“I’m not so sure he’s a pro, either,” I commented, fitting a new blade in my scalpel. “It was sloppy to leave an empty film box inside the refrigerator. And if he really wanted to play it safe, he should have broken in at two or three in the morning, not in broad daylight.”
“You’re right. The film box was sloppy,” Marino agreed. “But I can see why he broke in when he did. A funeral home or squad comes in to deliver a body while
Price’s inside the fridge, right? In the middle of the day, maybe he’s smooth enough to make it appear he works here, has a legit reason for being inside. But let’s say he’s surprised at two A.M.
No way in hell he’s going to be able to explain himself at that hour.”
Whatever the case, I thought, feb Price meant business. Glaser Safety Slugs were one of the worst things out, the cartridges packed with small shot that disperse on impact and tear through flesh and organs like a lead hailstorm. Mac Tens are a favorite occupational tool of terrorists and drug lords, the machine pistols a dime a dozen in Central America, the Middle East, and my hometown of Miami.
“You might consider putting a lock on the fridge,” Marino added.
“I’ve already alerted Buildings and Grounds,” I said.
It was a precaution I had put off for years. Funeral homes and squads had to be able to get inside the refrigerator after hours. The security guards would have to be given keys. My local medical examiners on call would have to be given keys. There would be protests. There would be problems.
Damn it, I was getting so tired of problems!
Marino had turned his attention to Harper’s body. It didn’t require an autopsy or a genius to determine the cause of death.
“He has multiple fractures of the skull and lacerations of the brain,” I explained.
“His throat was cut last, like in Beryl’s case?”
“The jugular veins and carotid arteries are transected, yet his organs aren’t particularly pale,” I answered. “He would have hemorrhaged to death in a matter of minutes if he’d had a blood pressure. In other words, he didn’t bleed out enough to account for his death. He was dead or dying from his head injuries by the time his throat was cut.”
“What about defense injuries?” Marino asked.
“None.”
I set down the scalpel to show him, one by one forcing open Harper’s unwilling fingers. “No broken nails, cuts or contusions. He didn’t attempt to ward off the blows of the weapon.”
“Never knew what hit him,” Marino commented. “He drives in after dark. The drone’s waiting for him, probably hiding in the bushes. Harper parks, gets out of his Rolls. He’s locking his door when the guy comes up behind him and hits him in the back of the head–”
“He has twenty percent stenosis of his LAD,” I thought out loud, looking for my pencil.
“Harper goes down like a shot and the squirrel keeps swinging,” Marino went on.
“Thirty percent of his right coronary.”
I scribbled notes on an empty glove packet. “No scarring from old infarcts. Heart’s healthy but mildly enlarged, and he’s got calcification of his aorta, moderate atherosclerosis.”
“Then the guy slashes Harper’s throat. Probably to make damn sure he’s dead.”
I looked up.
“Whoever did it wanted to make sure Harper was dead,” Marino repeated.
“I don’t know that I’d attribute such rational thinking to the assailant,” I replied. “Look at him, Marino.”
I had deflected the scalp back from the skull, which was shattered like a hardboiled egg. Pointing out the fracture lines, I explained, “He was struck at least seven times with such force that none of the injuries was survivable. Then his throat was cut. It’s overkill. Just as it was in Beryl’s case.”
“Okay. Overkill. I’m not arguing,” he replied. “I’m just saying the killer wanted to make sure Beryl and Harper was dead. You nearly cut someone’s damn head off, and you can walk away with the certainty your victim ain’t going to be revived to tell the story.”
Marino made a face as I began emptying the stomach contents into a cardboard container.