Patricia Cornwell – Scarpetta11 – The Last Precinct

He frowns at the misspelling on the toe tag. “The guy from the removal service must be Asian. John Dooo.”

“Who’s the detective?” I ask.

“Stanfield. Don’t know him. Just don’t get a puncture in your glove or you’ll be wearing a biological hazard for the next few weeks.” He indicates my latex-coated cast. “Actu­ally, what would you do, now that I think of it?”

“Cut it off and put on a new one.”

“So maybe we should have disposable casts down here.”

“I feel like cutting it off anyway. This guy’s burn pattern isn’t making sense to me,” I tell him. “Do we know how far the body was from the fire?”

“About ten feet from the bed. I was told the bed’s the only thing that burned and only partially. He was nude, sitting on the floor, back against the wall.”

“I wonder why only his upper body got burned.” I point out discrete burns the size and shape of silver dollars. “Arms, chest. One here on his left shoulder. And these on his face. And he has several on his back, which should have been spared if he was leaning against the wall. What about the drag marks?”

“As I understand it, when the fire department got there, they dragged his body out into the parking lot. One thing’s for sure, he must’ve been unconscious or incapacitated when the fire started,” Jack says. “Sure as hell don’t know why else someone would just sit there getting burned and breathing in smoke. Obviously that happy-holiday time of year.” My second-in-command is cloaked in a hung-over weariness that causes me to suspect he had a very bad night. I wonder if he and his ex-wife had another one of their explosions. “Every­body killing themselves. That woman over there.” He points to the body on table 1, where Dr. Chong is busy taking photo­graphs from a stepladder. “Dead on the kitchen floor, a pillow, a blanket. The neighbor heard one shot. Mother found her. There’s a note. And behind door number two”Jack stares at table 2″a motor vehicle death the state police are suspicious is a suicide. She has extensive injuries. Plowed right into a tree.”

“Did her clothes come in?”

“Yup.”

“Let’s X-ray her feet and get the labs to check the bottom of her shoes to see if she was braking or accelerating when she hit the tree.” I shade areas of a body diagram, indicating soot.

“And we got a known diabetic with a history of overdose,”

Jack recites our guest list of the morning. “Was found outside in the yard. Question is drugs, alcohol or exposure.”

“Or a combination of the above.”

“Right. I see what you mean about the burns, though.” He leans closer to look, blinking often, reminding me he wears contact lenses. “And it’s weird they’re all about the same size and shape. You want me to help with this?”

“Thanks. I’ll manage. How are you?” I glance up from my clipboard.

His eyes are tired, his boyish good looks strained. “Maybe we can grab some coffee sometime,” he says. “One of these days. And I should be asking about you.”

I pat his shoulder to let him know I am okay. “As well as can be expected, Jack,” I add.

I begin the external examination of John Doe with a PERK. This is a physical evidence recovery kit, a decided un­pleasantness that includes swabbing orifices, clipping finger­nails and plucking head, body and pubic hair. We PERK all bodies when there is any reason to suspect something other than a natural death, and I will always PERK a body that is nude, unless there is an acceptable reason for the person’s not being clothed when he diedin the bathtub or on the operat­ing table, for example. For the most part, I don’t spare my pa­tients indignities. I can’t. Sometimes the most important evidence lurks in the darkest, most delicate hollows, and clings underneath nails and in hair. During my violation of this man’s most private places I discover healing tears of his anal ring. He has abrasions at the angles of his mouth. Fibers adhere to his tongue and the inside of his cheeks.