An Evil Heart (Kate Burkholder, #15)(18)
The autopsy room is large and unnaturally bright. Floor-to-ceiling gray subway tile covers the walls. The air is uncomfortably cool. Despite the high-tech ventilation system, the smells of formalin and the sickly-sweet stench of decaying flesh hang in the air. A young man clad in scrubs, surgical cap, and gown stands at the counter, his back to us, working on something unseen.
The body of Aden Karn lies atop a stainless-steel gurney, draped with a sheet. A disposable paper cover has been placed over the head and shoulders. Doc Coblentz walks directly to the gurney, reaches for the pull-down work light, and switches it on.
I stand midway between the door and the gurney, taking in the scene, cognizant that I need to put on my cop face and walk over there and do my job. I remind myself that the clock is ticking and there’s a killer on the loose in Painters Mill.
The doc is patient. Saying nothing, he busies himself with the light and the positioning of the disposable cover, touching the unspeakable instruments laid out on the tray. When I reach the gurney, he gives me a sagacious look. “Remember, Kate, everything we discuss prior to autopsy is preliminary. But I felt what I’m about to show you may be important in terms of your investigation.”
“I appreciate it,” I hear myself say, and I’m surprised because my voice sounds perfectly normal.
The young man standing at the counter turns to us. The mask prevents me from seeing his mouth, but I discern the smile in his eyes. “Hi, Chief Burkholder.”
“This is Jared,” the doctor tells me. “He’s with BCI and he’s going to assist today.”
The young man looks like he’s fresh out of college, and is as undisturbed by the body before us as I am disturbed.
I give him a nod and I’m glad for my own mask because I can’t muster a smile.
“Here we go.” The doc peels away the paper cover. A quiver runs the length of me at the sight of Aden Karn’s head and shoulders. Waxy flesh. Dark hair contrasting sharply with the death pallor of the skin. One eye closed, one lid half open. Some type of stainless-steel device protrudes from the mouth, holding the cavity open. Lips drawn tight. Teeth exposed. The tongue swollen-looking and pale.
“I’m going to show you two incised wounds. Entries and exits, so there are four wounds total.” The doc peels down the sheet to the victim’s hips, exposing a skinny white chest. A sprinkling of hair. A flat belly. Protruding hip bones.
It’s my first unobstructed look at the wound. The hair has been shaven, the blood washed away. The wound is the shape of an X or cross mark. The cut gapes slightly, the tissue beneath deep red and wet looking.
“I stand by my original assessment that this incised wound was likely caused by a crossbow bolt or arrow,” the doc tells me. “What’s even more interesting are the exit wounds.”
He nods to his assistant. I resist the urge to step back while the two men shift the body onto its side. The exit wound is mid-back just to the left of the spine, and similar in shape, but slightly smaller than the entrance wound.
“Looks like the bolt went through the body,” I hear myself say. “We searched the area for the bolt, but didn’t find anything.”
“I’m not surprised.” The doc makes eye contact with me. “I don’t believe this is a through-and-through, Kate.” He looks down at the wound. “I believe the bolt lodged and was then pushed through the body in order for it to be removed.”
Glock’s words ring hard in my ears … went crossbow hunting a few years ago with a friend of mine. He got a buck. When he retrieved his bolt, he didn’t pull it out. He pushed it through. And it took some doing.
I stare at Doc, and I grapple to find my voice. “How can you tell?”
“It’s only a theory at this point. I may or may not be able to confirm it during autopsy, but I’ve two points to make. First, if you look at the cross marks, front and back, they do not align. Keep in mind that pushing a bolt through a human body is not an easy task and would require some degree of strength. In this case, preliminarily, it looks as if when the bolt was pushed through, it was twisted slightly. The kind of thing someone might do to force it. My second point is that the flesh around the secondary exit wound exhibits a small degree of tearing. As if the bolt head was moving in a fashion that did not have enough momentum to incise. And so the flesh was stretched and torn.”
“As if someone pushed it through,” I murmur.
“Exactly.”
“Was the victim dead when that happened?”
“I don’t know. I may or may not be able to answer that post-autopsy. But I’ll try.”
I think about that a moment. “You said there were two incised wounds.”
The doc grimaces, then nods at his assistant. The two men gently roll the victim back into a supine position. The doc sidles to the head. “Let’s position him,” he says to his assistant.
I watch as the two men slide a body block beneath the victim’s neck so that the head is angled back. When they’ve finished, the doc looks at me. “I was curious about the amount of blood that had leaked from the mouth when we were at the scene.”
“I remember,” I tell him. “I assumed it was from internal injuries. Stomach or lungs.”
“That was my thought initially, too.” He nods to the assistant.
Jared sets a gloved hand on the deceased’s forehead, then cranks the jaw-opening medical device wider, the rapid-fire clicks seeming obscene in the silence of the room. He picks up what looks like forceps, grasps the tongue, and gently pulls it outside the mouth and to one side.