stray from refined to street tough.
‘I’m not a betting man,’ Sam reminded him.
The call from Elliot Sanders, the ME who’d come out to the house on Pine Tree Drive five days earlier, had surprised Sam. First, it was a pure coincidence for the same
doc to have taken both cases. Second, if an ME noted a possible connection between cases in separate jurisdictions, the police investigators usually only heard about it after the weekly Dade County
medical examiners’ meeting. Even then, if a potential link had been spotted, Sam would have expected to have to wait for the other police department – in this case the City of Miami PD,
who policed Coconut Grove – to be ready to share any relevant information with Miami Beach. Dr Sanders, however, was a big, broad man who did his damnedest to see commonsense prevail.
He’d seen the similarity to the Robbins’ killings immediately, had seen no point in not alerting the guy in charge of the Miami Beach case, and had convinced the local investigators to
let Becket and one colleague drive over to take a look.
Startled and intrigued by the development, Sam and Martinez had wasted no time accepting the offer. It looked, Sanders said, as he’d hinted to Sam on the phone, like another scalpel
wound.
‘Think it could be the same weapon?’ Sam asked now, as the ME came out of the house to join him and Martinez.
‘Wouldn’t like to say.’ Sanders mopped his brow with a large handkerchief and lit a cigarette. For a physician he broke way too many health rules, smoking every chance he got,
carrying too much weight and drinking too much whisky, but most people who knew him agreed that for a man who spent so much of his life around cadavers, he was a whole lot of fun.
‘Time of death?’ Sam asked.
‘She’s been dead about eight hours, give or take.’ Sanders checked his watch. ‘Sometime around four a.m.’ He fanned himself with a pad of paper. ‘Air’s
like soup today. Mind you, it’s not much better in there.’
‘Air-con’s busted.’ Martinez had been nosing around, trying to find out whatever was up for grabs without raising hackles. The victim, he’d learned, had been found by her
next-door-neighbour after the second of her two clients for that morning had knocked on her front door to ask if she knew where Flager was. The client, a Cuban teenager, had been questioned and
allowed to leave, and the neighbour, in a state of semi-hysteria, was currently back in her own house being nursed through a cup of tea by one of the patrol officers who’d been first on the
scene.
‘What else do you have, doc?’ Sam asked the ME.
‘You want to take another look while I tell you?’ Sanders grinned. Sam Becket’s comparative squeamishness with messy corpses was well-known to him and his fellow examiners
– though at least in this case there was less blood splashed over the place itself than there had been in the Robbins’ bedroom. There was a short trail of the stuff ending three feet
from the couch where Flager’s body lay; probably the blood that had dripped from the blade before it was wiped by the killer. As yet, no trace had been found either of the weapon itself, or
of whatever had been used to clean it. There was also no sign of forced entry – the back door having been wide open – and the only apparent property damage was a smashed up
computer.
‘Don’t sweat it, Becket,’ Sanders told Sam, ‘we can stay out here.’ He glanced at his notes, though there was nothing in them that wasn’t still at the
forefront of his mind. ‘One puncture, clean through the temporal artery.’
‘So someone had to get up real close,’ Martinez said.
‘No sign of a fight,’ Sam added,
‘She’s on the couch,’ Sanders said, ‘so she might have been sleeping.’
‘The TV wasn’t on,’ Sam commented. ‘Most people fall asleep on their couches in front of the TV.’
‘You don’t,’ Martinez pointed out. ‘You’re always zeeing up on
‘I’m not a betting man,’ Sam reminded him.
The call from Elliot Sanders, the ME who’d come out to the house on Pine Tree Drive five days earlier, had surprised Sam. First, it was a pure coincidence for the same
doc to have taken both cases. Second, if an ME noted a possible connection between cases in separate jurisdictions, the police investigators usually only heard about it after the weekly Dade County
medical examiners’ meeting. Even then, if a potential link had been spotted, Sam would have expected to have to wait for the other police department – in this case the City of Miami PD,
who policed Coconut Grove – to be ready to share any relevant information with Miami Beach. Dr Sanders, however, was a big, broad man who did his damnedest to see commonsense prevail.
He’d seen the similarity to the Robbins’ killings immediately, had seen no point in not alerting the guy in charge of the Miami Beach case, and had convinced the local investigators to
let Becket and one colleague drive over to take a look.
Startled and intrigued by the development, Sam and Martinez had wasted no time accepting the offer. It looked, Sanders said, as he’d hinted to Sam on the phone, like another scalpel
wound.
‘Think it could be the same weapon?’ Sam asked now, as the ME came out of the house to join him and Martinez.
‘Wouldn’t like to say.’ Sanders mopped his brow with a large handkerchief and lit a cigarette. For a physician he broke way too many health rules, smoking every chance he got,
carrying too much weight and drinking too much whisky, but most people who knew him agreed that for a man who spent so much of his life around cadavers, he was a whole lot of fun.
‘Time of death?’ Sam asked.
‘She’s been dead about eight hours, give or take.’ Sanders checked his watch. ‘Sometime around four a.m.’ He fanned himself with a pad of paper. ‘Air’s
like soup today. Mind you, it’s not much better in there.’
‘Air-con’s busted.’ Martinez had been nosing around, trying to find out whatever was up for grabs without raising hackles. The victim, he’d learned, had been found by her
next-door-neighbour after the second of her two clients for that morning had knocked on her front door to ask if she knew where Flager was. The client, a Cuban teenager, had been questioned and
allowed to leave, and the neighbour, in a state of semi-hysteria, was currently back in her own house being nursed through a cup of tea by one of the patrol officers who’d been first on the
scene.
‘What else do you have, doc?’ Sam asked the ME.
‘You want to take another look while I tell you?’ Sanders grinned. Sam Becket’s comparative squeamishness with messy corpses was well-known to him and his fellow examiners
– though at least in this case there was less blood splashed over the place itself than there had been in the Robbins’ bedroom. There was a short trail of the stuff ending three feet
from the couch where Flager’s body lay; probably the blood that had dripped from the blade before it was wiped by the killer. As yet, no trace had been found either of the weapon itself, or
of whatever had been used to clean it. There was also no sign of forced entry – the back door having been wide open – and the only apparent property damage was a smashed up
computer.
‘Don’t sweat it, Becket,’ Sanders told Sam, ‘we can stay out here.’ He glanced at his notes, though there was nothing in them that wasn’t still at the
forefront of his mind. ‘One puncture, clean through the temporal artery.’
‘So someone had to get up real close,’ Martinez said.
‘No sign of a fight,’ Sam added,
‘She’s on the couch,’ Sanders said, ‘so she might have been sleeping.’
‘The TV wasn’t on,’ Sam commented. ‘Most people fall asleep on their couches in front of the TV.’
‘You don’t,’ Martinez pointed out. ‘You’re always zeeing up on
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