Джеймс Паттерсон - The 18th Abduction

Claire, San Francisco’s chief medical examiner and my best bud, was suited up in baby-blue gown, cap, and gloves. She said, “I’ve got you a set of clothes over there, Lindsay. See it?”

There was a pile of blue cotton scrubs folded on a metal stool, necessary attire to prevent contamination of Carly Myers’s body.

When I was properly dressed, I moved in.

Claire and I bumped our gloved fists, what Claire’s little girl, Rosie, calls an elephant kiss. We grinned and then turned our attention to Carly Myers. She was draped with a sheet from her knees to her armpits.

Claire told me, “Obviously, I haven’t begun the internal autopsy yet, but I have a few useful notes and one thing that has me completely stumped.”

“Start there,” I said.

“What? You want to spoil all my fun?”

“God forbid. Start where you like. It’s your party and I’m in your house.”

Chapter 31

Claire opened the victim’s mouth and shined her flashlight inside.

She said, “Look here, Lindsay. Call this confirmation of what you suspected. In a death by hanging, you’ll usually find the tongue is cut from biting.”

Carly’s tongue looked intact to me.

I said, “So she was dead when she was hanged.”

“Yes, that’s my opinion. I found petechial hemorrhaging in the eyes and bruising around the neck. The cricoid cartilage in the neck was fractured. This doesn’t happen with ligature strangulation.”

“What then? Manual strangulation?”

“That is correct, my dear sergeant.”

Claire showed me the bruises around Carly’s throat that had been covered by the collar of the white shirt.

Claire said, “And look here. Abrasions on her knees, forearms, and here, base of her palms. This might have happened if she tried to get away from her attacker and fell when he overpowered her.”

Those abrasions had been mostly hidden by shirttails and pink panties around her wrists when I saw Carly’s body in the shower. If she’d been attacked in the motel room, carpet fibers might be embedded in her scraped knees. If she’d been attacked outside, she should have traces of dirt from a lawn or a road or a parking lot, or even carpet from the inside of a vehicle.

That kind of evidence could be a break for the good guys.

I asked, “What kind of trace did CSI find in the wounds?”

“Linds, I hate to tell you this, but Clapper himself swabbed those abrasions last night, and it’s his opinion that the body is squeaky clean.”

I asked, “How squeaky? You’re not saying she was washed?”

“Clapper thinks so. When the DNA tests come back, he’ll be able to say with certainty, but from the first pass, this is what he got. They combed out her hair and found no foreign particles. No trace under her nails. They swabbed the bite mark on her neck, and that swab has gone off to the lab. The shampoo bottle that was found in the bathroom was empty, and even with decomp, you can smell the soap on her. Chamomile.”

“Nuts. Her killer really cleaned up after himself.”

“He’s smart enough. If he had sex with her, he used a condom and left no trace on the bed—or anywhere.”

“There were towels missing,” I said.

“So he put them on the bed to protect the spread. Huh. Possible.”

“What else?” I asked.

Claire told me that she had sent out the sexual assault kit and the blood samples, that there was little chance that results would come back until after the weekend—if then.

“We’re looking at weeks for the DNA. I can only ring the fire alarm so many times,” she told me, “and I’ve rung it quite a lot recently.”

I remembered the many times I’d stood in this room with Claire, using logic and forensic pathology to puzzle out what had happened to the person on the table who couldn’t tell us anything.

Claire waggled her fingers in front of my face.

“You still with me, Linds?”

I snapped out of my thoughts and said, “Absolutely. We have to wait for the sexual assault kit to come back.”

“Correct,” she said. “But I’m not done here. Not by far.”

Chapter 32

“Okay,” Claire said. “CSI found nothing at all on the shirt. It’s a common brand, all cotton, size 2XL, available for purchase in twenty thousand stores all over the country and online, priced between twelve and twenty bucks, made in China.”

I sighed, long and loudly.

Claire didn’t notice. She said, “The shirt hadn’t been worn until Carly’s dead body was dressed in it.”

“Great,” I said sadly.

If the doer had a new shirt handy, it pointed to a premeditated crime, either specific to Carly or in general if a choice opportunity arose.

“And what about Carly’s own clothes that were left on the motel room floor?”

“They were worn, but there was no blood or dirt or anything that would lead anywhere. I do have something for you, though.”

“Please, Claire, make my day.”

She smiled. She was enjoying herself. But hell, this was a rough job, and if someone had to oversee twelve hundred autopsies a year, best if it was someone who enjoyed her work.

“I’ve taken photos of her injuries,” said Claire, “including these.”

She pulled down the sheet, exposing Carly’s torso. There were large bruises on her body from chest to hips, and there was more: a half dozen discrete lacerations in Carly’s flesh, three inches long, like knife wounds in a random pattern.

Claire said, “She was beaten over a couple days’ time, but these wounds are fresh. She’s got similar wounds on her back and buttocks.”

“What the hell are they?”

Claire said, “I’m asking the same question. The incisions are shallow and were made by an unusual kind of blade. Check this out. There’s no collateral bruising at the point of entry.”

“Meaning?”

“The blade was beveled and double-edged and super sharp. I can’t yet identify the implement—that’s good. It wasn’t any kind of knife I’ve seen. So if you find the weapon, you may find the killer.”

“Were the cuts made premortem or post?”

“She was alive,” Claire told me. “And that also supports Clapper’s opinion that this body was washed. Even though these cuts are shallow, Carly had to have bled. But there’s no sign of blood.

“That said, keep in mind that these wounds didn’t kill her, Lindsay. She was strangled. That’s a man’s crime.”

“So, unofficially…” I said, prompting her.

“Unofficially, manner of death: homicide. Cause of death: asphyxiation by manual strangulation. I’ll call you,” she said. “Right after I do the internal post.”

Chapter 33

Claire’s receptionist elbowed the door open and said, “Sergeant, Inspector Conklin called. He’s waiting upstairs for you.”

I told Claire, “Thanks. Talk to you later,” and left the ME’s office, taking the breezeway to the back entrance of the Hall’s garnet-colored, marble-lined lobby. An elevator was waiting, and I rode it to four and then walked the short, brightly lit corridor to the homicide squad.

Conklin was sitting behind his desk—and Cindy sat behind mine. Even before they’d gotten together, there had always been chemistry between my friend and my partner, known by women in and around the Hall as Inspector Hottie. I liked seeing it.

Cindy said, “What can you tell me?”

It was quite bold of Cindy—coming to our house, taking my chair, making demands. She’s infuriating and funny, often at the same time.

I smiled and said, “This is absolutely all I can tell you, Cindy. You can say that the deceased is, in fact, Carly Myers and that the authorities are looking for anyone who may have seen her or her killer.”

“Cause of death?”