along with motorcycles, tattoos were a pet interest of the good doctor, which explained why his new one depicted wings emanating from a motorcycle wheel. Somewhere in the lab, legend had it that he kept a three-ring binder filled with tattoos he traced off dead bodies. He referred to it as his “research project.”
“Detective Brad Walker?” I asked.
“Yeah,” Dr. Joe said. “This is his case. Didn’t you know that?”
I hadn’t noticed Walker’s name in the file. That was why Faith Roberts received such a cold reception at H.P.D. Like all officers, Walker had a jacket, a reputation. I’d never met him, but I’d heard he was a black-and-white kind of guy. He didn’t leave much room for the possibility that things weren’t as they seemed. When Faith Roberts mentioned communication from the dead, Walker must have flipped. If I’d realized he was on the case, I would have asked more questions from the start.
“Just slipped my mind,” I fibbed. “Guess the detective forgot to clue me in. Why don’t you, Dr. Joe? What bruising?”
Everyone who dealt with the medical examiner’s office knew Dr. Joe hated explaining anything more than once. As was usual when his patience was taxed, he stared at the one who strained his goodwill as if inspecting bacteria. At such times, he had this lookabout him, kind of a dead, cold stare. Frowning at me, he took a ballpoint pen from the collection in his breast pocket plastic protector. He bent over and used the tip to point at the skin just below the entrance wound in the right side of Billie Cox’s head.
“Take a look here,” he said. “It’s faint but definitely there. You’ll have to stand close to see it.”
I did as instructed, getting within inches of the raw, angry hole in Cox’s temple, and I saw just a slight yellow hue, faint but there, on the lower lip of the entrance wound. “That shouldn’t be there,” I said, stating the obvious.
Suffering from my apparent stupidity, Dr. Joe shook his head. “Lieutenant, when people shoot themselves through the head, depending on the position of the body, standing, sitting, or lying down, there are variations on where the arm holding the weapon ends up and where the gun lands. When the victim is seated, as Ms. Cox was, the most likely scenario is what we see in the scene photos. The pistol’s recoil pushes the hand and gun away from the head, and the body is found with the gun lying near the extended hand.”
“I understand that, but a suicide entrance wound isn’t usually bruised like this,” I asked. “Why is she bruised?”
Again the good doctor sighed, staring at me as if it required all his patience to proceed. “As I explained to the detective, sometimes things don’t happen precisely as we expect,” he said. “There are multiple possibilities, but my guess is that this woman held the gun so tight against her skull, with so much force, that the recoil bounced it, causing the peri-mortem bruising.”
“I’ve never seen that before,” I said. “Not in a suicide.”
“Nor have I,” he answered. “But that doesn’t mean it isn’t possible.”
“I have seen this type of bruising in homicides,” I said. Offering nothing more, I waited for the physician to jump in. He didn’t atfirst, as if considering how to take my observation. When he spoke, it was again to dismiss my concerns.
“Of course. And I discussed that option with Detective Walker,” he said, with an air of finality.
“Just to make sure I get the right version, how about one more time with me?” I asked.
Scowling at me, Dr. Joe cinched his face into a taut frown.
“You’re absolutely right,” he said, eyeing me as if my very presence irritated him more than his aching ribs. “The usual scenario with this type of bruising is homicide. Someone holds a gun tight against a victim’s skull. A living, breathing shooter has the strength to fight recoil, and that increases the odds that a jerking reaction brings the
“Detective Brad Walker?” I asked.
“Yeah,” Dr. Joe said. “This is his case. Didn’t you know that?”
I hadn’t noticed Walker’s name in the file. That was why Faith Roberts received such a cold reception at H.P.D. Like all officers, Walker had a jacket, a reputation. I’d never met him, but I’d heard he was a black-and-white kind of guy. He didn’t leave much room for the possibility that things weren’t as they seemed. When Faith Roberts mentioned communication from the dead, Walker must have flipped. If I’d realized he was on the case, I would have asked more questions from the start.
“Just slipped my mind,” I fibbed. “Guess the detective forgot to clue me in. Why don’t you, Dr. Joe? What bruising?”
Everyone who dealt with the medical examiner’s office knew Dr. Joe hated explaining anything more than once. As was usual when his patience was taxed, he stared at the one who strained his goodwill as if inspecting bacteria. At such times, he had this lookabout him, kind of a dead, cold stare. Frowning at me, he took a ballpoint pen from the collection in his breast pocket plastic protector. He bent over and used the tip to point at the skin just below the entrance wound in the right side of Billie Cox’s head.
“Take a look here,” he said. “It’s faint but definitely there. You’ll have to stand close to see it.”
I did as instructed, getting within inches of the raw, angry hole in Cox’s temple, and I saw just a slight yellow hue, faint but there, on the lower lip of the entrance wound. “That shouldn’t be there,” I said, stating the obvious.
Suffering from my apparent stupidity, Dr. Joe shook his head. “Lieutenant, when people shoot themselves through the head, depending on the position of the body, standing, sitting, or lying down, there are variations on where the arm holding the weapon ends up and where the gun lands. When the victim is seated, as Ms. Cox was, the most likely scenario is what we see in the scene photos. The pistol’s recoil pushes the hand and gun away from the head, and the body is found with the gun lying near the extended hand.”
“I understand that, but a suicide entrance wound isn’t usually bruised like this,” I asked. “Why is she bruised?”
Again the good doctor sighed, staring at me as if it required all his patience to proceed. “As I explained to the detective, sometimes things don’t happen precisely as we expect,” he said. “There are multiple possibilities, but my guess is that this woman held the gun so tight against her skull, with so much force, that the recoil bounced it, causing the peri-mortem bruising.”
“I’ve never seen that before,” I said. “Not in a suicide.”
“Nor have I,” he answered. “But that doesn’t mean it isn’t possible.”
“I have seen this type of bruising in homicides,” I said. Offering nothing more, I waited for the physician to jump in. He didn’t atfirst, as if considering how to take my observation. When he spoke, it was again to dismiss my concerns.
“Of course. And I discussed that option with Detective Walker,” he said, with an air of finality.
“Just to make sure I get the right version, how about one more time with me?” I asked.
Scowling at me, Dr. Joe cinched his face into a taut frown.
“You’re absolutely right,” he said, eyeing me as if my very presence irritated him more than his aching ribs. “The usual scenario with this type of bruising is homicide. Someone holds a gun tight against a victim’s skull. A living, breathing shooter has the strength to fight recoil, and that increases the odds that a jerking reaction brings the
Similar Books
