The Incumbent (21 page)

“You have my word.” She was on the verge of tears.

One minute later she stepped back into the office with a piece of paper. It was the phone number I’d requested. The phone was in my hand before the paper hit my desk.

The line rang twice and then a woman with a sweet voice said, “County coroner’s office.”

“This is Mayor Maddy Glenn,” I said firmly. “I would like to speak to Mr. McKee, please.” She put me on hold. As in many counties in California, our county coroner was an elected official. His work was primarily administrative. Trained medical examiners did the actual autopsies.

“Mayor Glenn,” McKee said cordially. “What brings about this honor?”

“I need a favor.”

I
’m heading over to the Police Station,” I said to Randi.

“I’m going with you.” She rose from her chair.

“Thanks, but no. Someone needs to man the phones.”

“You shouldn’t go alone. At least take a security guard with you.”

I started to object, but she was right. I agreed and she placed the call. A minute later the young guard who had thrown himself into the mix when Christopher Truccoli went ballistic was standing outside the office door. I smiled at him. “Let’s go, Kojak.”

“Who?”

“Kojak. You know. On TV . . . Never mind. Kids!” I left the office and was soon walking across the sea of asphalt that separates City Hall from the Police Station. I walked briskly but the guard kept up easily. I watched for any movement that was out of the ordinary. To my relief I saw none.

Overhead the sun poured down through a cloudless sky. A slight wind caressed my face. I should have been praising the beauty of the day but couldn’t. Death destroys so many things.

Inside the station, I thanked the guard and sent him packing.

“You don’t want me to wait for you?”

“No. I’ll call if I need you.”

His brow wrinkled and then he left. The officer I had met before was at his station behind the counter. He recognized me and asked what he could do to help. I told him I wanted to see Detective West. He escorted me to West’s office. The office is small, drab, and devoid of art. West sat behind the metal desk. A plastic bottle of orange juice was to his right, dripping with condensation.

“Mayor,” he said with surprise. “What are you doing here?”

“I understand Lizzy’s autopsy is going to be performed today?”

“Yes. Considering the nature of the crimes, I asked that she be put at the top of the list.”

“I’m going with you.”

“Where?”

“The coroner’s office, of course.”

“You want to witness the autopsy? Are you nuts? Have you ever been to an autopsy? It’s not pretty. It’s worse if you know the person.”

“I can take it.”

He shook his head. “With all due respect, Mayor, this isn’t television. An autopsy looks bad, smells bad, it even sounds bad. Why would you want to do this?”

“I want to know as much as I can and I don’t want to wait for a report.”

He sighed and leaned back in his chair. “Well, I’m sorry, Mayor. You’re a private citizen, and that means you need special permission from the coroner himself.”

I had started to say something when a woman in plain clothes stepped into the room. I assumed she was one of the secretaries. “This just came for you, Detective. It’s from the coroner’s office.” She handed him a fax. He read it. Set it down and rubbed his eyes.

“You are clever, I’ll give you that.”

“I try to plan ahead,” I said with a smirk.

“I can’t talk you out of this?”

“No.”

The expression on his face made it clear that he wasn’t used to having someone manipulate him. “I hope you brought a helmet.”

“A helmet? For what?”

“For when you faint and your head bounces off the floor.”

“I may surprise you.”

“I doubt it. I’ve seen it before.” He got up. “Let’s go and get this over with.” He stepped from the office and I followed close behind. I began to wonder about the helmet.

T
he Santa Rita County Coroner’s Office was a ten-minute drive from City Hall. As West steered the unmarked police car, our conversation was minimal. He didn’t want me along and I didn’t want to explain any further why I was there. Truthfully, I’m not sure I could have. Somehow I felt I owed Lizzy that much. I also wanted details. It’s a fault in my personality, and I’ve driven more than one person crazy by asking for more information than they had. West had been open, holding nothing back; at least that I could tell. Still, details were coming my way in bits and pieces. I suppose that’s how it is in murder cases. Nonetheless, I needed to do something, I needed to be involved. I was committed to that.

That commitment began to waver the moment I entered the building where the autopsy would soon take place. It is a fairly modern stitching together of glass and concrete. Neatly trimmed grass and flowers cover the grounds. Two flagpoles stretch toward the sky, one displaying the Stars and Stripes, the other the California bear on a field of white. It seemed such a pleasant place, but my mind could not escape the nagging truth of what lay inside.

West flashed his badge at the receptionist and introduced me, then led me through a door and down a hall that reminded me of a hospital corridor. There was something in the air, an odd mix of institutional building, floor wax, and chemicals.

“Ever been here?” he asked. His dress shoes squeaked on the highly polished sand-colored linoleum. The noise, echoing off the high-gloss, pale green walls, was unnerving.

“Can’t say that I have.”

“I doubt you’ll want to come back.” It was a blunt comment but offered without anger.

We passed office doors and an employee lunchroom. I tried to imagine medical examiners, assistants, and secretaries gathered around talking sports and eating tuna sandwiches while a dozen corpses lay a short distance away. At the end of the corridor is another hall, forming a T. West turned right and I followed. He stopped suddenly.

“One of the MEs should give you a tour, but just so you know, these doors—” he pointed to a double set of metal doors to our left—“lead to the foyer where the bodies are logged in. Just beyond is the refrigeration unit. Want to see it?”

“No, thanks.”

“Okay.” He turned. Another pair of doors, matching those across the hall, were before us. “This is it. I don’t know how many autopsies are under way, so if you’re going to change your mind, now would be the time.”

I shook my head, but the temptation to leave was almost overwhelming.

“Tallyho.” West plunged through the doors. I steeled myself and followed.

The autopsy room is bright, its illumination provided by overhead fluorescent lights. Four metal tables stand perpendicular to the wall. Each table butts up to a square metal sink. The floor is the same light-brown linoleum but the walls are white. To one side of the room is a set of shelves that holds scores of small jars filled with fluid and containing things I don’t want to know about.

“Hey, Doc,” West said as he strolled in. Clearly he had been in such places many times before.

A tall man with a completely bald head and a thick yellow mustache turned. “Ah, Detective West, hero of Santa Rita.” He was standing next to the closest table, on which was a body covered with a thin white sheet. The tall man’s eyes were a bright blue, and his easy smile revealed crooked teeth colored by too many years of smoking. “I see you brought a guest. Detectives are getting prettier every year.”

“She’s not with the department. This is Maddy Glenn, mayor of Santa Rita. Mayor, this is Dr. Donald Egan.”

I said I was pleased to meet him. He studied me for a second. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, too. Forgive me, but—”

“She’s been cleared,” West explained. He pulled the fax from his pocket and handed it to Egan, who studied it and frowned. Then he shrugged. He gave the paper back to West.

“You staying for the whole thing?” he asked West.

“No, just the gross and maybe a little more.”

“Okay, let’s rock and roll.” Egan snatched the sheet off the form on the table.

It was Lizzy. She was naked and I felt embarrassed for her. She lay on her back, gazing at the acoustic tiles on the ceiling through unblinking eyes covered with a white film. Her skin was blue and her mouth was parted as if she were about to speak. Her hair was a mess of tangles. In death she looked alien and barely recognizable. I felt my breath catch.

Egan folded the sheet and set it to one side. He then took a small tape recorder and pushed a button. I expected to see a microphone hanging from the ceiling, like on television shows, but there was none. Maybe the bigger cities and counties have the high-tech stuff. Here things seemed simple and awkward.

Egan began to speak, first stating the date. “Autopsy begins at nine-o-six and is being conducted by Dr. Donald Egan, Assistant Medical Examiner, County of Santa Rita. In attendance are Detective Jerry West—”

“Judson West,” West corrected. “Jerry West was a basketball player.”

“Correction,” Egan said without missing a beat, “Detective
Judson
West of the Santa Rita City Police Department. Also in attendance is Mayor Maddy Glenn of Santa Rita City. Autopsy is being performed in compliance with mandates of the state of California and at the request of the Santa Rita Police, Robbery and Homicide division. Subject is Elizabeth Stout, a female Caucasian, forty-six years of age and weighing one hundred and forty-five pounds. Positive identification was made by her husband. Subject was found in a situation suggestive of homicide. An active investigation is under way. All limbs, fingers, and toes are present. No tattoos, no obvious sign of drug abuse. On cursory examination, cause of death is not apparent.”

He began to touch her and I again felt great embarrassment on her behalf. First he pressed on different areas of her skull, then bent over to peer at her hair. “No indication of trauma to the head; no sign of blood in the hair.” He lifted her head and moved it from side to side, spoke about levity and cervical spine being intact. I felt my face flush and I was beginning to get hot. Egan looked at her eyes, in her ears and her nose and her mouth. He paid special attention to her neck. “No signs of strangulation.” He returned to her mouth and pointed out change in the texture of the skin.

“Tape,” he said to West, who stood on the other side of the table. I remained several steps back. “She was gagged and for some time, I would say. It looks like her skin developed a rash from the tape. Some tests might reveal the type of tape.”

“There was no tape on her mouth when we found her,” West said. “It’s another reason we think she was dead before being tied to the pier.”

“Logical. I checked the sinus for water and didn’t find any. I’ll see what fluids we have in the lungs in a few minutes, but I’m betting she didn’t drown.”

Egan continued his exam, poking and pushing and taking samples with swabs on long, thin wooden sticks, like giant Q-Tips. He worked his way down her body and my embarrassment grew. It all lacked dignity. Lizzy was a proud woman. The thought of lying naked on a steel table while two men examined every inch of her body would have mortified her.

“No obvious signs of rape,” Egan said. “But I’ll take samples.”

He did.

“I’m especially interested in seeing her back,” West said. “I would like your opinion.”

“Fine with me. Help me roll her over.”

West donned some latex gloves and helped pull Lizzy onto her side. I could see her back from where I stood. It was darker than the rest of her body.

“The blood pooling is interesting,” Egan said. “She was seated when you found her?”

“Yeah. A rope held her back against the post under the pier.”

Egan looked at me and explained, “When someone dies, the blood moves to the lowest parts of the body and settles into the tissues. If she was killed in a seated position, the blood should have settled into the buttocks. That tissue can hold a lot of blood. But I’m seeing a more even distribution. I’d say she was supine when she died.”

“What do you make of the marks?” West asked.

I watched Egan bend over and place his face near Lizzy’s back. He blocked my view with his body. I was strangely grateful. He stood up and while holding her body in position, reached for a magnifying glass. Then he returned his attention to the wounds. Seconds oozed by as Egan studied each injury, tilting his head from side to side. I wondered how a man could do this work every day. He set the glass down and began probing each cut with his finger.

“Hmm. They’re not deep, but then I didn’t expect they would be. You told me on the phone that you saw these wounds at the crime scene and thought they were caused by mussel shells?”

“That’s right.”

“I’d say you’re correct. What’s odd is that they’re relatively smooth and shallow. None of the wounds are ragged, which would indicate tearing.”

“So she didn’t fight against the rope or the rising water. I figure the tide action pressed her against the mussels repeatedly, developing the gashes we see. If she had been alive at the time . . .”

“She would have struggled to free herself, even panicking as the water continued to rise. Her back should be shredded but it’s not.”

“More proof she died elsewhere.”

“That gets my vote. Hold her up while I take some shots.” Egan removed a digital camera from the nearby counter and started snapping pictures of Lizzy’s back. Then, with West’s help, he lowered the body to its original position. I kept waiting for Lizzy to protest, but I knew she never would. It’s odd how the mind continues to deny truth even in the presence of undeniable facts. Egan recited his findings for the recorder, continuing in the same dispassionate tone.

“Okay,” he said to West. “If she didn’t die at the scene, then she was killed elsewhere. That’s your problem. My problem is discovering how she died. There are no marks around the neck to indicate strangling. The skull is whole and undamaged, so blunt force to the head is out. I find no bruises on her body, beyond that left by the rope which held her to the pier, and some ligature marks around the wrists and feet, indicating forced restraint. If she had been beaten, I would expect more bruising.” He placed a gloved hand on either side of Lizzy’s rib cage and worked his fingers around. “No fractured ribs. I don’t think she was abused by her captors.”