I'd only met with a medical examiner once in my career as a reporter, and that was back in Oregon when I covered a B and E that turned ugly when the home owner confronted the burglar. The home owner was stabbed twice in the chest, the knife stolen from his own bedroom. The ME confirmed the murder weapon was some fancy German blade, which the victim had bought on the black market. I ended up uncovering an unauthorized dealer ring in Portland, and was subsequently nominated for a Payne journalism award. The ME in
Portland was a woman in her midforties, professional as hell, and willing to part with any and all information I needed for my story. From that encounter I assumed most MEs were similarly professional.
But when I met Leon Binks, New York County Medical
Examiner, behind the rusty Dumpster on Thirty-first and First, let's just say it wasn't quite the professionalism I was hoping for.
Leon was wearing blue jeans and an unbuttoned work shirt, both dirty and disheveled. My guess was they were spare clothes for the times he had to run out and meet people behind Dumpsters. He was a fairly young man, mid to late thirties, with a wisp of a mustache and hair in desperate need of some Pert Plus.
He rubbed his hands together as he spoke, and I wondered what sort of compulsion that came from.
"So you know Jack," Binks said, more of a statement of fact than a question.
"I work with him at the Gazette, " I replied.
Jack had called Binks and told him to meet me as soon as possible. Didn't ask Binks. Told him. I wondered what sort of coverage Jack had given-or shielded-to have the New
York City medical examiner wrapped around his little finger.
"Good guy, O'Donnell," Binks said, his hands rubbing rhythmically.
"Yeah, he is." I waited for Binks to continue.
"Had a lot of good times with him," Binks said. "Well, not good times, but good conversations. Like he's always been a good egg with me, a good egg. I figure any friend of Jack's has gotta be a friend of mine."
"That's right," I said. "So, Leon, if I can call you that…"
"You can call me Binky," he said. "S'what my friends do, anyway."
"Right. So… Binky… you've done the initial on Joe Mauser?"
Binky nodded. "You'd be correct. Listen, Henry." Binky leaned in close. I could smell chemicals. Iodine and cheap aftershave. "Did Jack tell you about that… thing? "
"Uh…"
"I get it, you're playing dumb. It's okay, better you don't answer so neither of us have to lie. You know in case anyone comes asking."
No need to tell the Binkster that I wasn't playing dumb, since I had no idea what he was talking about.
"Just tell Jack I appreciate it, and so does my wife. I promise the bite marks will clear up and we'll be careful not to go out in public next time we want to role play."
"Yeah, anyway, let's talk about Mauser."
"Right," Binky said, winking. "Let's. Officer Mauser suffered from a single gunshot wound fired from a highvelocity rifle."
"I knew it," I said.
"Knew what?"
"High-powered rifle," I said. "I know more about guns than
I'd like to."
"Really? Well, would you like to tell me the rest of the autopsy? Please, go right ahead." Binky folded his arms across his chest petulantly. Finally he said, "May I continue?"
"Please, didn't mean to interrupt."
"No apology necessary. Anyway, the bullet entered Officer
Mauser's chest and the left subclavian artery, causing a traumatic aortic rupture."
"Which means…"
"Which means Officer Mauser never had a chance."
I wiped my brow, took this in. Mauser wasn't the target of that bullet. This much was clear. Dozens of news crews had caught the whole speech and murder on tape, and a split second before the gun went off, Mauser dove in front of
Mayor Perez. Gave his life in the line of duty.
"The bullet then lodged in one of Officer Mauser's vertebrae, where I extracted it this morning. The bullet was turned over to ballistics for examination."
"Can you tell me anything about the bullet itself?"
"Hey, Sherlock, I work at the coroner's office, not ballistics." Again I stayed silent. Hoping maybe Binky thought himself an amateur Man With No Name. "It was pretty big,"
Binky finally volunteered.
"Like how big?"
"Inch and a half, two inches long," he said. "Bullet was obviously distorted but I can't say for sure. Caused a whole lot of damage, whoever took that shot wasn't screwing around, wasn't looking to wing anyone. Even if the bullet had somehow miraculously missed the aorta, it shattered two surrounding vertebrae and severed Mauser's spinal cord. Guess we can be thankful the guy didn't suffer. I work a lot of GSWs, but
I can't recall pulling a bullet this size from many victims."
"So we have some psychopath running around New York with a high-powered rifle and damn good aim," I said. Binky rubbed his hands together and nodded.
"Funny thing is," he said, his tone of voice anything but humorous. In fact, there seemed to be an edge of fear. "I've worked in the examiner's office nearly twelve years and I don't recall ever seeing a gunshot wound from that caliber weapon."
"Really," I said, that fear seeping into my veins, too.
"Most GSW victims that end up at the hospital or morgue are from. 22 or. 38 caliber bullets. Handguns, stuff you get on the street. But not this. This is a hard-core rifle, my friend.
Kind you might hunt animals with. Kind of gun you only need one shot with, 'cause that shot counts."
"No shit," I said.
"None at all. Makes you wonder what kind of psycho this city's got loose."
"Yeah," I said. "Makes you wonder."