Page 16 of Sworn to Silence
That need drives me forward when the doctor motions to a small alcove. “Grab a gown and shoe covers on the shelf there,” he says. “I’ll take your coat.”
Reluctantly, I relinquish my parka. He hangs it on a hook outside the door. Quickly, I don a sterile gown, slip the disposable shoe covers over my boots and leave the alcove.
Doc Coblentz motions toward the adjoining room labeled with a larger biohazard sign. “It’s not pretty,” he says.
“Murder never is.”
We go through another set of swinging doors and enter the autopsy room. Though it’s equipped with a separate ventilation system from the rest of the building, I discern the smell of formalin and an array of other, darker odors I don’t want to identify. Four stainless steel gurneys are parked against the far wall. A huge scale used for weighing bodies stands in the center. A smaller scale used for weighing individual organs squats on the stainless steel counter along with an assortment of trays, bottles and instruments.
The doc snags a clipboard from a shelf and takes me to the fifth gurney, the only one in use. He pulls down the sheet and Amanda Horner’s face comes into view. Her skin is gray now. Someone closed her eyes, but the left lid has come back up. A sticky-looking film coats the eyeball.
Sighing, Doc Coblentz shakes his head. “This poor child endured a horrible death, Kate.”
“Torture?”
“Yes.”
I steel myself against a slow rise of outrage. “Do you know the cause of death?”
“Exsanguination more than likely.”
“Any idea what kind of knife he used?”
“Something damn sharp. No serration. Probably short-bladed.” Using a long wooden swab with a cotton tip, he indicates the cut on her neck. “This is the fatal wound. Sharp force injury is clearly visible. You can see that the wound path is relatively short.” He glances at the clipboard. “Eight point one centimeters.”
“Is that significant?”
“It tells me he knew where to cut to hit the artery.”
“Medical training?”
“Or maybe he’s done it before.”
Because I don’t want to address that, I go to my next question. “How did he initially subdue her? Drugs? What?”
“I’ll run a tox screen.” He looks at me over the tops of his glasses. “But I think he may have used a stun gun.”
“How can you tell?”
Slipping his chubby hands into disposable gloves, he tugs the sheet down to her abdomen.
I’ve been a cop for almost ten years. I’ve seen shootings. Bloody domestic disputes. Horrific traffic accidents. It still disturbs me to see the dead up close and personal. Fear of death is a primal response built into all of us to varying degrees. No matter how much I’ve seen, I’ll never get used to it.
“See these red marks?” he asks.
My eyes follow the swab. Sure enough, two small round abrasion-like dots mar the skin at her left shoulder. Two more appear on her chest, above her right breast. Another stands out on her left bicep. If I wasn’t looking at the body of a murder victim, I could almost convince myself I was looking at a cluster of chicken pox, or some other benign blemish. But as a cop I know these marks are much more sinister.
“Abrasions?” I look closer. “Burns?”
“Burns.”
“Most stun guns don’t leave marks.”
“You’re right,” he concedes. “That’s particularly true if it’s applied through clothing.”
“So he hit her with it when she was nude?”
He lifts his shoulders. “Probably. But these marks are not consistent with what I’ve seen in the past.”
