now, glinting wet under the bright light, the petechiae now more visible, like a very fine rash. Jenner could still make out traces of whitish gray adhesive around the mouth.
He turned his attention to her chest—there was a possibility that he’d killed her by compressing her thorax, perhaps kneeling on her until she died—but Jenner found no chest wall bruising.
He looked at the hands; he suspected that Whittaker’s examination of them had been cursory—it always had been. He peered at the fingernails, clipped by Whittaker during the sexual assault workup. Nothing to see.
44
j o n at h a n h ay e s
He studied the wrists, the ragged purple-black bolt holes.
He couldn’t tell if it was just a trick of the light, but there seemed to be a blue discoloration of the wrist distinct from the holes. He incised the forearm and inspected the tissue underneath. A film of blood spread in a poorly defined band around the wrist, separate from the bolt injury. A handcuff mark, perhaps?
He incised the other wrist and found a similar subcutaneous film of blood; the wrist hemorrhages weren’t like the well-circumscribed patterned skin injuries caused by handcuffs. The bleeding was more marked over the backs of the wrists and, he saw as he extended the incision, continued down over the backs of the forearms: he had bound her wrists together, probably palm to palm.
Moving her wrists, trying to determine the exact position of her hands in the ligature, he noticed a pale area at the base of the left thumb. He squinted—it was pretty faint. He took his right glove off, closed his eyes, and gently stroked the skin.
He felt a slight depression in the surface.
He walked to the doorway and turned out the lights, then took the plastic bag containing his Maglite and his Zeiss hand lens from his pocket. The waning daylight from the clerestory windows was just a mud gray glow, the room otherwise dark.
He pulled over a metal stool and sat next to the girl’s body.
He shone the flashlight over the right wrist, tilting the beam, tilting his head, turning her wrist. There it was: two, maybe three, shallow depressions at the base of the right thumb, in the fleshy part of the back of the hand.
He went to the other side of the table and examined the other wrist under the light. Again, depressions in the base of the thumb.
He was looking at bite marks. The killer had bitten her, tied her wrists together and bitten her across the bases of her thumbs.
Precious Blood
45
He wanted a second opinion; he needed confirmation. He knew it was petty, but it was important to him that he find something that Whittaker had missed. And that people in the office found out about it.
He strode down the hallway to the Anthro room. Annie was perched on a stool at the steel table, a little frown of concentration on her face as she touched the pincer tips of a head-span calipers to a crumbling brown skull. She peered up at Jenner over half-moon glasses when he came in.
“Annie, sorry to bother you, but can I borrow your eyes? I think I’ve found something.”
“Ooh. Field trip!” She smiled. “Sure, Jenner.”
In the autopsy room, he showed her the marks. After a few seconds with the hand lens and flashlight, she gave a low whistle.
“Yeah, dental imprints. Score one for Jenner!” She walked around the table and inspected the left wrist. “On the right, I think you’ve got a deeper depression from a cuspid, and next to it an overlapped incisor. Left is a bit too faint for me to call.”
She smiled at him proudly and tousled his hair again, as if he were an eight-year-old, her eight-year-old. “Whittaker missed them?”
Jenner nodded. “Look, do you think you could tell him you found them? That you happened to be walking by, had a quick peek at the body, and noticed them? I really don’t want to deal with him.” He knew the word would get out that he had found them.
“Edward Jenner, modest to a fault. Sure, I’ll take the credit.
Want me
He turned his attention to her chest—there was a possibility that he’d killed her by compressing her thorax, perhaps kneeling on her until she died—but Jenner found no chest wall bruising.
He looked at the hands; he suspected that Whittaker’s examination of them had been cursory—it always had been. He peered at the fingernails, clipped by Whittaker during the sexual assault workup. Nothing to see.
44
j o n at h a n h ay e s
He studied the wrists, the ragged purple-black bolt holes.
He couldn’t tell if it was just a trick of the light, but there seemed to be a blue discoloration of the wrist distinct from the holes. He incised the forearm and inspected the tissue underneath. A film of blood spread in a poorly defined band around the wrist, separate from the bolt injury. A handcuff mark, perhaps?
He incised the other wrist and found a similar subcutaneous film of blood; the wrist hemorrhages weren’t like the well-circumscribed patterned skin injuries caused by handcuffs. The bleeding was more marked over the backs of the wrists and, he saw as he extended the incision, continued down over the backs of the forearms: he had bound her wrists together, probably palm to palm.
Moving her wrists, trying to determine the exact position of her hands in the ligature, he noticed a pale area at the base of the left thumb. He squinted—it was pretty faint. He took his right glove off, closed his eyes, and gently stroked the skin.
He felt a slight depression in the surface.
He walked to the doorway and turned out the lights, then took the plastic bag containing his Maglite and his Zeiss hand lens from his pocket. The waning daylight from the clerestory windows was just a mud gray glow, the room otherwise dark.
He pulled over a metal stool and sat next to the girl’s body.
He shone the flashlight over the right wrist, tilting the beam, tilting his head, turning her wrist. There it was: two, maybe three, shallow depressions at the base of the right thumb, in the fleshy part of the back of the hand.
He went to the other side of the table and examined the other wrist under the light. Again, depressions in the base of the thumb.
He was looking at bite marks. The killer had bitten her, tied her wrists together and bitten her across the bases of her thumbs.
Precious Blood
45
He wanted a second opinion; he needed confirmation. He knew it was petty, but it was important to him that he find something that Whittaker had missed. And that people in the office found out about it.
He strode down the hallway to the Anthro room. Annie was perched on a stool at the steel table, a little frown of concentration on her face as she touched the pincer tips of a head-span calipers to a crumbling brown skull. She peered up at Jenner over half-moon glasses when he came in.
“Annie, sorry to bother you, but can I borrow your eyes? I think I’ve found something.”
“Ooh. Field trip!” She smiled. “Sure, Jenner.”
In the autopsy room, he showed her the marks. After a few seconds with the hand lens and flashlight, she gave a low whistle.
“Yeah, dental imprints. Score one for Jenner!” She walked around the table and inspected the left wrist. “On the right, I think you’ve got a deeper depression from a cuspid, and next to it an overlapped incisor. Left is a bit too faint for me to call.”
She smiled at him proudly and tousled his hair again, as if he were an eight-year-old, her eight-year-old. “Whittaker missed them?”
Jenner nodded. “Look, do you think you could tell him you found them? That you happened to be walking by, had a quick peek at the body, and noticed them? I really don’t want to deal with him.” He knew the word would get out that he had found them.
“Edward Jenner, modest to a fault. Sure, I’ll take the credit.
Want me
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