Page 17 of Lost Hours
When news got out of Mayor Sutton’s death, conversations like this one would be had all across town. He really didn’t have any enemies, as far as Mina knew, but he did have a lot of supporters. She could understand someone like Dr. Osborne thinking highly of him as he’d known the mayor for years, but when the lowly paid assistant who moved to town about a year ago sung the mayor’s praises, she knew Sutton reached most every demographic in town.
“Gently now,” Dr. Osborne said as he and Kevin eased the body out of the locker.
Kevin held the mayor’s feet and Dr. Osborne his upper body as they crossed the room and laid him on the gurney. The mayor was a slender man and fit for his age. He was a runner and a golfer, which kept him active. Becca had held a big sixtieth birthday celebration for him last week.
She inched closer to the gurney and took in details. He wore dress slacks and shoes, along with a white, starched, long-sleeved shirt, the side that had been facing into the locker soaked with blood. A ring of shredded fabric sat directly above his heart.
“He was shot,” she said.
“That looks like the case.” Dr. Osborne unbuttoned Mayor Sutton’s shirt. A circular wound appeared under the bloody area. “Yes, indeed. It looks like he was shot. Judging by the size of the hole, I would say it was a small caliber bullet. It wasn’t at point-blank range but not a long-distance shot either.”
“So he might’ve known his killer.”
“Could be, or he was just taken by surprise by the shooter.”
“Murder statistics say that odds are good that he knew the shooter, though.”
“You’re right.” Dr. Osborne frowned. “A larger percent of people are killed by someone they know. Often someone they loved. Especially when the victim is female.”
A very sad statistic, but it was true. It was rarer for someone to be killed by a complete stranger. It was a more common occurrence these days than it had been in the past, but the statistics still held. A greater percent of murders were committed during an argument or romantic triangle than any other circumstance, and by far, the majority of murders were committed by men wielding guns or strangulating their partner.
Using that theory, they were likely looking for a male who had known and argued with Mayor Sutton. Someone like Nolan Orr or his male teammates.
Dr. Osborne turned the body. “We have an exit wound, so you’ll find the bullet that killed him somewhere at the scene.”
“A through-and-through.” She cruised around the room and examined it. “No extraneous blood, casings, bullet holes, or any other sign that he was shot here.”
“Yes,” Dr. Osborne said without glancing up. “The lack of blood in the room suggests he was killed elsewhere and placed in the locker. Or the killer cleaned up the blood.”
“Then the forensic staff should be able to find traces of it.” Suddenly hoping theydidget the world-renowned Veritas forensic staff to process the room, she returned to the gurney. “Any idea on time of death?”
Dr. Osborne looked at his assistant. “Let’s get the ambient temperature.”
“On it.” Kevin reached into the doctor’s medical bag and lifted out a thermometer to measure the air temperature.
Osborne lifted the mayor’s pant leg and pressed his finger into his purple skin. “Clear signs of lividity throughout body, but it’s not fixed. Which tells me he’s been dead for less than ten hours. Maybe less than six.”
“Six to ten hours,” she said. “Getting alibies for such a wide time frame could be tricky. Can you narrow that down further?”
“Maybe.” Osborne lifted Mayor Sutton’s right leg and then the left. He moved to his arms and followed suit. “No rigor mortis in larger muscles. It occurs in all the muscles in the body at the same time, but it can first be felt in the smaller muscles of the face, then the arms, and finally the legs.”
She might not have worked a murder investigation before, but anybody who watched murder mysteries or movies on television or read much would know rigor mortis was the stiffening of muscles in the body that occurred after death.
He pressed his fingers on the mayor’s face. “Rigor’s present in the smaller muscles but not fixed. We’re at least in the first five to seven hours since cessation of life.”
Good. Now they had a two-hour window. “So we’re talking this afternoon between two-thirty and four-thirty.”
“Yes, and hopefully the temperature of his liver will help confirm that timeframe. If you’re squeamish you might want to turn away.” He grabbed his medical bag and removed a scalpel and what looked like a meat thermometer.
She wasn’t squeamish, and even if she were, she wasn’t about to look away at a very important moment in the investigation. After lifting the mayor’s shirt, he sliced a small incision in the upper right abdomen and passed the thermometer into the liver.
“Ambient temperature is 72.4,” Kevin called out.
The doctor kept his hand on the thermometer. “Get out your phone so you can determine the hours since death based on the liver temperature.”
He tapped his foot for a while, then looked up. “We have a liver temp of 90.4.”
Kevin thumbed his phone screen. “We’re talking five and a half hours.”
