William Bernhardt - Primary Justice

Ben covered his mouth and nose with a paper towel as he entered the room. Be brave, he told himself. This is only the preliminary examination, not the actual postmortem. He considered the relative merits of watching a series of violations of bodily orifices as opposed to watching the slivering and dismembering of body tissues. He was barely in the room and he already felt ill.

The first thing Ben noticed was the odor. The odor of formaldehyde and God knows what other chemicals were thick in the air. The second thing he noticed was a string quartet, Vivaldi, he thought, playing over the built-in intercom system. Maybe Koregai needed his nerves steadied, too.

Three bright white ceiling lamps shone down on the mutilated corpse of Jonathan Adams. Ben stifled the instinct to gag. If anything, the body looked better now than when they had found it in the Dumpster. Most of the caked and coagulated black blood had been scraped away; the jaw and other loosened and detached body parts had been rearranged and returned to their proper places. The skin was an eerie, translucent color, sort of green and sort of not.

Dr. Koregai took a thin rotor saw from his worktable and held it in his latex-gloved hands. His mouth and nose were covered by a blue mask.

“If you could give us an idea about the cause of death,” Mike said, with extreme deference, “we might be able to obtain information in the field to assist you in detailing your report.”

Evidently, the doctor’s talents included the ability to chat while he worked. “I already know how he was killed,” Dr. Koregai replied. “With a knife.”

“What a breakthrough,” Ben mumbled under his paper towel.

“The blade of the knife was three-quarters of an inch wide,” Koregai continued. “And it was serrated.”

“Like a saw?” Ben asked.

“Or a carving knife,” Mike suggested. “Unfortunately, even with that extra information, the weapon is still something you could find in nearly every home in Tulsa.”

“But it’s not something a person would just happen to carry,” Ben thought aloud. “Unless he was planning to kill someone.”

“What else could we possibly find that would help you, Doctor?” Mike asked obsequiously. “Point us poor working slobs in the right direction.”

“Marks left on the neck by fingers,” Koregai noted, as if dictating a report. “Coupled with the bruises on the back and shoulders, it suggests the victim was pinned against a wall or floor. Probably a wall. He struggled to free himself—that explains the bruises on both elbows and his hands. Also, bruising of the throat and voice box indicates that the grip on his neck was quite strong.”

“The killer overpowered Adams?”

“Perhaps.”

Ben took slow, deep breaths and tried to pretend he was in Rio. “You haven’t even mentioned that horrible blow to his face. And why so many gashes all over his body?”

Dr. Koregai did not look up from his work. “Very low correlation of bruising to blows.”

“No bruises?” Ben said. “What does that mean?”

Mike turned to look at Ben. “It means Adams was already dead when the killer ventilated him,” Mike said. “Right, Doctor?”

“Right.” Koregai set down the saw and took a thin stilettolike knife from his worktable. “Corpse was killed by two knife wounds, one through his head and neck and one to his torso. Mutilated afterward.”

Ben heard himself literally gasp. The paper towel clung to his face.

“One entry slit penetrated the floor of the skull, cut through the jugular vein, through the neck muscles between the arches of the first and second cervical vertebrae and just reached the center of the brain stem. He would’ve been unconscious immediately.”

“Thank God for that,” Ben murmured.

“But that left him defenseless,” Mike said. “It left his body at the mercy of the sick bastard who took him apart.” Mike took a step closer to Koregai. “Is there anything we could provide to help you reach a conclusion regarding the time of death, Doctor?”

The doctor was holding the stiletto in one hand and using his free hand to peel away thin layers of skin and body fat from the corpse’s midsection. “I already know the time of death. Corpse’s body was still relatively warm when found. Over eighty-five degrees. Given that the murder was followed by a series of mutilations that took at least five to ten minutes, and given that the corpse, which would be quite heavy at that point, was dragged into a garbage Dumpster, I’d place the time of death at 10:15 or 10:30. Preliminary analysis of stomach contents also supports this estimate.”

“Relatively early for a robbery-murder,” Mike mused. “Still a lot of people wandering around.”

Ben nodded in agreement.

“Anything else I can do for you, Dr. Koregai?” Mike asked.

The doctor looked up briefly. “Not at this time. The lab work from Forensics should be done in a day or two. Anything new I discover during the p.m. will appear in my final report. If I require anything further, I’ll let you know.”

“Aye, commandant,” Mike whispered. He turned to Ben. “Anything I can do for you , pal?”

“Yeah,” Ben said. He looked toward the door and saw two orderlies wheeling in another cadaver. “Get me the hell out of here.”

11

BEN COOLED HIS HEELS in the outer lobby of Sanguine Enterprises.

He noted that the entire area had been decorated in the orange and white colors of the Eggs ‘N’ Stuff trade logo. He made a mental note, in case he ever decorated a house or office, that orange was the least agreeable color for carpeting. Staring at it made him wish he had not eaten breakfast.

Eventually, there was a buzz on the receptionist’s desk, then: “Mr. Sanguine can see you now.”

Ben followed the woman—who, Ben noted with disgust, was wearing an orange and white dress—past a desk used by a security officer, through a winding corridor, and into the elevator lobby. After a short ride, they emerged on the second floor, which, she explained, was used exclusively for the offices of Sanguine and his vice presidents. Ben emerged from the elevator and walked down a long black marble-tiled hallway to Sanguine’s office.

Which was magnificent. Deep oak library paneling on all walls. Furniture that retained the rich hues of the woodwork. Snuffboxes, porcelain figurines, and other European objets d’art were scattered throughout the office. Tasteful framed paintings, mostly Old Master-style oils, lined the wall above Sanguine’s desk. The adjoining wall was lined with books from floor to ceiling. All hardback, mostly leather-bound volumes. The man who worked in this office was either a cultural connoisseur of the highest order, or wanted others to believe he was.

In one corner, on the bottom shelf of a cabinet to the left of Sanguine’s desk, Ben spotted a display of Native American artifacts. Kachina dolls, tom-toms, turquoise jewelry. A tribute to his ancestry? Ben wondered. A tribute tucked away in a quiet corner in a room otherwise devoted to a celebration of European excellence. A curious man.

Sanguine was poring over a stack of papers on his desk. Ben made a quiet, coughing noise. Sanguine looked up.

“Ah, Ben, you’re here.” He stood and extended his hand. “I didn’t hear you come in. I get absorbed in the work sometimes.” Discounting the noisy hubbub of the Raven party, Ben was hearing Sanguine’s voice for the first time. It was a voice like still water, steady, even, strong, and without predictable inflection.

Sanguine gestured toward the chair opposite his desk. “I was examining a new franchise contract.”

Fascinating, Ben thought. “I see,” he said.

Sanguine sat in his chair and leaned back comfortably. “So what can I do for you? Let me tell you up front, Ben, anything I can do to help out … Jonathan’s widow, I’m going to do. Jonathan was a loyal, hard-working executive who helped build this operation from the ground up and, to be frank, I admired him. What’s more, I respected him, and I believe he respected me. I wish I had more like Jonathan.”