Michael Baden - Skeleton justice

Gently, Jake opened the victim's mouth. Dragon photographed the abrasions he and Todd had noted the night before at the corners of her mouth. Using a magnifying glass, Jake searched for fibers there, but he found none, supporting his hypothesis that nylon stockings had been used for the gag. Sometimes, gagged victims choked on their own vomit, but that was not the cause of death here. Amanda Hogaarth's throat and windpipe were clear.

After removing her top denture, Jake looked at the fillings in her bottom teeth. "You don't see that type of dental work here. I don't think this work was done by an American dentist."

The neck and torso revealed nothing unusual, but the thighs, large, cushioned with a thick layer of adipose tissue, showed two distinct bruises above the knees. "Looks like he knelt on her to hold her down," Todd commented.

"Correct." Jake directed a light to shine on Ms. Hogaarth's vulva area. "Let's look for signs of sexual attack."

"Why do that, Doc? She was dressed when the detective here found her." Todd was quizzical.

"Because many times crime scenes are staged. Plus, if you look at her panties under a light source, there appears to be a slight stain… maybe blood."

"As I thought, there are definite signs of violent penetration. Tears in the vagina but no semen present."

"He wore a condom?" Todd asked.

"No, he didn't rape her. She was violated by a hard object shoved into her vagina. Look at this." Jake stepped aside so that Todd and the detective could get a closer look.

The younger doctor's brow furrowed. "What…"

"See the labia? That tissue is burned. The margins of the burned area look like electrical burns. Do a frozen section," Jake told Todd. "We'll verify it under the microscope."

Pasquarelli recoiled. Dragon muttered something. It wasn't necessary to speak Croatian to catch his meaning.

"Would that be enough to kill her?" the detective asked. "Did she die of electrocution?"

"No, if she'd been electrocuted, we'd see an exit burn somewhere else on her body. It's time to look inside." They worked with quiet efficiency, making a Y-shaped incision from each shoulder to the lower part of the breastbone, then down to the pubic bones. In one smooth movement that produced a faint zipping sound, Jake pulled the skin back from the rib cage, exposing the ribs and the abdominal organs.

Pasquarelli winced and looked away.

"Come on, Detective." Jake elbowed the cop. "You must've seen that procedure scores of times."

"Seen it. Doesn't mean I have to like it. Some cops barf every time they have to do this. Me, I got a cast-iron stomach. What bothers me more than the blood and the smell are the sounds, especially when you guys fire up that saw." The detective reached into his pocket and pulled out two tiny earplugs. "Okay, I'm ready."

Jake used the saw to cut through the ribs near the breastbone and removed the breastplate, exposing the heart and lungs. "The heart weighs five hundred and fifty grams, twice as big as it should be," Jake commented as he worked. "There's narrowing of the arteries, and an enlarged left ventricle, indicative of high blood pressure. Both lungs are filled with frothy fluid."

Jake straightened. "Cause of death: hypertensive and arteriosclerotic heart disease with congestive heart failure, along with a fatal cardiac arrhythmia, while being held down."

"English, please," Pasquarelli requested.

"Heart failure induced by torture."

Jake stepped through the door of his town house and slid on a pile of mail that had been shoved through the slot onto the parquet floor hours earlier. Scooping it up, he tossed it on a table so full of unopened bills and unanswered invitations that its fine Empire lines were utterly obscured.

When he had bought this dilapidated brownstone in the mid-eighties, the bus ride from his office at Thirtieth Street to his home north of Ninety-sixth Street had been an exercise in urban survival. He had needed to stay constantly alert to sidestep roving packs of teenagers who hopped on the bus looking for pockets to pick, staggering panhandlers shaking their paper cups of change under the noses of riders, and assorted drunks and crazies. Reading, or even daydreaming, was done at your peril. These days, the ride on the clean air-conditioned bus was so uneventful, you could go into a Zen-induced trance and still emerge unscathed at your stop. And his neighborhood, once populated by dealers and pimps, had sprouted a Starbucks and a Gap-not necessarily improvements, in his view.

All in all, coming home was less stressful but also less exciting than it used to be. And, since his divorce nearly two years ago, less organized. Still, the five-story house, packed with forensic specimens, haphazardly furnished, partially remodeled, was his personal sanctuary. The place where he could go to lick his wounds and gather strength for another round of battle. And today, after the disturbing evidence gathered at the Hogaarth autopsy, and the strain of explaining to Pederson why it still hadn't brought them any closer to catching the Vampire, Jake deeply craved the restorative peace of his home.

"Your girlfriend called me today."

The voice-deep, amused, irreverent-emerged from somewhere in the shadowy front parlor.

"Why are you sitting there in the dark? And she's not my girlfriend."

"Companion, lover, significant other-what's the politically correct term you prefer?"

What was Manny to him? At the moment, pain in the ass or thorn in the side seemed the most fitting description. Jake walked toward the sound of his brother Sam's voice, only to crash into a randomly placed display case.

"Ow! Would you turn on the damn lights!"

Sam reached out a long arm and flicked on a lamp, revealing himself, prematurely gray ponytail and all, sprawled on a wing chair and ottoman, and the astonishing clutter of Jake's living room.

"I find this room more habitable when it's only illuminated by that neon sign across the street," Sam said.

"No one asked you to inhabit it." Jake found his brother's tendency of popping in unannounced for extended stays both infuriating and entertaining, especially since he had his own rent-stabilized apartment in Greenwich Village. Today, infuriating had the upper hand.

"Come, come, big brother. No need to snap at me just because you're in the doghouse with Manny."

Heading for the chair across from Sam, Jake moved a box of disarticulated bear bones that some less experienced ME had sent him, thinking they were human, and sat down. "She called you to complain about me?" He could feel his heart rate rising. How juvenile!

"No, she called to offer me a job, and in the course of describing said job, she-quite inadvertently, I'm sure-revealed her frustration with you."

Jake looked at his younger brother's teasing grin and felt the same overwhelming need to jump on top of him and twist his arm that he had felt when they were twelve and five, respectively. "A job? What kind of job-bag carrier for one of her shoe-shopping swings through Bloomies?"

"You underestimate me, bro. I'm temporarily employed by her as a trial-prep resource-doing a little investigation work on a case. Tracking down four kids who were in the company of the Preppy Terrorists and who have since vanished."

"Last time I checked, you weren't licensed for that."

Sam brushed off this concern as if it were one of the cobwebs hanging off the replica of the Maltese falcon in the corner. "Anyone can ask a few discreet questions. I'm just assisting Manny with her inquiries, so to speak." Sam sat up straight, took his feet off the ottoman, and leaned forward to look his brother in the eye. "I hear you think she's not up to handling this case."

Jake kicked the box he'd just moved. "I never said that! I just cautioned her not to eagerly accept what may turn out to be an unwinnable case for anyone."