William Kienzle: Marked for Murder: The Father Koesler Mysteries:

"Only 26?"

Litka shrugged as he placed an abbreviated ruler alongside a gaping wound in John Doe's neck. "That's about par for this time of year."

Tully knew it was almost miraculous that the doctors, even with all their technology, managed to identify as many John and Jane Does as they did. From experience Tully knew that every avenue to identifying Number 26 had been explored with the probable exception of fingerprints.

"How about the prints?"

"Being processed." Dr. Litka did not look up. "But I've seen this kind of pickup too many times. They aren't going to find his prints. No sir, I got a hunch we'll keep him a month, then they'll bury him as Number 26."

Tully was willing to defer to Litka's experience. "Where'd they find him?"

"In an alley; northwest side, near Eight Mile."

"Last night?"

"Uh-huh."

"How long'd he been dead?"

"They made it sometime yesterday afternoon. Found him about 9:00 or 10:00 last night."

About the same time David Powell got his, thought Tully. Two exits: one old, one young.

"A bum," Litka continued, nodding toward the dead man's clothing, now in a neat pile. "No identification at all. Filthy. No labels. But all there. They didn't even take his shoes."

Tully wondered at it. So senseless. There ought to be a motive for something so violent, so cataclysmic as murder. Yet, not infrequently, there was none, or at least no detectable one.

And it was murder. He knew the telltale signs. Suicides seldom slit their own throats; they usually open a vein in their wrists. And when they did go for their own throats, there were usually several cuts. Tentative, perhaps, at first, until one slash was deep enough to cause death. Or else the cumulative effect of the cuts was eventually fatal.

Tully studied the ruler Dr. Litka had placed near the cut. A technician was photographing the area for the records. The cut looked to be a couple of inches in length-considerable for a knife wound. And deep. Not the sort expected in a suicide.

Of course Doc Litka knew that.

"What are those scratches along the cut?" Tully asked.

"Look to be the high points of a serrated weapon," Litka replied.

"Hunting knife."

"Maybe."

"But you'd know it from those marks if it ever turned up."

"Probably; one of the teeth is missing. Not likely to turn up, though."

From the first moment he saw the body, Tully had been aware of other marks-none, of course, as arresting as the slit throat. "On the trunk, Doc: those insect bites?"

"I thought so, too, at first. But they look more like he got hit with something. A beating of some kind. Happened before his throat got cut. They probably tortured him. Beats me why. A real mean killer, I suppose."

Some cop at this very moment was pondering the same questions, thought Tully And whoever the cop was, he undoubtedly knew it was not likely he'd find any good answers. A bum in an alley, probably sleeping off a cheap wine drunk. Some kids, maybe, or perhaps another bum with a sadistic turn of mind. Whatever, they beat him up, slit his throat, don't even steal anything. Just for the hell of it. How you gonna find someone like that? Unless he or they do it again. Next time, maybe a mistake, or somebody'll see something. But not much chance on this one.

Doc Litka was wrapping up his examination. "Well, that does it. Bled to death. Exsanguination due to cutting of throat." To Tully: "At least the poor guy went fast. The knife penetrated the large vein. An air embolism formed and got sucked in, causing foam, which produced a valve lock in the heart. One or two gasps and he was done."

A mercy . . . I guess, thought Tully.

As he turned back to Doc Moellmann and the autopsy of David Powell, Tully noticed John Doe's knees. Scarred. Probably reduced to crawling around the alley. What a life! Maybe somebody did him a favor by putting him out of his misery. And, as Litka had observed, quickly. Still, it was murder.

Which was considerably more than one could say about David Powell. Justifiable homicide in the line of duty. Of course that verdict was not in yet. But it was a lead-pipe cinch.

The Powell case was already in the hands of, and being investigated by, two agencies. Because it involved a killing, the investigation would stay within the Homicide Division, which had processed the scene of the shooting and would continue investigating until they reached a conclusion. Independent of this investigation, the board of review would conduct its own hearings.

The potential consequences of a cop-committed killing were so fraught that it seemed imperative that the investigation leave no doubt whatsoever. If it was a cop who got killed, an unspoken vendetta was sworn. Over and above the manifestation of grief over a fallen comrade, it was necessary to remind the criminal community that cop-killers get caught and are punished. If it was a cop who killed, there had to be no hint or semblance of a whitewash. The police were the only nonmilitary who were not only empowered but required to carry guns. That explicit power carried a heavy responsibility. The department was more eager than even the civilian populace to determine whether it was a case of justifiable homicide.

In addition, one thing was certain when a cop killed anyone for any reason: Somebody was going to sue the department and/or the city. So, for this reason also, the investigation had to be thorough and objective and complete.

Tully had witnessed such investigations too many times. He could write the script. Some witnesses-especially suppliers, pushers, and users of drugs-would cry, "police brutality." They would swear that Powell never carried a weapon and certainly hadn't had one last night. Others-neighbors who wanted that troublesome dope house closed down-would recall that Powell had come at the police with a blazing Uzi. Still others would advance that most frequently heard charge: racism. This type of individual would not be bothered in the slightest by the fact that Tully as well as Powell was black. For some Detroiters, racism was so automatically cited as the cause of all urban evil that the attitude itself had become colorblind.

But the authorities had the slug from Mangiapane's shoulder that had been fired from Powell's gun. Ballistics would confirm that. And in a little while, Doc Moellmann would find the bullet Tully had fired. Those pieces of evidence, plus the testimony of credible witnesses, would exonerate him.

Meanwhile, Tully had been assigned to restricted duty for the duration of the investigation. The official term for this assignment was "minimal duty." In effect, it was a sort of benign suspension or a brief vacation. At the conclusion of the investigation, the findings would be announced by the board of review.

Then the official decree of justifiable homicide in the course of duty would be rendered. That verdict was, Tully felt, inevitable.

Moellmann was mumbling again. As was his custom, he wrote nothing during the examination, merely making cryptic notations on the body chart. Afterward-immediately afterward-back in his office he would write a complete report.

". . . uh-huh," Moellmann murmured, "twenty-one and one-half inches below the top of the head, one-half inch to the right of the midline, and five inches above the navel is located the entrance bullet wound. The wound measures one-quarter inch in diameter surrounded by the narrow rim of abrasion. There is no evidence of close-range fire on skin surrounding the injury."

Following the trail of dried blood, the M.E. began to trace the path of the bullet as it had passed from one internal organ to another. "The wound track passes from front to back, from right to left and slightly upward" There was a pause as Moellmann removed the affected organs. ". . . ah, here it is!" This intonation as if he had just successfully panned for gold.