began hunting for the second bullet. He looked at the X rays. "Should be right about here…"
With the brain on the board, I had a difficult time maintaining my orientation between it and the holes in the skull. Not Dr. Peters.
"Here we go… fragment… and here…"
He pointed the track and fragments out to us. We "studied" them, too. While we did, Dr. Peters was slicing some very fine tissues off the brain, and preparing them for the laboratory examination that would be done.
He opened the chest and abdomen, and we continued our tour. No remarkable evidence turned up. That was good. We sure as hell weren't expecting any. Dr. Peters did complain about the pain in his hands, though. Very, very cold inside the victims. You could see little sparkles of frost underneath as he removed the liver.
The second victim was much like the first, except for the additional wound and track. We found only what we'd expected, and pending laboratory examination, there had been absolutely no surprises. Good news. But the slugs were so mangled I still couldn't definitely identify them as.22s. Then again, I'm not a ballistics guy.
At the conclusion of the autopsies, I had a brief meeting with Dr. Peters, while Nancy and Shamrock sat in the waiting room.
I had a question I just had to ask. "Doc, would either of the victims be capable of any significant movement after the shots were fired?"
"I don't think so," he said. "Although Victim Two might not have gone straight down."
"Dirk Colson," I said. "The one with two wounds."
"Right. The first one went well forward, and might not have laid him down immediately. Which may well have been the reason for the second. I would expect him to have been seated or kneeling. Didn't topple with the first shot. But both wounds came from just about the same angle, in just about the same spot. From the nature of them, not more than a second apart." He thought for a second. "The scene tells me that they weren't lying down when they were shot. The angles aren't right for that, given the clearance. And, if somebody's lying down, on a floor, for example, the shots would come in the front, back, or sides of the skull, not the top. And the one with the exit wound put the round into the wall. So, no, they were seated or kneeling, or standing. Not lying down."
"Why were you thinking they were lying down?"
"That's common in executions," said Dr. Peters. "Just as common as kneeling."
"You think that's for sure what we have here?"
"Now that I'm certain of the contact wounds, and the track… Yes. I should think so."