“I don’t know, boss,” Willy said doubtfully. “Sounding a little harsh with the attitude there.”
Sammie used her sweetest voice. “Don’t worry, honey-bunny. He could never challenge the King.”
* * *
The medical examiner’s office in Vermont had enjoyed a reasonably progressive ride into modernity over the years, thanks to a combination of well-intentioned people and a lack of attention from the rest of the world.
It was currently housed in the bowels of the mazelike Fletcher Allen Health Care Center in Burlington, which itself had been remodeled into something between the world’s largest Rubik’s Cube and a nonfunctioning Transformer action toy. Still, the so-called OCME-for Office of the Chief Medical Examiner-while tricky to locate, had blossomed into a lean, efficient, quiet organization overseeing why and how the residents of Vermont died.
It was run-and had been for decades-by Beverly Hillstrom, a tall, slender, strikingly attractive blonde whom Joe had known, trusted, and collaborated with since his early days as an investigator. That shared high regard had extended to the physical-just once, years ago-when they’d spent the night together. That encounter, to their mutual relief, had only strengthened the fondness between them and reinforced the sense that they were friends first and foremost.
Amusingly to Joe, however-whose job relied on picking up on life’s small, telling details-there had been one noticeable change that marked this very private evolution in his relationship with Hillstrom. In the past, she had referred to him-as she did all police officers-by his rank and last name. That had undergone an improvement.
“Joe,” she said, greeting him with a hug in the hallway beyond the reception room. “It’s good to see you. When I saw Mr. Marshall arrive, I was hoping that you’d be close on his heels.”
Joe laughed, as much at her greeting as in his own continued enjoyment of her perfect syntax. She was one of the best-spoken people he’d ever met.
He gave her an appraising look. “You found something?” he asked.
She squeezed his arm. “I haven’t even looked.” She led him down the hallway as she spoke further. “He is laid out and waiting for us, however, and he has been washed and had his blood drawn. So, if you care to change into a pair of scrubs, you know where to find me for the next phase.”
He stepped into the tight-fitting locker room, at the rear of the equally small office area, changed out of his street clothes, and proceeded down a separate corridor to a wide door at the end. Beyond that he found Hillstrom in the spacious, modern autopsy room-complete with skylight-spreading out what she needed to examine a stark and naked Gorden Marshall.
She looked up as he entered. “I take it the two of you have met?” she asked.
“We have,” he answered, approaching the steel table and looking down at the corpulent ex-senator.
“And Todd?” She gestured to a gowned and masked man who walked in from the refrigerated sample storage room, off to the side.
Joe and the all-but-completely disguised diener nodded greetings to each other. The diener in an autopsy suite was like the bouncer at a well-run bar-he did the heavy lifting, to be sure, but was also attuned to everything that occurred around him, in particular the pathologist’s expectations and needs. The average autopsy could take several hours and involved quite a bit of effort, especially with a man the size of Mr. Marshall.
“A well-wined-and-dined individual,” Hillstrom commented, back to sorting out her tools. “Who, on paper at least, paid the predictable price for most of his earthly vices.”
“Meaning high cholesterol?” Joe asked.
“Oh, much more than that,” she said. “We just received his medical record from The Woods. He was being treated for hypertension, cholesterol, diabetes, liver disease, cardiac problems, and deep vein thrombosis, among other things. He was also addicted to tobacco and alcohol. I’m not at all surprised that his personal physician was ready to sign him off as a natural. The miracle here is that he lasted so long.”
“You think I’m on a wild-goose chase,” Joe allowed.
She looked up again, her eyes wide this time. “Good Lord, no. I would never presume such a thing.” She reached out with a gloved hand and gently stroked Marshall’s considerable belly. “We’ll let Mr. Marshall tell us what he knows before we get into that conversation.”
Joe had attended many an autopsy. More, in fact, than were called for by his job. For years now, a police liaison had been assigned to the OCME, specifically to communicate with law enforcement, obviating the need for any officer to actually attend an autopsy as part of his or her investigation. That had been common practice in the old days, back when Joe had made it part of his routine, but he was one of the few who-albeit occasionally-still liked to witness the process. Watching the contents of a body being meticulously analyzed was not unlike carefully searching a house, after all. Each and every component had the potential of telling a tale of interest. The trick was in knowing what you were looking for.
That had marked the foundation of Joe’s and Beverly’s friendship: this passion for clinical scrutiny, not to mention the emotionally charged satisfaction of being on the hunt for clues.
In this case, however, the hunt did not need to extend to Gorden Marshall’s organs, or the inside of his skull. It turned out to be surprisingly easier and more readily available than that.
The beginning of any proper autopsy amounted to simply studying the body in detail, including photographing it up close like a mapmaker documenting the lay of the land. As was her routine, therefore, following this, Hillstrom moved to the man’s mouth, gently eased his lips apart, and exposed his teeth and gums.
“Ah,” she then said.
Joe had learned enough of her ways to immediately sidle up alongside her, so that they looked as if they were praying over Marshall’s head. “What?” he asked, peering down.
She had peeled Marshall’s upper lip completely back. “The frenulum labii superioris has been stressed,” she said, virtually to herself.
“Of course it has,” he agreed in a similar tone.
She turned her head slightly to catch his eye, their noses almost touching. “Okay. I get it,” she said, and pointed to what she meant. “The frenulum is that fragile stretch of skin connecting the lip to the gum. You can feel your own with your tongue right now. You have an upper frenulum and a lower one.”
Joe did as instructed and felt the tiny tautness where she’d advised it would be. “Always wondered what that was there for.”
“To help us here and now,” she answered simply. “You see where it appears reddened and slightly torn?”
He did, although it didn’t leap out at him.
“And here,” she continued. “You can see what appear to be slight impressions across the surface of the lip’s inner aspect.”
“Okay,” Joe said in a neutral tone.
“It could be argued,” Beverly said, leaving her hands in place but stepping back so that Todd could move in and take photographs of the site, “that such damage can result only if pressure is applied to this area just before death-at least damage with this type of coloring and degree of inflammation.”
Joe understood where she was headed. “He was smothered?”
She raised her eyebrows, as she often did when he stretched a finding of hers to satisfy his needs. “This is consistent with that mechanism. Pressure is applied over the mouth-say, of a sleeping man, given that he was dressed in pajamas and found in bed and his apartment not disrupted-resulting in the interior surface of the lip being crushed against the teeth.
“But-” She raised the index finger of her free hand. “-the victim awakens as his oxygen needs reach criticality, and he begins to struggle.” She shook her head violently from side to side. “Making his head toss back and forth. That action, combined with the pressure on his mouth, stresses the frenulum, often damaging it, as it did here.”