the altar rail. He sat in a chair on the other side at a right angle, facing away from her and staring at the wall to her left. Twenty minutes later, when sheâd finished, he gave her absolution. He assured her he would not talk to the police. He understood why she might not want to, but that she should. She mumbled something about it being part of her problem, shook her head and left. He didnât know if she felt better. He knew he didnât. He returned to his office furious at a society that allowed people to do terrible things to their children. He still did not know her name.
He wanted to weep.
Chapter Nine
Tom Wexler had been hired as the countyâs newest medical examiner a little over two months earlier. He had not yet had a chance to assess the various actors in the area. Ike Schwartz especially seemed a puzzle to him. Half the time Ike sounded like one of the good ole boys, and the rest of the time he could pass for a faculty member from the local university. Tom preferred his cops to be slow and respectful and uncomplicated. Schwartz was certainly not slow and the respectful part was still up for grabs. Heâd think about the complicated bit. He knew Schwartz had a story, but beyond that, little else. Heâd had heard rumors but discounted them. Why would an ex-CIA agent become a small-town sheriff? He couldnât think of any reason, and with big-city wisdom on his side, heâd dismissed the thought.
Before moving to the Shenandoah Valley, Tom had served as assistant ME in Detroit, which at one time held the dubious title of Murder Capital of the World. That honor now rested with Juarez, Mexico, or Honduras. The honor seemed to have become a moving target. Tom believed the correct answer to the question of what city should bear the dubious title is Cabot Cove, but he received only a blank stare when he said so. How soon they forget. He also found that the rural pace of western Virginia took some getting used to. His desk, when heâd arrived, faced a window. Heâd had it turned one hundred and eighty degrees after two days on the job. The valleyâs lush scenery and the view of the Blue Ridge Mountains had become a major distraction. Now he sat facing an orange-yellow-glazed brick wall adorned with official-looking paper Scotch-taped to its surface.
He rifled through the papers on his reoriented desk and stared at a blue computer screen. He pulled up the newly digitalized dental record heâd constructed of the dead man found in the woods who now occupied a drawer in his morgue. He would send the chart to the registry. If he were lucky, he might have an ID back in a few days.
It would be the first time heâd tried thisâfor himârelatively new technology, and he had no idea how well it would work, if at all. But heâd been assured at the recent forensic conference that if the subject had a dental record on file with the National Dental Imaging/Information Repository, an ID could be made. All this assumed that heâd correctly translated the dental information into the computer and that the dead manâs record had found his way into the system at some timeâa missing person, a perp. At the very least, the chart could confirm an identity. He compared the chart with the X-rays made. Satisfied that the chart correctly represented the teeth and that heâd done what he could; he punched the âsendâ button and sent the data sailing off through cyberspace to the NDI/IR and the FBI.
Next, he turned his attention to the toxicology screen made on the dead woman. No surprises there. Her bloodstream could have been distilled and sold as a one hundred-proof methamphetamine-alcohol tonic. He shook his head. Whoever clonked the old woman on the head after stabbing her could have saved time and a murder charge if he or she had waited another week. No one could survive much longer with titers of drugs and booze as high as those found in Ethyl Smut. Of
He wanted to weep.
Chapter Nine
Tom Wexler had been hired as the countyâs newest medical examiner a little over two months earlier. He had not yet had a chance to assess the various actors in the area. Ike Schwartz especially seemed a puzzle to him. Half the time Ike sounded like one of the good ole boys, and the rest of the time he could pass for a faculty member from the local university. Tom preferred his cops to be slow and respectful and uncomplicated. Schwartz was certainly not slow and the respectful part was still up for grabs. Heâd think about the complicated bit. He knew Schwartz had a story, but beyond that, little else. Heâd had heard rumors but discounted them. Why would an ex-CIA agent become a small-town sheriff? He couldnât think of any reason, and with big-city wisdom on his side, heâd dismissed the thought.
Before moving to the Shenandoah Valley, Tom had served as assistant ME in Detroit, which at one time held the dubious title of Murder Capital of the World. That honor now rested with Juarez, Mexico, or Honduras. The honor seemed to have become a moving target. Tom believed the correct answer to the question of what city should bear the dubious title is Cabot Cove, but he received only a blank stare when he said so. How soon they forget. He also found that the rural pace of western Virginia took some getting used to. His desk, when heâd arrived, faced a window. Heâd had it turned one hundred and eighty degrees after two days on the job. The valleyâs lush scenery and the view of the Blue Ridge Mountains had become a major distraction. Now he sat facing an orange-yellow-glazed brick wall adorned with official-looking paper Scotch-taped to its surface.
He rifled through the papers on his reoriented desk and stared at a blue computer screen. He pulled up the newly digitalized dental record heâd constructed of the dead man found in the woods who now occupied a drawer in his morgue. He would send the chart to the registry. If he were lucky, he might have an ID back in a few days.
It would be the first time heâd tried thisâfor himârelatively new technology, and he had no idea how well it would work, if at all. But heâd been assured at the recent forensic conference that if the subject had a dental record on file with the National Dental Imaging/Information Repository, an ID could be made. All this assumed that heâd correctly translated the dental information into the computer and that the dead manâs record had found his way into the system at some timeâa missing person, a perp. At the very least, the chart could confirm an identity. He compared the chart with the X-rays made. Satisfied that the chart correctly represented the teeth and that heâd done what he could; he punched the âsendâ button and sent the data sailing off through cyberspace to the NDI/IR and the FBI.
Next, he turned his attention to the toxicology screen made on the dead woman. No surprises there. Her bloodstream could have been distilled and sold as a one hundred-proof methamphetamine-alcohol tonic. He shook his head. Whoever clonked the old woman on the head after stabbing her could have saved time and a murder charge if he or she had waited another week. No one could survive much longer with titers of drugs and booze as high as those found in Ethyl Smut. Of
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