Linda Fairstein - Likely To Die

Mike saw my eyes fix on the painted green walls as we walked; they were pockmarked at about waist level where large chips were missing. It was especially noticeable when we reached the bend at the bottom of the incline and turned to the right to go down another twenty feet.

“I know, I know. You’re ready to give the place a paint job and redecorate. Forget it. That’s the way it’s always gonna be, Blondie. They unload the body onto a gurney at the top, then somebody gives it a shove down the ramp. It bounces off the side a few times, hits the corner, and caroms around and down to the bottom. Believe me, the patient doesn’t feel a thing. You don’t need a candy striper to walk the stretcher down the hall.”

“Sensitive motherfucker, isn’t he?” Wallace murmured.

Mike led us into a small conference room at the far end of the corridor. It held an eight-foot-long table, a dozen chairs, a chalkboard, and wall-mounted clips all around the circumference to display X rays and photographs.

Before Mercer and I could take off our coats and sit down, Dr. Chet Kirschner joined us in the room.

We had worked together on a number of occasions throughout the five years since he had been appointed to the post of Chief Medical Examiner by the Mayor and I always welcomed his calm and dignified mien as much as I valued his professional judgment. Chet was tall and razor thin, with dark hair, a quiet voice, and an engaging smile that was rarely exercised during the discussions of his daily procedures.

We exchanged greetings and placed ourselves around the table while Mike went on unpacking his bag full of sandwiches and sodas.

“What I’m going to tell you is very preliminary, Alexandra. It will take some time to get lab results on the toxicology and the serological samples, so let’s just start-off the record-with the general picture.”

“Of course.”

“I got all four turkeys on rye, Russian dressing, okay?”

“Not right now, Mike,” I answered. The sterile surroundings, the faint aroma of formaldehyde, and the grim task ahead of us combined to suppress all thoughts of food or hunger.

Mercer and Chet also passed. Mike unwrapped his overstuffed sandwich and popped the top on his root beer while Dr. Kirschner took out a set of Polaroid photos of Gemma Dogen’s blood-soaked body and spread them on the table.

He looked up at Mike, who was crunching potato chips between bites of the sandwich, and grinned wryly as he said, “bon appétit.”

“There is no mystery abouthow the doctor died. As you’re all aware, there were multiple stab wounds-seventeen, to be exact. Several hit vital organs, including the wound that was probably the fatal one, which collapsed one of her lungs completely. The other lung was punctured as well.

“The repeated blows, most of which were quite deep, caused massive internal bleeding. It was intraabdominal and intrathoracic. There were a few superficial cuts on the anterior surface of the body, but most were thrusts that didn’t miss.

“She was stabbed in the back as well as the front. Clearly a frenzied attack-far more strikes than were necessary to cause her death. Any one of a number of these would have done the job handily.”

“Defensive wounds?” Mercer asked.

I picked up a handful of the Polaroids to follow Kirschner’s commentary. I had seen Gemma Dogen’s face responding to camera flashes at the celebratory events caught in the photographs on her office shelves. Now I studied the same features-colorless, expressionless, lifeless-as they rested on the head support atop the autopsy table.

“None at all. But if you look closely at the Polaroids of her wrists, you’ll see some faint markings. They’ll show up much more clearly on the actual photographs we took.”

I found the two close-ups of Dogen’s lower arms and noticed the linear red discolorations.

“She was obviously restrained at some point, and I would presume that happened-along with the gag, which was left in place-beforethe stabbing began. I would doubt that she had any opportunity to resist the knife attack.

“The restraints might have been the same kind of material as the cloth the killer used to gag her. Twisted into narrow strips and wound around her wrists, they would have caused the marks that you see here but not have broken the skin.”

Chapman swigged a mouthful from his soda can. “D’you have a chance to look over that strip from the gag, Doc?”

“It’s in the lab now for analysis, but I saw it when they brought the body in. You’ll get a definitive answer later, but it looked to me like ordinary hospital-issue bed linen, cut into long pieces. Could have come from any patient room, supply closet, delivery service, or even the laundry.”

“Make a note for me please, Mercer. I assume the lieutenant has someone checking the laundry staff on the list with all the other employees, but I never even thought of all the types of deliverymen who are in and out of there every day.”

“They’re on it, Coop. Laundry, food, medical supplies, flowers, gift baskets, balloons-it’s endless. We’re talking at least several thousand transients.”

Chapman had wiped his hands and was standing over my shoulder, pointing out puncture wounds as I continued to sort through the snapshots. He asked Kirschner, “So if you had to reconstruct the events with what you know now, how do you figure it happened?”

“I can only speculate at this point, Mike. You know that. I assume whoever did this, whether it started as a burglary, or a prowler looking for a victim, came prepared. He had the weapon, he had the strips of cloth, and he probably had a purpose.

“I’d have to guess that Dogen was surprised by the attacker and overcome immediately. That woman was in fantastic condition. The muscles in her thighs and calves could have been from someone half her age. The fact that there aren’t any defensive wounds on her hands suggests she never had the opportunity to struggle.”

“Any idea about what time the assault could have taken place?”

“Tougher than usual. Obviously, we know exactly what time she died, since it was after she was found by the watchman. Any doctor would tell you that she couldn’t have survived these wounds. I’m sure she was unconscious while the killer was still striking at her, and I’d also bet that when he left herhe had assumed she was dead. It’s one of those medical oddities that she hung on for as long as she did, whether it was thirty minutes or thirty hours.

“The collapsed lung gave out quickly and completely. The other one must have acted like a slow leak. Mike told me that you all thought at the scene that she may have come to for a brief moment and used up the remaining oxygen supply in an effort to move herself. It’s possible.”

“With enough energy to drag her body across the room to the door?”

“My clinical answer to that would have to be no. But every day we see impossible things happen when the body is in extremis. Yes, Gemma Dogen might have summoned the strength for one last shot at saving herself. There’s no medical explanation for it. Absolutely none.”

“Chet, did Mike tell you about the, well, sort of squiggle on the floor where the body was found? I mean, in the blood.”

Mike was still behind me as I spoke and tousled my hair to indicate his dismissal of my idea.

“Cooper thinks the deceased was trying to talk to us.”

Kirschner’s eyes met mine as he nodded slightly, willing to consider the prospect. “I assume you’ve got crime scene photos to show what you’re thinking about, right?”

“Yeah. We should have a couple of sets by this evening, Doc. I’ll shoot ‘em down to you.”

“May I?” Kirschner reached across to pick up some of the autopsy Polaroids. He held them up close to his face looking for the detail he needed to refresh his memory. “Obviously, I’ll be able to show you this better when our own body shots are printed later today, but the blood pattern on her right index finger is consistent with your theory.