to call an odontologist? Don’t you swab these for saliva and epithelial DNA?”
“Well, that’s a problem. Whittaker hosed the body down after he’d finished his external exam, and he rinsed her a few times during the autopsy. Anything that was there is gone now.”
“Damn.”
46
j o n at h a n h ay e s
Annie looked down at the girl’s body.
“Tell you what, Jenner. I have some UV film in the refrigerator. We can photograph the injuries when you’re done.
The crushed tissue should show up pretty well on UV—we should be able to get a decent sense of the teeth patterning and the shape of his dental arches. Whittaker could have the odontologist excise the skin.”
“I doubt the impressions will be good enough to stand up in court. And Whittaker’s not going to want to carve up the daughter of a prominent lawyer.”
“You’re the boss. Or should have been.” She winked and left to find the photographer.
Jenner felt a little high from his find. The UV bite mark photos might reveal a full imprint of the dental arches, good enough to ID a suspect. He returned to the body.
At the foot of the autopsy table, he crossed the girl’s legs to make her body easier to turn over, then stood on the side of the table and reached across to grasp her right arm. He pulled her toward him, gently supporting and protecting her face as she rolled onto her front.
He examined the areas under the skin of the back and neck, again looking for signs of compression. He was about to cut into the base of the neck when he stopped: there was a curious group of brown marks just below the hairline. At first he thought it was from something she’d been lying on, but the markings were too sharply defined, little dull red-brown curlicues about one-eighth of an inch long.
A necklace imprint, dark from drying? There had been no jewelry, but perhaps it had been torn off, like the earrings. But a necklace torn from her neck would create linear scratches, not a row of neat little marks.
He wiped them with a damp paper towel, to make sure that it wasn’t dried blood. It looked like some kind of burn; it had been carefully inflicted.
He took out the plastic Ziploc bag in which he’d brought Precious Blood
47
his flashlight and hand lens. Tearing the bag open, he laid it gently on the marks, smoothing down the surface and pressing the margins with spread fingers to keep the plastic taut.
Carefully, with a fine-point Magic Marker, he traced the row of figures onto the plastic. He lifted the plastic sheet from the neck, waved it gently to dry it, and then folded it and tucked it into his pocket.
He had just finished his exploration of the subcutaneous tissues of the back and his posterior neck dissection when Annie Carr returned. Antwon was on his way. Taking off his gown, Jenner showed her the curious pattern just below the hairline.
“Ha! Whittaker’s going to just love this.”
He smiled. “Thanks, Annie. Call me and let me know what you find, eh?”
“Sure thing. Look after yourself. It’s good to have you back, Jenner—think about sticking around, okay? It’s not the same without you.”
They hugged good-bye, then Jenner headed to the loading bay. With a bit of luck, he’d be at the Waldorf by 5:00 p.m. He was already thinking about what he’d say to Tony Delore.
The Delores had a suite on the Astoria Level, the Waldorf’s concierge floor. Mrs. Delore, a handsome, graying brunette in a white shirt and tweed jacket, met Jenner in the entryway and led him into the lounge. Mr. Delore was on the phone, laptop open, jotting down addresses and times as he spoke with a funeral home.
She offered him coffee, which he declined, and a drink, which he also refused. Where her husband was crisp and authoritative on the phone, she seemed to fade into the background. She sat opposite Jenner, but didn’t make small talk; there seemed to be a tacit agreement that Mr. Delore would run the show.
48
j o n at h a n h ay e s
After Jenner
“Well, that’s a problem. Whittaker hosed the body down after he’d finished his external exam, and he rinsed her a few times during the autopsy. Anything that was there is gone now.”
“Damn.”
46
j o n at h a n h ay e s
Annie looked down at the girl’s body.
“Tell you what, Jenner. I have some UV film in the refrigerator. We can photograph the injuries when you’re done.
The crushed tissue should show up pretty well on UV—we should be able to get a decent sense of the teeth patterning and the shape of his dental arches. Whittaker could have the odontologist excise the skin.”
“I doubt the impressions will be good enough to stand up in court. And Whittaker’s not going to want to carve up the daughter of a prominent lawyer.”
“You’re the boss. Or should have been.” She winked and left to find the photographer.
Jenner felt a little high from his find. The UV bite mark photos might reveal a full imprint of the dental arches, good enough to ID a suspect. He returned to the body.
At the foot of the autopsy table, he crossed the girl’s legs to make her body easier to turn over, then stood on the side of the table and reached across to grasp her right arm. He pulled her toward him, gently supporting and protecting her face as she rolled onto her front.
He examined the areas under the skin of the back and neck, again looking for signs of compression. He was about to cut into the base of the neck when he stopped: there was a curious group of brown marks just below the hairline. At first he thought it was from something she’d been lying on, but the markings were too sharply defined, little dull red-brown curlicues about one-eighth of an inch long.
A necklace imprint, dark from drying? There had been no jewelry, but perhaps it had been torn off, like the earrings. But a necklace torn from her neck would create linear scratches, not a row of neat little marks.
He wiped them with a damp paper towel, to make sure that it wasn’t dried blood. It looked like some kind of burn; it had been carefully inflicted.
He took out the plastic Ziploc bag in which he’d brought Precious Blood
47
his flashlight and hand lens. Tearing the bag open, he laid it gently on the marks, smoothing down the surface and pressing the margins with spread fingers to keep the plastic taut.
Carefully, with a fine-point Magic Marker, he traced the row of figures onto the plastic. He lifted the plastic sheet from the neck, waved it gently to dry it, and then folded it and tucked it into his pocket.
He had just finished his exploration of the subcutaneous tissues of the back and his posterior neck dissection when Annie Carr returned. Antwon was on his way. Taking off his gown, Jenner showed her the curious pattern just below the hairline.
“Ha! Whittaker’s going to just love this.”
He smiled. “Thanks, Annie. Call me and let me know what you find, eh?”
“Sure thing. Look after yourself. It’s good to have you back, Jenner—think about sticking around, okay? It’s not the same without you.”
They hugged good-bye, then Jenner headed to the loading bay. With a bit of luck, he’d be at the Waldorf by 5:00 p.m. He was already thinking about what he’d say to Tony Delore.
The Delores had a suite on the Astoria Level, the Waldorf’s concierge floor. Mrs. Delore, a handsome, graying brunette in a white shirt and tweed jacket, met Jenner in the entryway and led him into the lounge. Mr. Delore was on the phone, laptop open, jotting down addresses and times as he spoke with a funeral home.
She offered him coffee, which he declined, and a drink, which he also refused. Where her husband was crisp and authoritative on the phone, she seemed to fade into the background. She sat opposite Jenner, but didn’t make small talk; there seemed to be a tacit agreement that Mr. Delore would run the show.
48
j o n at h a n h ay e s
After Jenner
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