The Reluctant Coroner, Paul Austin Ardoin [comprehension books TXT] 📗

day has been rough. I don’t know if I can handle playing politics with an M.E. over a dead body.”

“I hate to say this, Fenway, but no, we can’t push it till tomorrow. First of all, someone needs to personally deliver Dylan’s gun to the forensics lab. And secondly, we need those autopsy results. It’s been over 72 hours, and I don’t want the trail getting any colder.”

“That makes two of us.”

“I talked to the M.E. and she said there are a couple of things she’d like us to see for ourselves. I didn’t talk to Mark this morning, so I never asked him to take Dylan’s gun to the San Miguelito lab. I can drop you off at home afterward, but I really think you need to see this too.”

“This is the longest day ever.”

“Yep, for me too. But if those ballistics match the gun we found in Dylan’s closet, we can all go home and sleep for a while.”

Fenway realized Dez hadn’t informed the sheriff about Dylan’s truck possibly being seen away from the crime scene, or about Dylan and McVie’s wife. She wondered if Dez was hoping Fenway would talk to the sheriff about all of those things, or if Dez would prefer her to follow Megan’s request to tell her father nothing. Fenway figured she would decide when they were on the road.

“I definitely need to eat.” Fenway picked up her purse.

“We can grab something on the way.”

He stopped at the evidence locker and retrieved a black case, signing it out.

“Is that Dylan’s gun?” Fenway asked.

“Yep.”

They went through a burger drive-through—yet another regional fast-food place Fenway hadn’t heard of. She ordered a spicy grilled chicken sandwich, McVie a deluxe burger.

“This law enforcement diet isn’t going to work too much longer for me,” Fenway said, but she was hungry. She had only had two large lattes all day. She ate her sandwich quickly and drank her diet soda.

McVie looked over at her. “You’re quiet.”

“I was hungry. And I’m exhausted.”

“You can nap if you want. It’ll be a good forty-five minutes.”

Fenway leaned the seat back and fell asleep almost immediately.

When she woke up, they were pulling into a parking space at the San Miguelito County Medical Examiner’s office.

“Morning, sunshine.”

Fenway grunted, waking slowly and sitting back upright.

McVie retrieved the gun case from the trunk, and they walked into the office. They checked in at the front desk and sat in chairs with brown plastic seats and metal legs that probably had once been shiny.

“So, Sheriff, I know this may not be the place to say this, but this is going to be my first autopsy.”

“Didn’t you have to deal with cadavers in your classes?”

“Yeah, but those people all donated their bodies to the greater good. This is my first dead body of someone who didn’t think they’d be getting cut up when they died.”

“Walker probably didn’t think he’d get shot in the back, either. Death is full of surprises.”

A short Asian woman with closely-cropped black hair came out. She wore light blue scrubs. “Michi,” McVie said. “Good to see you again.”

“Good to see you too, Craig.” She shook McVie’s hand. “Dez didn’t make it?”

“No, she needed to stay on the case back home.”

Her face registered disappointment, but quickly changed. “Give her my best when you see her.”

“Will do, Michi. So let me introduce you two: Dr. Michiyo Yasuda, this is our new coroner, Fenway Stevenson.”

“Fenway? Like the ballpark?”

“No, I was named after my great uncle Fenwick and my third cousin Hemingway. Sort of a mash-up.”

Dr. Yasuda stared at her.

Fenway cleared her throat awkwardly. “Yeah, sorry, not really. My father’s a big Red Sox fan.” Fenway gave Dr. Yasuda a weak smile.

Yasuda nodded. “Okay—let’s take you back.” She turned and was gone so quickly McVie and Fenway had to run to keep up with her.

They went through a couple of hallways to a staircase leading into the basement. After a left turn, there was a set of double doors labelled MORGUE. She swiped her keycard on the black pad next to the double doors, and there was an audible, low-pitched click. She pushed the door open and led them inside.

There was a body on the table under a sheet, and as Yasuda pulled the top of the sheet down and folded it back, Fenway could see it was a Caucasian male, roughly 50 years old, lying supine.

“All right,” Yasuda began, “Before we get to the gunshot wound, I want to show you a couple of things.” Yasuda pointed at Walker’s left cheek. “In his beard, right here, two lacerations are healing. The bruising around the edges are consistent with fingernails.” Yasuda pulled the sheet up from the bottom next, so Fenway could see Walker’s left knee. There was a big knot an inch below the kneecap which was badly bruised. “And there’s this hematoma. It’s more difficult to tell what made contact here. This was done a couple of days before he was shot and killed, about the same time as the lacerations.”

“Kicked and scratched.” McVie crossed his arms.

“That conclusion would be consistent with the evidence,” Dr. Yasuda agreed.

“I know who kicked and scratched Mr. Walker,” Fenway said. “It happened at roughly seven o’clock on Friday night.”

Dr. Yasuda looked up from the body. “I guess the investigation is progressing.”

“I don’t believe the woman who did this is the killer, however. She has an alibi for Sunday night.”

Dr. Yasuda turned back to Walker’s body. “Getting back to Sunday night, the bullet was a low-velocity 10-millimeter round. Sheriff, if you could assist me.”

Using the sheets as leverage, McVie and Dr. Yasuda turned Walker’s body onto its stomach. Dr. Yasuda pulled the sheet down to expose Walker’s back; there was a hole from a gunshot on his left side.

Fenway looked closely at the hole. “Shot through the heart?”

Dr. Yasuda nodded. “And here’s something interesting I wanted to make sure you saw.” She picked up a three-foot long fiberglass rod and inserted it in the bullet hole. The angle was about five or ten degrees shy of being perpendicular. “Now, Mr. Walker was five-foot-nine. As you can see from the angle, the shot was fired from slightly above. I believe the gun was roughly three feet away, as there was stippling on the wound, but no burns or soot on Walker’s clothes. It appears the murderer would have been a bit higher than the victim. The killer may have been tall, or Walker could have been on his knees.”

“Aren’t there pretty steep hills around there?” said McVie. “That might account for the angle.”

“No, not where the body was found.”

“What if the body was moved?” asked Fenway.

“There’s no evidence of that,” Yasuda said. “Blood has pooled everywhere I expect it to pool when a dead body stays in place.”

Fenway nodded.

“And, no drag marks were found on the ground around his body or feet, no torn clothing or scuffs on his shoes.” Dr. Yasuda pulled some photos of Walker’s clothing out. “See, there are no drag marks on the clothing, just dirt on his shoulders, arms, and legs consistent with being dead before you fall forward onto the ground.”

“What are we looking at?” McVie asked. “Does this narrow the height of the killer down at all?”

“Yes. Based on the gunshot residue and the stippling pattern, I estimate the shot was fired from roughly three feet away. Assuming the killer was holding the weapon at a normal height, I’d estimate the killer to be anywhere from six feet, two inches to six feet, six inches.”

“And if Mr. Walker had been on his knees?”

Dr. Yasuda checked her notes. “The length of his crus measures fourteen and one-eighth inches,” she said.

“His what?” McVie whispered to Fenway.

“Crus. Lower leg from the knee to the ankle,” she explained.

“Subtracting the length from his full height,” Dr. Yasuda continued, “Walker would have been about four feet seven inches tall on his knees. If the killer was standing—which, in my experience, isn’t always the case when the victim is kneeling—the killer is right around five feet tall, give or take.”

McVie chuckled. “We’re either looking for a really tall or really short person.”

“If the killer was standing.”

McVie walked around to the other side of the table. “Okay. Anything else we need to know?”

Dr. Yasuda picked up a file folder. “The rest of it is in the autopsy report and my notes. I wanted you to see the trajectory for yourself. It’s tough for the photos and descriptions to do it justice.”

Fenway nodded again. “Sure, thanks.”

McVie held up the gun case. “And I’ve got Dylan Richards’ gun here.”

“Let’s go up to the ballistics lab.” Dr. Yasuda pulled the sheet up over Walker’s head, then turned and was out the door. Fenway and McVie were caught lagging behind again; Dr. Yasuda was up the stairs so quickly McVie and Fenway were breathing hard by the time they hit the ground floor. A turn down a hallway, and another fifty feet later they were at the lab.

Yasuda walked up to a technician behind a microscope. “Okay, Trevor. Richards’ firearm is here.”

McVie was still breathing a little heavily. “Great.” He hoisted the gun case up