Body Count by P.D. Martin

photos. She holds up the crime-scene photo first. “She didn’t die in this position.” She brings the autopsy photo up next to it, for comparison. “Lividity indicates she died flat on her back and on a flat surface.”
    I nod. The autopsy photograph Sam has chosen is one of Jean lying on her stomach. The photo clearly shows Jean’s back and upper legs.
    Lividity refers to the way the blood settles after death. Once your heart stops, blood stops pumping around your body. Gravity takes over and blood settles. Jean’s back shows pink-red discoloration evenly across her buttocks and upper back. That means she died lying on a flat surface and the blood settled evenly when it stopped flowing. If she’d died in the position her bodywas found, the discoloration would be concentrated and darker around her right buttocks and hip.
    â€œAnything else from lividity?” I ask. Sometimes if the body is transported soon after death discoloration can appear in definite patterns. The body can even show you an imprint of a car jack if the body was in someone’s trunk.
    â€œNothing.”
    â€œThat’s something in itself, I guess.”
    Sam looks at me, puzzled.
    â€œJean was lying on a smooth surface.”
    Sam looks at the autopsy photo again. “Very smooth.”
    We pause for a moment.
    â€œHe likes to get to know them,” says a voice… It’s my voice.
    â€œYou don’t think it’s just the power? To prolong the experience and have them at his mercy?”
    I think about it, unsure where my revelation came from. “Not just that, this time. He’s taken a lot of care. He’s had her for the whole five days. He spends time with them. To get to know them. There was rape, I presume?”
    â€œYeah. But not as violent as we often see. No bruises around her thighs or hips. No tearing. The fucker was gentle,” Sam says, her nose wrinkled with disgust.
    â€œHe thinks of them as his girlfriends.” A shiver runs up my spine. “He’s not rough with them. He’s tender. They’re special to him in some way.”
    â€œCharming,” Sam says, staring distantly at one of the photos of Jean’s body.
    â€œSo, would Jean have played along?” I ask.
    â€œEveryone who knew her said she was smart. Real smart. So she may have if she thought it was going to saveher life. The full victimology is around here somewhere.” Sam shoves the photos to one side and shuffles through the papers. The photo of Jean alive falls off the table and I pick it up. This is our only reminder of her as a living person. It’s precious.
    â€œHere it is.” Sam hands me a typed report.
    I take the document but rest it on the table. I’ve got more questions first. “Let’s get back to this later. No semen, I take it?”
    â€œNope. Safe sex for our guy, in every sense of the word.”
    I nod, picking up Sam’s double meaning—no risk of sexual disease and no risk of DNA. “Any other trace evidence? Hairs, fibers, prints?”
    â€œNothing. He’s clean.”
    â€œLet’s face it, a lot of perps know how to clean up after themselves these days, especially with all the press on DNA. Anything on the knife?”
    Sam flips through the coroner’s report and paraphrases it. “Could be any sharp kitchen knife. Based on the incision length and angles, our guy’s left-handed and the knife is between seven to ten inches.”
    I do the mental conversion to centimeters. Between seventeen and twenty-five centimeters. “The left-hander narrows things down.”
    â€œYou bet. Once we have some suspects, that is.” Sam pulls out a chair and sinks into it. She looks defeated, which is unusual for Sam. Even her bright green eyes aren’t as dazzling as usual. Her hair falls from behind her ear across her face.
    â€œWhat about positioning when the cutting was done?” I ask.
    â€œAngles