Maps of Hell by Paul Johnston Page A

Pinker asked.
    “He might have been,” the doctor replied.
    “Real nice,” Pinker said.
    Simmons gave him an irritated glance. “So cause of death was…”
    “Penetrating trauma to the brain.”
    “In stereo,” Pinker added.
    The other two stared at him.
    He shrugged. “Am I wrong? And obviously the wounds weren’t self-inflicted.”
    The M.E. looked at the skewers that were protruding from the victim’s ears. “It’s theoretically possible that he could have done it himself.”
    “But unlikely,” Simmons said. “Given that he doesn’t have any knuckle injuries to suggest he punched himself in the face twice, and we didn’t find any blunt instrument in the van with his blood on it. How about the number of assailants? Could there have been more than one?”
    “I’ll remove the skewers shortly so they can be checked for prints and traces,” the doctor said. “One person could have done it. But it would have needed a lot of nerve. I would think the back of the van would have been too confined a place for two killers, especially with the woman in there, as well. Is she all right?”
    “She’s been sedated,” Pinker replied. “But before that she told us she hadn’t seen anything. The vic knocked her out before he got his.” He sighed. “So, capital murder it is, by person or persons unknown.”
    “I take it there were no witnesses?” Marion Gilbert asked. “Before, during or after the murder?”
    “We haven’t found any yet,” Simmons said. “We’re still looking, of course.”
    “Of course you are.” The M.E. nodded at him with more warmth than she’d been extending to Pinker. She looked down at the dead man’s chest and the swastika on it. “Time for me to dissect.”
    Pinker took a step back.
    “Oh, aren’t you staying?” the doctor asked.
    “I’ll leave you to it.”
    Simmons watched his partner go and shook his head. The little man was full of himself until things got ugly in the morgue.
    At the door Pinker stopped and looked around. “Oh, Doctor?” he said, a smile on his lips. “I’m betting the tympanic membrane is in a bad way, to say nothing of the malleus, incus and stapes.” He raised both hands and moved his index fingers. “Like I said, in glorious stereo.”
    Marion Gilbert shook her head. “He’s got a smart mouth.”
    Simmons grinned. “But you can’t fault his memory.”
     
     
    Later, Clem Simmons found his partner in the homicide squad room. Pinker was on the phone, a soda can in his other hand.
    “Okay,” he said, “I’ve got the address. We’ll be around later in the afternoon.”
    Simmons sat down at his desk with a grunt. “Anything juicy?”
    “Doubt it, Clem. Some kid who was at Hinkey’s earlier in the evening. Says he didn’t see anything suspicious, but we’d better check him out.”
    Simmons was looking at his notepad. “Anything from the CSIs?”
    “Nothing to get hard about. They’re gonna examine some fibers they found on the blanket from the van.”
    “Could be from the band members. Or the Jewish girl.”
    Pinker screwed up his eyes. “You reckon one of the band could have killed him?”
    “Or more than one of them.” Simmons stifled a yawn. “It’s a possibility. You talked to them, Vers. Did they give you the idea that they could put a skewer in a kebab without stabbing themselves?”
    “Not really. They’re all dope heads. So who did it? Some anti-Nazi and anti-satanic-thrash-metal freak?”
    “Obviously a line of inquiry we’ll have to follow. I’ll get the computer geeks to see if there were any threats on the relevant Web sites and discussion groups.”
    “What about Hickey and his fat-bellied son?”
    “They can stew a while longer. You never know what they might suddenly remember.
    “There’s something we haven’t talked about, Vers.”
    “I know.”
    “Want to talk about it now?”
    Pinker raised his shoulders. “Sure, Clem.”
    “You aren’t too enthusiastic.”
    “Not exactly my field of