“Deborah Harvey was shot.”
I picked up the lumbar in question. “Caught right in the middle of the back. The bullet fractured the spinous process and the pedicles and lodged in the vertebral body. Right here.”
I showed him.
“I don’t see it.”
He leaned closer.
“No, you can’t see it. But you see the hole?”
“Yeah? I see a lot of holes.”
“This is the bullet hole. The others are vascular foramina, holes for the vascular vessels that supply blood to bone and marrow.”
“Where are the fractured pedestals you mentioned?”
“Pedicles,” I said patiently. “I didn’t find them. They would be in pieces and are probably still out there in the woods. An entrance and no exit. She was shot in the back versus the abdomen.”
“You find a bullet hole in her clothes?”
“No.”
On a nearby table was a white plastic tray in which I had placed Deborah’s personal effects, including her clothing, jewelry, and red nylon purse. I carefully lifted up the sweatshirt, tattered, black, and putrid.
“As you can see,” I pointed out, “the back of it, in particular, is in terrible shape. Most of the fabric’s completely rotted away, torn by predators. The same goes for the waistband of her jeans in back, and that makes sense, since these areas of her clothing would have been bloody. In other words, the area of fabric where I would expect to have found a bullet hole is gone.”
“What about distance? You got any idea about that?”
“As I’ve said, the bullet didn’t exit. This would make me suspect we’re not dealing with a contact gunshot wound. But it’s hard to say. As for caliber, and again I’m conjecturing, I’m thinking a thirty-eight or better, based on the size of this hole. We won’t know with certainty until I crack open the vertebra and take the bullet upstairs to the firearms lab.”
“Weird,” Marino said. “You haven’t looked at Cheney yet?”
“He’s been rayed. No bullets. But no, I haven’t examined him yet.”
“Weird,” he said again. “It don’t fit. Her being shot in the back don’t fit with the other cases.”
“No,” I agreed. “It doesn’t.”
“So that’s what killed her?”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you mean, you don’t know?”
He looked at me.
“This injury isn’t immediately fatal, Marino. Since the bullet didn’t go right on through, it didn’t transect the aorta. Had it done so at this lumbar level, she would have hemorrhaged to death within minutes. What’s significant is that the bullet had to have transected her cord, instantly paralyzing her from the waist down. And of course, blood vessels were hit. She was bleeding.”
“How long could she have survived?”
“Hours.”
“What about the possibility of sexual assault?”
“Her panties and brassiere were in place,” I answered. “This doesn’t mean that she wasn’t sexually assaulted. She could have been allowed to put her clothes back on afterward, assuming she was assaulted before she was shot.”
“Why bother?”
“If you’re raped,” I said, “and your assailant tells you to put your clothes back on, you assume you’re going to live. A sense of hope serves to control you, make you do as you’re told because if you struggle with him, he might change his mind.”
“It don’t feel right.”
Marino frowned. “I just don’t think that’s what happened, Doc.”
“It’s a scenario. I don’t know what happened. All I can tell you with certainty is that I didn’t find any articles of her clothing torn, cut, inside out, or unfastened. And as for seminal fluid, after so many months in the woods, forget it.”
Handing him a clipboard and a pencil, I added, “If you’re going to hang around, you might as well scribe for me.”
“You plan to tell Benton about this?” he asked.
“Not at the moment.”
“What about Morrell?”
“Certainly, I’ll tell him she was shot,” I said. “If we’re talking about an automatic or semiautomatic, the cartridge case may still be at the scene. If the cops want to run their mouths, that’s up to them. But nothing’s coming from me.”
“What about Mrs. Harvey?”
“She and her husband know their daughter and Fred have been positively identified. I called the Harvey’s and Mr. Cheney as soon as I was sure. I will be releasing nothing further until I’ve concluded the examinations.”