Conducting this important autopsy at the Good Samaritan was fine with the medical examiner — conditions in the basement at City Hall were cramped and dire. Noguchi had been begging for better conditions, making enemies of his bosses by telling the press that in his facility rats outnumbered microscopes.
“Senator Kennedy’s body lay on the table,” Noguchi said, “under a sheet. After removing the bandages from the deceased’s head, I turned to the surgeons and asked what had become of the hair shavings — the scalp hair around the wounded area, shaved off before surgery? I knew that might contain critical evidence.”
Noguchi had sent an investigator scurrying to the operating room to check; his emissary discovered the hospital staff had retained those little clumps of hair, which Noguchi’s man placed in an evidence envelope.
“In the autopsy room I made an unusual request,” Noguchi said. “Not normal procedure by any means, and the only time in the thousands of autopsies I have performed that I asked for the deceased’s face to be covered. This was done with a towel. I needed to proceed with my work undistracted by my feelings for the Senator. I observed a moment of silence, head bowed in the traditional Japanese manner of respect. Then I began my work at the feet and worked my way to the head.”
I frowned. “That isn’t normal procedure either, is it, Doctor? Isn’t the reverse more typical?”
He nodded, twice. “Yes, Mr. Heller, but this approach, slow, careful, can uncover important evidence overlooked if the wound gets all the attention.”
First studied was a through-and-through gunshot, underneath and somewhat to the back of the right armpit. Traveling at an angle, the bullet (not recovered) exited through the front right shoulder.
Second to be examined was another wound an inch or so from the first; it surprisingly had not traveled in the same direction, rather crossing to lodge in soft tissue near the spinal column at the back of the lower neck. With a finger and thumb, Noguchi had removed the deformed .22 caliber bullet.
Third was the fatal bullet, its exact path impossible to probe. It had entered the skull an inch to the left of the victim’s right ear, shattering into metallic shards. These fragments could not be matched to Sirhan’s gun — to any gun — beyond establishing the caliber (.22). Unburned powder grains formed a circular pattern on the victim’s right ear.
“This was unquestionably the most meticulous autopsy I ever performed,” Noguchi said. “But, ironically, that very thoroughness led to a credible conspiracy theory, which did not endear me to my already vociferous critics.”
The clumps of scalp hair retrieved at the medical examiner’s instance had revealed gunpowder residue. And not just metallic elements, but soot.
Soot in the forensics sense is a collection of unburned grains of powder, burned grains of powder, and metallic fragments.
“Doctor,” I said, leaning forward, “I saw it myself — the muzzle of Sirhan’s gun was at minimum a yard away from Kennedy. Soot in the hair means the kill shot was within inches of Bob’s head. Or closer.”
With an almost pixieish smile, Noguchi asked, “Mr. Heller, are you familiar with the expression, ‘in a pig’s eye?’”
“I am. Also in a pig’s ass.”
“Well, the test I ran involved neither one — in this instance, it was a pig’s ear. Actually, seven of them.”
Seven pig’s ears had been attached to as many padded muslin heads simulating skulls. With earmuffs at the ready, Noguchi directed a plainclothes detective to shoot at each faux skull, first a firm contact shot, second moving back a quarter inch... then half an inch... one, two, three, four inches.
“At three inches from the right mastoid area,” Noguchi said, “we had a perfect match for the tattooed pattern of unburned-powder grains on the victim’s right ear. And the shape of the entrance wound was nearly identical.”
Noguchi’s autopsy findings were not the only indication Sirhan may not have been the sole shooter: four bullets were fired at RFK, three hitting him, another tearing through his clothing; five other victims behind Bob were also shot (none killed), all the bullets recovered; and three more slugs wound up in the ceiling tiles. That indicated the trajectory of twelve bullets at the scene, with Sirhan’s revolver holding only eight.
“Too many bullets,” I said.
“So it would seem. But the LAPD insists the excess can be written off as ricochets. And you know better than most, Mr. Heller, the extent of the crowded excitement in that Pantry. What did the eyes of witnesses actually see? Did no one see what actually happened?”
I thought about that. Then: “Sirhan would’ve had to lunge toward Bob close enough to make the kill shot, not be noticed by anybody, and then lurch back into his prior position, to have fired at the distance witnesses reported.”
“So it would appear.” He opened a palm, tentatively. “The only other possibility would seem to be a second gunman, shooting from behind at close range, then slipping immediately away, attention diverted by Sirhan shooting from farther away, in front.”
Soon it would be the supper hour and Japanese-American patrons in modest Western street clothes were trailing in; the little mom-and-pop diner would soon be filled, the bubbling oil for tempura welcoming an obviously regular clientele.
“Do you mind my asking,” I ventured, “what sort of charges were brought against you? Your professionalism seems apparent to me. You must have a dark side I’m not sensing.”
That Buddha smile returned. “You see my smile? I was accused of wearing this expression in the midst of mass disasters. I reportedly threatened a fellow employee with a knife. I dreamed aloud of how I might become even more famous if only a jetliner would crash into a hotel. And I longed to perform a live autopsy on my boss.”
“Who doesn’t?”
He leaned gently forward. “I suggested we meet here, Mr. Heller, because no other restaurant in town displays photographs of the detention camps. I was a child in Yokosuka when you were fighting in the Pacific. Would the residue of a not distant past erect a barrier between us? Would you assume a Japanese coroner had somehow botched so important an autopsy?”
“Of course not.”
“I see that in your case, or at least sense it. But the ridiculous charges against me are what a friend has called ‘plain, old-fashioned prejudice.’ Or do you think I’m simply paranoid, thinking there are people out to get me because I’m Japanese?”
“I do not. I can’t imagine you’re going to let them get away with it, either.”
His nod was on a tilt. “I’ve taken my case to the Civil Service Commission of our fair city... or at least we will see how ‘fair’ it is at the hearing I’ve demanded.”
On the street, I asked the deposed medical examiner one last question.
“What does your gut tell you about the Robert Kennedy killing, Doctor?”
He didn’t hesitate in answering: “My gut tells me Sirhan acted alone. But my ‘gut’ is not enough — forensic science must concern itself only with the known facts. Based on that, I cannot support the conclusion that Sirhan Sirhan killed Robert Kennedy.”
Nita wrapped up a guest shot on a new show that would be on in the fall, Marcus Welby, M.D., and just before eight P.M. dragged into my Pink Palace bungalow looking like a patient. But she was ready to be discharged after a shower and freshening up, decking herself out in a gold-red-and-black tunic top and black flared pants. I got into a two-toned striped yellow shirt with matching tie and a golden brown blazer, if you’re interested. My pants did not flare. Much.