“The tank’s empty,” Marino observed.
“I think he ran out of gas after death.”
“Why?” Roche had walked over to where we were, and he stared intensely at me and the front of my scrubs as if he and I were the only two people in the room. “How do you know he didn’t lose track of time down there and run out of gas?”
“Because even if his air supply quit, he still had plenty of time to get to the surface.
He was only thirty feet down,” I said.
“That’s a long way if maybe your hose has gotten hung up on something.”
“It would be. But in that scenario, he could have dropped his weight belt.”
“Has the smell gone away?” he asked.
“No, but it’s not as overpowering.”
“What smell?” Marino wanted to know.
“His blood has a weird odor.”
“You mean like booze?”
“No, not like that.”
He sniffed several times and shrugged as Roche moved past me, averting his gaze from what was on the table. I could not believe it when he brushed against me again though he had plenty of room and I had given him a warning. Marino was big and balding in a fleece-lined coat, and his eyes followed him.
“So, who’s this?” he asked me.
“Yes, I guess the two of you haven’t met,” I said. “Detective Roche of Chesapeake, this is Captain Marino with Richmond.”
Roche was looking closely at the hookah, and the sound of Danny cutting through ribs with shears on the next table was getting to him. His complexion was the shade of milk glass again, his mouth bowed down.
Marino lit a cigarette and I could tell by the expression on his face that he had made his decision about Roche, and Roche was about to know it.
“I don’t know about you,” he said to the detective, “but one thing I discovered early on, is once you come to this joint, you never feel the same about liver. You watch.” He tucked the lighter back inside his shirt pocket. “Me, I used to love it smothered in onions.” He blew out smoke.
“Now, on the pain of death you couldn’t make me touch it.”
Roche leaned closer to the hookah, almost burying his face in it, as if the smell of rubber and gasoline was the antidote he needed. I resumed work.
“Hey, Danny,” Marino went on, “you ever eat shit like kidneys and gizzards since you started working here?”
“I’ve never ate any of that my entire life,” he said as we removed the breastplate. “But I know what you mean.
When I see people order big slabs of liver in restaurants, I almost have to dive for the door. Especially if it’s even the slightest bit pink.”
The odor intensified as organs were exposed, and I leaned back.
“You smelling it?” Danny asked.
“Oh, yeah,” I said.
Roche retreated to his distant corner, and now that Marino had had his fun, he walked over and stood next to me.
“So you think he drowned?” Marino quickly asked.
“At the moment I’m not thinking that. But certainly, I’m going to look for it,” I said.
“What can you do to figure out he didn’t drown?”
Marino was not very familiar with drownings, since people rarely committed murder that way, so he was intensely curious. He wanted to understand everything I was doing.
“Actually, there are a lot of things I’m doing,” I said as I worked. “I’ve already made a skin pocket on the side of the chest, filled it with water and inserted a blade in the thorax to check for bubbles. I’m going to fill the pericardial sac with water and insert a needle into the heart, again to see if any bubbles form. And I’ll check the brain for petechial hemorrhages, and look at the soft tissue of the mediastinum for extraalveolar air.”
“What will all that show?” he asked.
“Possibly pneumothorax or air embolism, which can occur in less than fifteen feet of water if the diver is breathing inadequately. The problem is that excessive pressure in the lungs can result in small tears of the alveolar walls, causing hemorrhages and air leaks into one or both pleural cavities.”