I could recall only a few cases in which a victim’s tight bindings had left no mark on skin. Clearly, the strapping tape, had been in direct contact with Eddies skin. He should have moved his hands, wriggled as his discomfort had grown and his circulation had been restricted. But he had not resisted. He had not tugged or squirmed or tried to get away.
I thought of the blood drips on the shoulder of his jacket and the soot and stippling on the collar. I again checked around his mouth, looked at his tongue, and glanced over his charts. If he had been gagged, there was no evidence of it now, no abrasions or bruises, no traces of adhesive. I imagined him propped against the Dumpster, naked and in the bitter cold, his clothing piled by his side, not neatly, not sloppily, but casually from the way it had been described to me. When I tried to sense the emotion of the crime, I did not detect anger, panic, or fear.
“He shot him first, didn’t he?”
Susan’s eyes were alert like those of a wary stranger you pass on a desolate, dark street. “Whoever did this taped his wrist, together after he shot him.”
“I’m thinking that.”
“But that’s so weird,” she said. “You don’t need to bind someone you’ve just shot in the head.”
“We don’t know what this individual fantasizes about.”
The sinus headache had arrived and I had fallen like a city under siege. My eyes were watering; my skull was two sizes too small.
Susan pulled the thick electrical cord down from its reel and plugged in the Stryker saw. She snapped new blades in scalpels and checked the knives on the surgical cart. She disappeared into the X-ray room and returned with Eddies films, which she fixed to light boxes. She scurried about frenetically and then did something she had never done before. She bumped hard against the surgical cart she had been arranging and sent two quart jars of formalin crashing to the floor.
I ran to her as she jumped back, gasping, waving fumes from her face and sending broken glass skittering across the floor as her feet almost went out from under her.
“Did it get your face?”
I grabbed her arm and hurried her toward the locker room.
“I don’t think so. No. Oh, God. It’s on my feet and legs. I think on my arm, too.”
“You’re sure it’s not in your eyes or mouth?”
I helped her strip off her greens.
“I’m sure.”
I ducked inside the shower and turned on the water as she practically tore off the rest of her clothes.
I made her stand beneath a blast of tepid water for a very long time as I donned mask, safety glasses, and thick rubber gloves. I soaked up the hazardous chemical with formalin pillows, supplied by the state for biochemical emergencies like this. I swept up glass and tied everything inside double plastic bags. Then I hosed down the floor, washed myself, and changed into fresh greens. Susan eventually emerged from the shower, bright pink and scared.
“Dr. Scarpetta, I’m so sorry,” she said.
“My only concern is you. Are you all right?”
“I feel weak and a little dizzy. I can still smell the fumes.”
“I’ll finish up here,” I said. “Why don’t you go home.”
“I think I’ll just rest for a while first. Maybe I’d better go upstairs.”
My lab coat was draped over the back of a chair, and I reached inside a pocket and got out my keys. “Here,” I said, handing them to her. “You can lie down on the couch in my office. Get on the intercom immediately if the dizziness doesn’t go away or you start feeling worse.”
She reappeared about an hour later, her winter coat on and buttoned up to her chin.
“How do you feel?” I asked as I sutured the Y incision.
“A little shaky but okay.”
She watched me in silence for a moment, then added, “I thought of something while I was upstairs. I don’t think you should list me as a witness in this case.”
I glanced up at her in surprise. It was routine for anyone present during an autopsy to be listed as a witness on the official report. Susan’s request wasn’t of great importance, but it was peculiar.