shouldn’t think so,” said Dr. Peters. “Not an expert in that, though,” he said with a grin. “But if they were to do it, they’d be needing the services of another kind of doctor by now.”
“We don’t have any injuries yet, do we?” said Lamar.
“Not yet,” said Dr. Peters, kneeling at the heads of the victims. “I suspect we’ll find something inside the bags, though.”
“Asphyxiation,” said Art.
Dr. Peters looked up. “Pardon?”
“Asphyxiation,” said Art, again. “You think?”
“I shouldn’t be betting a large amount,” said Dr. Peters. He began tugging at the bag on the closest victim. “These aren’t at all tight.”
The white bag was stiff, the way that polyethylene gets when it’s really cold. It gave Dr. Peters a rough time for a few seconds, since it also appeared to be stuck to the victim’s head by frozen blood. He finally tugged really hard, and as it came off, it suddenly revealed a black-haired male subject, approximately twenty-five or so, unshaven, teeth exposed in a grimace. It was sort of startling, and took us all a second or two to adjust.
There was a lot of clotted blood on the right side of the head, stiffly clumped in with the longish hair, and with a patch of frozen polyethylene adhering to the clumped strands. The right eyeball protruded a bit, with the left appearing sunken, at least in comparison. The complexion was sallow.
“Hmm,” said Dr. Peters.
“Blunt object?” asked Art.
“Not going to be your day,” said Dr. Peters, gently prodding the matted blood and hair. He tapped the protruding eyeball, producing a clicking sound. “Frozen solid,” he said. He felt around to the other side of the head. “I suspect a gunshot wound, I think I feel an exit here.” He leaned way over, supporting himself with one arm. “Could someone shine a flashlight over here?”
In the yellowish circle of Lamar’s light, he was able to clear the left side of the victim’s head. “Yes. Appears to be our exit, and … temporal.”
Cool. I took four shots of the first victim’s face, concentrating in the first two on the clot, the second pair on the protruding eye. Establish, then zoom in. Lamar held a tape measure next to the nose for me. You should have a scale in the shots, whenever possible.
Dr. Peters gingerly removed the white bag from the head of the second victim. This one slipped right off. This fellow had a recently shaved head, and the small goatee I could see from my angle was blondish. There was blood on the second victim, too, but not nearly as much. And what appeared to be a bluish-purple spot on the back of the head, to the right of the middle, and about halfway to the top. Above it, about two inches, was a whitish squiggle of what looked like those worms kids squirt from cans. About an inch or so long, it protruded from another purplish spot.
Dr. Peters pointed to the squiggle. “Extruded brain tissue,” he said. “Shot twice.”
I was working the camera, so Lamar said, “Gunshot wound on both of them, then?”
“Two of them on this one,” said Dr. Peters. He pointed to the upper spot, with the extruded matter. “This is the first shot, this is an entrance wound.” He pointed to the lower spot. “Entrance wound, second shot. Pressure from it caused the material to squeeze out the first hole.”
Aha. Lamar held the tape again, and I got in as tight as I could, showing both wounds. “Think it was a .22?” I asked. It looked about that size.
“I should think so,” he said. “Note the facial features.”
The young man’s face was all compressed and flattened on one side, like he had his face pressed against a pane of glass. Except there was none. The simile apparently occurred to Art, too.
“World’s best mime,” he said, dryly. He surprised me so much I laughed. The DCI might have done him some good, after all.
The corpse’s tongue was protruding through his lips, and his teeth weren’t visible. There was a yellowish
“We don’t have any injuries yet, do we?” said Lamar.
“Not yet,” said Dr. Peters, kneeling at the heads of the victims. “I suspect we’ll find something inside the bags, though.”
“Asphyxiation,” said Art.
Dr. Peters looked up. “Pardon?”
“Asphyxiation,” said Art, again. “You think?”
“I shouldn’t be betting a large amount,” said Dr. Peters. He began tugging at the bag on the closest victim. “These aren’t at all tight.”
The white bag was stiff, the way that polyethylene gets when it’s really cold. It gave Dr. Peters a rough time for a few seconds, since it also appeared to be stuck to the victim’s head by frozen blood. He finally tugged really hard, and as it came off, it suddenly revealed a black-haired male subject, approximately twenty-five or so, unshaven, teeth exposed in a grimace. It was sort of startling, and took us all a second or two to adjust.
There was a lot of clotted blood on the right side of the head, stiffly clumped in with the longish hair, and with a patch of frozen polyethylene adhering to the clumped strands. The right eyeball protruded a bit, with the left appearing sunken, at least in comparison. The complexion was sallow.
“Hmm,” said Dr. Peters.
“Blunt object?” asked Art.
“Not going to be your day,” said Dr. Peters, gently prodding the matted blood and hair. He tapped the protruding eyeball, producing a clicking sound. “Frozen solid,” he said. He felt around to the other side of the head. “I suspect a gunshot wound, I think I feel an exit here.” He leaned way over, supporting himself with one arm. “Could someone shine a flashlight over here?”
In the yellowish circle of Lamar’s light, he was able to clear the left side of the victim’s head. “Yes. Appears to be our exit, and … temporal.”
Cool. I took four shots of the first victim’s face, concentrating in the first two on the clot, the second pair on the protruding eye. Establish, then zoom in. Lamar held a tape measure next to the nose for me. You should have a scale in the shots, whenever possible.
Dr. Peters gingerly removed the white bag from the head of the second victim. This one slipped right off. This fellow had a recently shaved head, and the small goatee I could see from my angle was blondish. There was blood on the second victim, too, but not nearly as much. And what appeared to be a bluish-purple spot on the back of the head, to the right of the middle, and about halfway to the top. Above it, about two inches, was a whitish squiggle of what looked like those worms kids squirt from cans. About an inch or so long, it protruded from another purplish spot.
Dr. Peters pointed to the squiggle. “Extruded brain tissue,” he said. “Shot twice.”
I was working the camera, so Lamar said, “Gunshot wound on both of them, then?”
“Two of them on this one,” said Dr. Peters. He pointed to the upper spot, with the extruded matter. “This is the first shot, this is an entrance wound.” He pointed to the lower spot. “Entrance wound, second shot. Pressure from it caused the material to squeeze out the first hole.”
Aha. Lamar held the tape again, and I got in as tight as I could, showing both wounds. “Think it was a .22?” I asked. It looked about that size.
“I should think so,” he said. “Note the facial features.”
The young man’s face was all compressed and flattened on one side, like he had his face pressed against a pane of glass. Except there was none. The simile apparently occurred to Art, too.
“World’s best mime,” he said, dryly. He surprised me so much I laughed. The DCI might have done him some good, after all.
The corpse’s tongue was protruding through his lips, and his teeth weren’t visible. There was a yellowish
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