to allow access to the chest.
“No problem identifying this one, I imagine,” Dr. Gilbert said, taking in the tattoos. “There can’t be many Nazis in Washington.”
“You reckon?” Pinker said, with a laugh.
“I mean, real Nazis, Detective,” the doctor said, coolly.
Pinker wasn’t retreating. “We don’t have much idea how real he was. Far as we know, he was a thrash-metal singer. Those assholes play at being tough guys—Nazis, satanists, Charlie Manson fans, whatever. Doesn’t mean they actually believe in that crap.”
“Is that so?” The M.E. didn’t sound overly convinced. “We’ve already photographed, measured, weighed, x-rayed and fingerprinted the body. I’ve also searched for trace evidence and done the external examination.” She glanced at them. “You were late. I have four more autopsies scheduled today.”
“That’s all right, Doc,” Simmons said. He knew how tedious those procedures could be. “What did you find?”
“Without too many long words,” Pinker added. He remembered floundering in a tidal wave of technical verbiage the last time.
Marion Gilbert raised a perfectly plucked eyebrow and glanced at the report handed to her by a technician. “Male Caucasian, aged around forty to forty-five, height six feet four inches, weight 267 pounds. Hair black, dyed. Eyes brown.” She indicated the dead man’s chest and arms. “Obviously the main identifying features are the tattoos.”
Pinker took them in. “Swastika, Iron Cross, Mein Kampf and an arrow pointing to his crotch. Nice.”
“You should see his back,” the M.E. said, shaking her head. “It says ‘I Am the Final Solution.’” She glanced at Pinker. “That makes him a real Nazi in my book.”
The detective shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not. You gotta keep an open mind in our business.”
Marion Gilbert rolled her eyes. “Moving on. His clothing has been sent for further analysis. I found hairs on his T-shirt that weren’t his. They’re black, but not so long—probably from the woman he assaulted. Or from—”
“The assholes in the band,” Pinker said. “They’re all as hairy as—”
“You’ve located them?” the doctor asked.
Simmons nodded. “They were the ones who called the MPDC.”
“They’re all crying like little kids,” Pinker added.
The doctor gave him a frozen look. “There were skin and fiber traces under his nails. Analysis is being undertaken. The victim had knee surgery in the not too distant past. There’s also an appendix scar, from prelaparoscopy days.”
“I’m presuming the time of death squares with the parameters we’ve got,” Simmons said. “The band members said he got into the van around eight-fifteen and they found him around eight-fifty.”
“The gig was due to start at nine and the first patrolmen were on the scene at nine-oh-two,” Pinker said.
“The M.E. noted the body and ambient temperatures, plus the fact that rigor mortis hadn’t begun, suggest that death occurred no earlier than eight o’clock anyway.”
“Any sign that the body had been moved?” Simmons asked.
“No abrasions or bruising to suggest that. I take it you’re investigating the band members.”
“Oh, yes,” Pinker said. “As well as the bar owner, his son and a scumbag dope dealer who lives upstairs. Also some fans who were waiting in the bar.”
“Speaking of drugs,” Dr. Gilbert said, “there were traces of cocaine on the victim’s nostrils. Though the condition of his nose made examination difficult.”
Simmons looked down at Loki’s flattened and bloodied nose. “The way I see it, the killer hit him in the face—”
“Twice,” the M.E. said, pointing at the broken and swollen skin on the left cheek. “There are two contusions on the back of the head that I would say came from impact with a hard surface.”
Simmons nodded. “And then he stuck the skewers into his ears.”
“Correct.”
“Do you think the vic was conscious when that happened?”
“No problem identifying this one, I imagine,” Dr. Gilbert said, taking in the tattoos. “There can’t be many Nazis in Washington.”
“You reckon?” Pinker said, with a laugh.
“I mean, real Nazis, Detective,” the doctor said, coolly.
Pinker wasn’t retreating. “We don’t have much idea how real he was. Far as we know, he was a thrash-metal singer. Those assholes play at being tough guys—Nazis, satanists, Charlie Manson fans, whatever. Doesn’t mean they actually believe in that crap.”
“Is that so?” The M.E. didn’t sound overly convinced. “We’ve already photographed, measured, weighed, x-rayed and fingerprinted the body. I’ve also searched for trace evidence and done the external examination.” She glanced at them. “You were late. I have four more autopsies scheduled today.”
“That’s all right, Doc,” Simmons said. He knew how tedious those procedures could be. “What did you find?”
“Without too many long words,” Pinker added. He remembered floundering in a tidal wave of technical verbiage the last time.
Marion Gilbert raised a perfectly plucked eyebrow and glanced at the report handed to her by a technician. “Male Caucasian, aged around forty to forty-five, height six feet four inches, weight 267 pounds. Hair black, dyed. Eyes brown.” She indicated the dead man’s chest and arms. “Obviously the main identifying features are the tattoos.”
Pinker took them in. “Swastika, Iron Cross, Mein Kampf and an arrow pointing to his crotch. Nice.”
“You should see his back,” the M.E. said, shaking her head. “It says ‘I Am the Final Solution.’” She glanced at Pinker. “That makes him a real Nazi in my book.”
The detective shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not. You gotta keep an open mind in our business.”
Marion Gilbert rolled her eyes. “Moving on. His clothing has been sent for further analysis. I found hairs on his T-shirt that weren’t his. They’re black, but not so long—probably from the woman he assaulted. Or from—”
“The assholes in the band,” Pinker said. “They’re all as hairy as—”
“You’ve located them?” the doctor asked.
Simmons nodded. “They were the ones who called the MPDC.”
“They’re all crying like little kids,” Pinker added.
The doctor gave him a frozen look. “There were skin and fiber traces under his nails. Analysis is being undertaken. The victim had knee surgery in the not too distant past. There’s also an appendix scar, from prelaparoscopy days.”
“I’m presuming the time of death squares with the parameters we’ve got,” Simmons said. “The band members said he got into the van around eight-fifteen and they found him around eight-fifty.”
“The gig was due to start at nine and the first patrolmen were on the scene at nine-oh-two,” Pinker said.
“The M.E. noted the body and ambient temperatures, plus the fact that rigor mortis hadn’t begun, suggest that death occurred no earlier than eight o’clock anyway.”
“Any sign that the body had been moved?” Simmons asked.
“No abrasions or bruising to suggest that. I take it you’re investigating the band members.”
“Oh, yes,” Pinker said. “As well as the bar owner, his son and a scumbag dope dealer who lives upstairs. Also some fans who were waiting in the bar.”
“Speaking of drugs,” Dr. Gilbert said, “there were traces of cocaine on the victim’s nostrils. Though the condition of his nose made examination difficult.”
Simmons looked down at Loki’s flattened and bloodied nose. “The way I see it, the killer hit him in the face—”
“Twice,” the M.E. said, pointing at the broken and swollen skin on the left cheek. “There are two contusions on the back of the head that I would say came from impact with a hard surface.”
Simmons nodded. “And then he stuck the skewers into his ears.”
“Correct.”
“Do you think the vic was conscious when that happened?”
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