Kathy Reichs - Deadly Descisions

I didn't.

As I made coffee I reminded myself to call Harry. While my nephew was nineteen and past the age for active shepherding, I wanted to be clear on how much parenting was expected. And for how long.

Kit was slowly spreading. The refrigerator was crammed with frozen pizzas and pita-pocket sandwiches, hot dogs, jars of baked beans, and cans of Mellow Yellow. Cheese doodles, nacho chips, doughnuts, Lucky Charms, and Cocoa Puffs lined the counter.

In the living room my TV had been converted to a Sony PlayStation, and wires crisscrossed the floor like tangled spaghetti. CD's were stacked on the sideboard and scattered across the hearth. A heap of crumpled jeans, socks, and jockey shorts filled one chair, a Stetson hung from the wing of another. In the hall, two pairs of cowboy boots lay where they'd been kicked.

The place looked like I was living with Garth Brooks.

I replaced Kit's note with a reply stating that I'd be home by five and requesting the pleasure of his company at dinner. Then I went to work.

The atmosphere at the lab was as somber as before. Morin announced in the morning meeting that he had spoken with LaManche's wife. Her husband was still comatose, but his vital signs were stable. They were attributing his state to cardiogenic shock. She would call if there was any change. The day's cases were discussed quickly and quietly without the usual banter.

A tree had fallen on a man in Dollard-des-Ormeaux, crushing him. A couple was found dead in bed in Pointe-aux-Trembles, victims of an apparent murder-suicide. A woman's body had washed ashore near Rivière-des-Prairies.

Nothing for the anthropologist. Perfect. That would leave me free to go through the material Kate Brophy had loaned me. If Jacques Roy was available I'd drive over to Carcajou headquarters and see what he thought.

When the meeting ended I got my mug and went for coffee. Ronald Gilbert was at the counter, talking with one of the new technicians from his section. Though I didn't know the younger man's name I recognized him from the Cherokee murder scene. He'd assisted Gilbert with the blood spatter.

As I waited my turn at the coffee machine I heard snatches of their conversation and realized they were discussing Cherokee's case. I lowered my breathing, straining to hear

"No, thank God. They're not all this complicated. You pulled a real pot of soup for your first time out.

"Beginner's luck, I guess."

"I'd like to have a heart-to-heart with LaManche before I write this up, but I guess that's not going to happen."

"How's he doing?"

Gilbert shrugged, stirred his coffee, then arced the little wooden stick into the trash.

As I watched them leave I thought of Cherokee's apartment and again sensed uneasiness. None of the others had felt the murder was atypical. Why was I suspicious? What was it that didn't seem right? I had no answers to my questions.

I filled my cup, added cream, and returned to my office, where I sipped and pondered, feet on the sill, eyes fixed on a barge moving slowly up the riven

What was not right about the Cherokee scene? No forced entry? So the victim had grown complacent. So what? It happens. The bungled fire? Charbonneau was probably right. Something went haywire and the perp fled. Even good plans can fail from faulty execution. Look at Watergate.

I took a sip.

What did Gilbert mean by "a real pot of soup"?

I took another sip.

What was so complicated?

Sip.

What did he want to discuss with LaManche?

Never hurts to ask.

Look at Watergate.

I found Gilbert in front of a computer screen. When I knocked he swiveled and looked at me over wire-rimmed glasses. His head, cheeks, and chin were covered with curly brown hair, giving him the look of a hero from Greek mythology.

"Got a minute?"

"As many as you like."

He waved me in and pulled a chair next to his, "It's about the Cherokee Deslardins case.

"Yes. I saw you at the scene. Why are you working that one?"

"I'm not, exactly. I was there because initial reports described a burned body. As it turned out the victim was not in bad shape."

"Not in bad shape? He looked like a still life in brain tissue."

"Well, yes. Actually, that's what I'd like to talk to you about. I was going to ask Dr LaManche but, of course, that's not possible right now"

He looked puzzled.

"The investigators working the Cherokee case are convinced it's a biker hit." I hesitated, unsure how to put my reservations into words. "I can't nail it down, but something about the scene struck me as being off."

"Off?"

I explained my assignment with Operation Carcajou, and what I'd seen at the briefing session.

"I realize I'm a novice, but maybe that's it. Maybe I'm seeing things through different eyes.

"And what do your eyes tell you?"

"That the Cherokee murder was sloppy."

"Anything else?"

"That the victim was sloppy. Apparently Cherokee admitted his killer. Does that sound like a former member freelancing drugs on gang turf?"

I didn't mention Dorsey, or his claims of innocenée. I figured the less said about my prison visit the better.

Gilbert looked at me a long time, then smiled.

"Claudel thinks you're an interfering pain in the ass.

"I think highly of him, as well."

He threw back his head and laughed, then his face grew serious.

"How much do you know about blood-spatter analysis?"

"Not much," I admitted.

"Ready for a crash course?"

I nodded.

"O.K. Here goes."

He leaned back and raised his eyes to the ceiling, no doubt deciding where to begin and how to condense years of training into a brief lecture. I could picture him doing the same for a jury.

"A free-falling drop of blood is spherical due to the effects of gravity and surface tension. Think about when you prick your finger Blood builds up on the down side until the drop is able to break free and fall. Seems simple, right?"

"'Yes."

"It's not. All kinds of opposing forces are at work. Gravity and the increasing weight of the blood are 'pulling' the drop downward. At the same time the surface tension of the blood is trying to reduce the exposed surface of the drop and is 'pushing' it upward."

He gestured quotation signs around the verbs.

"Only when the 'pulling' forces exceed the 'pushing' forces will the drop break free. Initially it's elongated, but as it falls the drop flattens due to air resistance. The attractive forces of surface tension within the drop cause it to assume a shape with the least amount of surface area. Thus, drops of blood are shaped like spheres, not like teardrops as they're usually drawn. And shape is one of the things we consider in spatter-pattern analysis.

"A blood spatter is produced as a result of a force striking static blood. It could be in a pool on the sidewalk, or inside a victim s head. When hit, the blood breaks into drops, called spatter, which travel through the air as spheres."

I nodded.

"When these spheres strike a surface they leave predictable types of trails. Bloodstain-pattern interpretation is concerned with examining stains produced by drops of blood that are not typical. The stains and trails have been altered in some way, usually by violent activity.

"The goal of bloodstain-pattern interpretation is to work backward from a crime scene and reconstruct the events that took place. What happened? In what sequence? Who was where? What weapon was used? What objects have been moved? To answer these questions we look at what has altered the drops of blood present.

"And it's very complex." He began ticking points off on his fingers. "For example, we have to take into account the properties of the target. Blood will act differently when striking a smooth versus a textured surface."