thing.”
“I have every confidence. Thank you, Doctor. Tell me, do you have a preliminary analysis you can share with me?” Lockhart flipped open his notebook, feeling somewhat anxious to get some answers. There was a strange charge to it all. A young boy had been murdered, but Lockhart couldn’t help but feel excitement about the possibility of catching the killer.
The coroner opened his file notes and walked Lockhart over to the body. “Male, fifteen years of age, five four. He’s 118 pounds.”
Lockhart looked down at the young corpse; it was the first time that he’d seen the boy’s face straight on. The side that wasn’t exposed in the crime scene photos bore the large, gruesome exit wound, indicative of a close-range gunshot to the head.
The coroner went on, “Positive identification of Michael Joseph Weber, Jr. Death from gunshot wound. Powder burns on the back of the head suggest close range. Dirt on the knees of his pants along with the angle of the entry wound suggests that the victim was kneeling at the time of the shot. Bullet entered the skull at an angle and exited the body through the left ocular cavity. No foreign fibers were found on the body, nor were there fingerprints or blood present, other than the victim’s. Strange irregularities were found on the victim’s shoes, and the—”
Lockhart stopped the O’Connell, “Irregularities? What kind of irregularities?”
“Uh, yeah. I noticed these not long before you got here.” The coroner went over to his desk and retrieved a cardboard box full of Michael’s personal effects. They were individually bagged as evidence. “Don’t worry. Forensics already had a go at these,” he said, handing Lockhart the bag containing Michael’s tennis shoes.
Lockhart took out the shoes and turned them over. The black soles on each were bubbled and warped, like hot tar on the highway. “Any idea about what might have caused this?”
The coroner shrugged. “No idea. I sent pictures to the local fire chief, but I haven’t heard back yet. Whatever it was, it was hot enough to melt rubber.”
“Were there any burns on the body? Any signs of torture, particularly on the feet?”
“None—no burns or bruising; at least nothing at first glance.”
“So what’s your preliminary theory?”
“It’s not much of a theory. All I can say for sure is death by gunshot. Of course, that’s pending the autopsy and tox results, but it looks pretty cut-and-dry to me.”
As much as the coroner would have liked to think so, Lockhart knew that seemingly cut-and-dry cases were often anything but when he was involved.
The phone at the coroner’s desk rang, and he excused himself to answer it. Lockhart continued to turn the shoes over and over in his hands as the coroner informed him that the fire chief was on the phone.
The fire chief didn’t have much of an opinion on the melting patterns. “Because of the composition, rubber doesn’t have a specific melting point, but it will catch fire somewhere between 260-320 degrees Celsius,” The fire chief explained. “It was probably just some little pyro playing with a lighter.” It would have sounded a bit cruel, but he had no idea of the details and didn’t know the shoes belonged to a teenage murder victim, or he likely would have taken care not to sound so callous about it.
Lockhart thanked him for his time and hung up, then left the coroner to perform the grim task of the necessary autopsy. He didn’t have much of a stomach for that kind of thing and his presence at the actual postmortem exam wasn’t required. The coroner assured him that he would call immediately if the cause of death or circumstances changed or if any oddities were discovered. He also said the toxicology results would take at least a few more days. Lockhart decided to drive back to Crayton and get a room for the night; after all nothing was getting solved for a while, and rest would do him good.
Chapter 7
Journal
“I have every confidence. Thank you, Doctor. Tell me, do you have a preliminary analysis you can share with me?” Lockhart flipped open his notebook, feeling somewhat anxious to get some answers. There was a strange charge to it all. A young boy had been murdered, but Lockhart couldn’t help but feel excitement about the possibility of catching the killer.
The coroner opened his file notes and walked Lockhart over to the body. “Male, fifteen years of age, five four. He’s 118 pounds.”
Lockhart looked down at the young corpse; it was the first time that he’d seen the boy’s face straight on. The side that wasn’t exposed in the crime scene photos bore the large, gruesome exit wound, indicative of a close-range gunshot to the head.
The coroner went on, “Positive identification of Michael Joseph Weber, Jr. Death from gunshot wound. Powder burns on the back of the head suggest close range. Dirt on the knees of his pants along with the angle of the entry wound suggests that the victim was kneeling at the time of the shot. Bullet entered the skull at an angle and exited the body through the left ocular cavity. No foreign fibers were found on the body, nor were there fingerprints or blood present, other than the victim’s. Strange irregularities were found on the victim’s shoes, and the—”
Lockhart stopped the O’Connell, “Irregularities? What kind of irregularities?”
“Uh, yeah. I noticed these not long before you got here.” The coroner went over to his desk and retrieved a cardboard box full of Michael’s personal effects. They were individually bagged as evidence. “Don’t worry. Forensics already had a go at these,” he said, handing Lockhart the bag containing Michael’s tennis shoes.
Lockhart took out the shoes and turned them over. The black soles on each were bubbled and warped, like hot tar on the highway. “Any idea about what might have caused this?”
The coroner shrugged. “No idea. I sent pictures to the local fire chief, but I haven’t heard back yet. Whatever it was, it was hot enough to melt rubber.”
“Were there any burns on the body? Any signs of torture, particularly on the feet?”
“None—no burns or bruising; at least nothing at first glance.”
“So what’s your preliminary theory?”
“It’s not much of a theory. All I can say for sure is death by gunshot. Of course, that’s pending the autopsy and tox results, but it looks pretty cut-and-dry to me.”
As much as the coroner would have liked to think so, Lockhart knew that seemingly cut-and-dry cases were often anything but when he was involved.
The phone at the coroner’s desk rang, and he excused himself to answer it. Lockhart continued to turn the shoes over and over in his hands as the coroner informed him that the fire chief was on the phone.
The fire chief didn’t have much of an opinion on the melting patterns. “Because of the composition, rubber doesn’t have a specific melting point, but it will catch fire somewhere between 260-320 degrees Celsius,” The fire chief explained. “It was probably just some little pyro playing with a lighter.” It would have sounded a bit cruel, but he had no idea of the details and didn’t know the shoes belonged to a teenage murder victim, or he likely would have taken care not to sound so callous about it.
Lockhart thanked him for his time and hung up, then left the coroner to perform the grim task of the necessary autopsy. He didn’t have much of a stomach for that kind of thing and his presence at the actual postmortem exam wasn’t required. The coroner assured him that he would call immediately if the cause of death or circumstances changed or if any oddities were discovered. He also said the toxicology results would take at least a few more days. Lockhart decided to drive back to Crayton and get a room for the night; after all nothing was getting solved for a while, and rest would do him good.
Chapter 7
Journal
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