Sarah Armstrong - 02 - Blood Lines by Kathryn Casey Page A

conclusion. That means that 75 percent of the time, the docs ready their scalpels and fulfill their role as combination physicians and investigators. In this building, pathologists and technicians not only dissect human bodies but conduct DNA and toxicology tests, study recovered bones, collect and process evidence, and in the cold, lonely vaults, the remains of the dead silently wait to be claimed.
    For the most part, forensic pathologists are curious individuals, intent on piecing together the clues death leaves behind. What they learn can help the living, hence the Latin motto over the door in nearly every morgue I’ve encountered: “ Hic locus est ubi mors gaudet succurrere vitae. ” In a more familiar language: “This is the place where death delights to help the living.”
    Two days earlier, Dr. Joe began with a visual examination of Bil-lie Cox’s body, and then cut through her chest in a “Y,” from clavicle to pelvis, opening her up to inspect her insides. He examined and weighed all her internal organs including her kidneys, heart, and liver, dictating his notes as he progressed. Like many who die violently, Billie Cox was a fine specimen, in good health. Thephysician found nothing organic to portend an early death. After he documented the outer appearance of her GSW, the gunshot wound, he cut through her skull with a small electric saw and carefully removed her brain, to trace the path of the bullet. There would be no surprises. Billie Cox died of the GSW to the brain. The damage was catastrophic, and death was instantaneous. Finished, Dr. Joe turned her body over to an assistant, who repaired the pathologist’s incisions with V-shaped stitches, the same type used to bind baseballs.
    As I patrolled the exam table, I also noticed a few stitches closing a small incision on Cox’s side, the point at which a probe had been inserted on the scene to record liver temperature. At 7 p.m. on the night of her death, in a seventy-degree bedroom, her body didn’t yet show signs of rigor mortis and her liver temp was a nearly normal 98.4, leading to the conclusion that she’d been dead for less than two hours. The M.E. couldn’t be more precise than that.
    “You did the GSR testing here at the morgue?” I asked.
    Dr. Joe frowned, looking impatient. “Of course,” he said. “The woman’s hands came in bagged from the scene. We did the testing for gunshot residue here, as we always do. What’s up, Lieutenant? Why are you here? Isn’t this H.P.D.’s body?”
    Not looking up, I said, “I was asked to consult.” It wasn’t a lie. I had been asked to look over the file, even if this trip to the morgue could be considered extracurricular. “I thought perhaps seeing Miss Cox’s remains might settle some questions.”
    “What questions?” Dr. Joe asked.
    “Well,” I said. “The death scene looked a little too perfect, almost staged to me. It’s probably nothing, but did you see anything at all that contradicted the conclusion that this was a suicide?”
    Dr. Joe thought about that for a little while. His final report hadn’t been typed up yet, but he flipped through his notes on Billie Cox, all the while standing on one foot and rubbing his calf with theopposite heel. There’s very little humidity in the morgue, not the best environment for living flesh. “Just what I already told the detective, about the bruising,” he said, closing the report folder. “That’s already been discussed, and I can’t find anything else of interest.”
    “Refresh my memory,” I said. “What bruising?”
    “Didn’t Detective Walker fill you in?” he asked. He stretched out his left arm, and rubbed the elbow, scratching. As he did, I noticed a tattoo just above his wristwatch, a new one. From the occasional glimpse and death-house rumors, I knew the pathologist had an impressive collection covering his body from his wrists up, extending over his chest, to just below the neck of his blue surgical scrubs. In fact,