Patricia Cornwell - Cause Of Death

"So some asshole was shooting fish in a barrel," Marino said.

I did not answer him as I directed the light at grass and trash leading up to the street. Drops of blood glistened dark red on a flattened milk carton whitened by weather and time.

"What about his wallet?" I asked.

"It was in his back pocket. Eleven bucks and charge cards still in it," Marino said, his eyes constantly moving.

I took photographs, then knelt by the body and turned it so I could get a better look at the back of Danny's ruined head. I felt his neck, and he was still warm, the blood beneath him coagulating. I opened my medical bag.

"Here." I unfolded a plastic sheet and gave it to Marino.

"Hold this up while I take his temperature."

He shielded the body from any eyes but ours as I pulled down jeans and undershorts, finding that both were soiled.

Although it was not uncommon for people to urinate and defecate at the instant of death, sometimes this was the body's response to terror. "You got any idea if he fooled around with drugs?" Marino asked.

"I have no reason to think so," I said. "But I have no idea."

"For example, he ever look like he lived beyond his means'? I mean, how much did he earn?"

"He earned about twenty-one thousand dollars a year. I don't know if he lived beyond his means. He still lived at home.

The body temperature was 94.5, and I set the thermometer on top of my bag to get a reading of the ambient air. I moved arms and legs, and rigor mortis had started only in small muscles like his fingers and eyes. For the most part, Danny was still warm and limber as in life, and as I bent close to him I could smell his cologne and knew I would recognize it forever. Making sure the sheet was completely under him, I turned him on his back, and more blood spilled as I began looking for other wounds.

"What time did you get the call?" I asked Marino, who was moving slowly near the tunnel, probing its tangled growths of vines and brush with his light.

"One of the neighbors heard a gunshot coming from this area and dialed 911 at seven-oh-five P.m. We found your car and him maybe fifteen minutes after that, So we're talking about two hours ago. Does that work with what you're finding?"

"It's almost freezing out. He's heavily clothed and he's lost about four degrees. Yes, that works. How about handing me those bags over there. Do we know what happened to the friend who was supposed to be driving Lucy's Suburban?"

I slipped the brown paper bags over the hands and secured them at the wrist with rubber bands to preserve fragile evidence like gunshot residue, or fibers or flesh beneath fingernails, supposing he had struggled with his assailant.

But I did not think he had. Whatever had happened, I suspected Danny had done exactly as he had been told.

"At the present time we don't know anything about whoever his friend is," Marino said. "I can send a unit down to your office to check."

"I think that's a good idea. We don't know that the friend isn't somehow connected to this."

"One hundred," Marino said into his portable radio as I began taking photographs again.

"One hundred," the dispatcher came back.

"Ten-five any unit that might be in the area of the medical examiner's office at Fourteenth and Franklin."$

Danny had been shot from behind, the wound close range, if not contact. I started to ask Marino about cartridge cases when I heard a noise I knew all too well.

"Oh no," I said as the beating sound got louder. "Marino, don't let them get near."

But it was too late, and we looked up as a news helicopter appeared and began circling low. Its searchlight swept the tunnel and the cold, hard ground where I was on my knees, brains and blood all over my hands. I shielded my eyes from the blinding glare as leaves and dirt stormed and bare trees rocked. I could not hear what Marino yelled as he furiously waved his flashlight at the sky while I shielded the body with my own as best I could.

I enclosed Danny's head in a plastic bag and covered him with a sheet while the crew for Channel 7 destroyed the scene because they were ignorant or did not care, or maybe both. The helicopter's passenger door had been removed, and the cameraman hung out in the night as the light nailed me for the eleven o'clock news. Then the blades began their thunderous retreat.

"Goddainnsonofabitch!" Marino was screaming as he shook his fist after them. "I ought to shoot your ass out of the air!"

A CAR WAS DISPATCHED THERE, I ZIPPED THE body inside a pouch, and when I stood I felt faint. For an instant I had to steady myself as my face got cold and I could not see.

"The squad can move him," I told Marino. "Can't someone get those goddamn television cameras out of here?"

Their bright lights floated like satellites up on the dark street as they waited for us to emerge. He gave me a look because we both knew nobody could do a thing about reporters or what they used to record us. As long as they did not interfere with the scene, they could do as they pleased, especially if they were in helicopters we could not stop or catch.

"You going to transport him yourself?" he asked me.

"No. A squad's already there," I said. "And we need some help getting him back up there. Tell them to come on now.

He got on the radio as our flashlights continued to lick over trash and leaves and potholes filled with muddy water.

Then Marino said to me, "I'm going to keep a few guys out here poking around for a while. Unless the perp collected his cartridge case, it's got to be out here somewhere." He looked up the hill. "Problem is, some of those mothers can eject a long way and that goddamn chopper blew stuff all the hell over the place."

Within minutes, paramedics were coming down with a stretcher, feet crunching broken glass, metal clanging, We waited until they had lifted the body, and I probed the ground where it had been. I stared into the black opening of a tunnel that long ago had been dug into a Mountainside too soft to support it, and I moved closer until I was just inside its mouth. A wall scaled it deep inside, and whitewash on bricks glinted in my light. Rusting railroad spikes protruded from rotting ties covered with mud, and scattered about were old tires and bottles.

"Doc, there's nothing in there." Marino was picking his way right behind me. "Shit." He almost slipped. "We've already looked."

"Well, obviously, he couldn't have escaped through here," I said as my light discovered cobblestones and dead weeds. "And no one could hide in here. And your average person shouldn't have known about this place, either."

"Come on." Marino's voice was gentle but firm as he touched my arm.

"This wasn't picked randomly. Not many people around here even know where this is." My light moved more.

"This was someone who knew exactly what he was doing."

"Doc," he said as water dripped, "this ain't safe."

"I doubt Danny knew about this place. This was premeditated and cold-blooded." My voice echoed off old, dark walls.

Marino held my arm this time, and I did not resist him.

"You've done all you can do here. Let's go."

Mud sucked at my boots and oozed over his black military shoes as we followed the rotting railroad bed back out into the night. Together, we climbed up the littered hillside, carefully stepping around blood spilled when Danny's body had been rolled down the steep slope like garbage. Much of it had been displaced by the helicopter's violent wind, and that would one day matter if a defense attorney thought it did. I averted my face from the glare of cameras and flashing strobes. Marino and I got out of the way, and we did not talk to anyone.

"I want to see my car," I said to him as his unit number blared.

"One hundred," he answered, holding the radio close to his mouth.