This room was outfitted with stainless steel tables, sinks, and lots of drains, Stryker saws, scalpels and other medical instruments, a tool that looked like a crowbar, organ scales, iPads resting on rolling tables, and mikes dangling from the ceiling so the medical examiners could record in real time their thoughts and findings.
Against one wall were the rollout beds behind closed cabinet doors: the wall of death, as Decker always saw it.
The electric blue had hit him as soon as Jacobs had unlocked the door. He noticed White noticing him, but the look he gave the woman caused her to glance sharply away.
On one dissecting table was Alan Draymont. He’d already been cut up, though the incision that had sliced a Y-shape across the front of his torso had not yet been sewn back up. Exposed were the man’s innards. Decker saw that his organs had already been removed and then repacked inside the body cavity in viscera bags.
His scalp had been cut away and draped over his face; the skull had been cut open, and the brain removed.
Jacobs used a gloved hand to pull the skin back, reconstituting the man’s face.
She used forceps to open the mouth wide and then directed a light inside the opening.
“You can see it now. I didn’t want to remove it until you got here.”
The two agents, White on tiptoes, bent over for a look.
“You sure it was done postmortem?” he said.
“Pretty sure, yes.”
He glanced at her. “Pretty sure?”
“The gunshots to the chest clearly killed him. The loss of blood shows that his heart was beating normally when that happened. There were no signs on the body of restraint, defensive wounds, or a struggle, though.”
Decker’s mind leapt ahead of her words. “Meaning a man getting a wad of cash shoved down his throat is going to at least struggle against it.”
“It would be like he was choking to death,” added White. “He’d fight, or they’d have to restrain him first.”
Jacobs said, “And he’d have gag reflex and there would be evidence of that in his larynx and on his tongue and other indicia. None of that is present, only the abrasions one would find by ramming an object like this down someone’s throat after they were dead.”
Decker eyed White and said, “Some sort of message? Punishment or revenge?”
“That would make Draymont the target and not the judge,” said White.
“Who’s to say he wasn’t?”
“And they had to kill the judge because…？”
“She came downstairs, saw what was happening, and was attacked. She fled upstairs, where they finished her off.” He stopped. “But then why the note and blindfold left with the judge?”
“Maybe that was just meant to throw us off,” suggested White.
Decker said to Jacobs, “Get the wad out of his mouth.”
She used another set of forceps to accomplish this and the money slowly emerged from the dead man’s mouth, the last thing that would ever pass through that portal.
She laid it on a clean cloth on a side table.
Decker put on a pair of latex gloves he pulled from a box and gingerly started to unfold the money.
“That doesn’t look like George Washington or Abraham Lincoln or Andrew Jackson,” noted White as she peered around him.
The currency had the images of a white-bearded man looking out and a dark-bearded man staring to the left.
“Národná Banka Slovenska,” Decker read off. “P?tdesiat. It’s worth fifty of something.”
White pulled out her phone and typed in a search. She waited and then the result came in.
“It’s Slovakian. The Korun was the currency until the end of 2008. Now they use the euro. The two guys are Saint Cyril and Saint Methodius.”
“So the personal bodyguard of a murdered federal judge had old and no longer legal tender Slovakian banknotes stuffed in his mouth after he’d been shot to death?” said Decker.
He unrolled all of the bills, counted up the amount, pulled out his phone, and translated the money into dollars using an online currency calculator.
“At the old exchange rate it’s worth less than fifty dollars.”
“But it’s now worthless,” noted White.
“It looks like someone was making some sort of a point,” opined Jacobs.
“We need to find out all about Alan Draymont,” said Decker.
“His employer, Gamma Protection Services, would be a good place to start,” replied White.
Chapter 16
THE NEXT MORNING THEY TOOK Interstate 75 east and drove the roughly two hours to Miami, where Gamma Protection Services had its headquarters. It was in a sleek high-rise near the water. Agent Andrews had been filled in on the cash found in Draymont’s mouth and had driven over with them.