“Or maybe she was looking for Mr. HOODbar . . .”
I was just on the verge of blowing up at Marino when his voice was drowned out by the Stryker saw, which sounded like a loud dentist’s drill as Wingo began cutting through the dead woman’s skull. A bony dust unpleasantly drifted on the air and Marino and the trooper retreated to the other end of the suite where the autopsy of Richmond’s latest shooting homicide was being performed on the last table.
When the saw was silenced and the skull cap removed, I stopped what I was doing to make a quick inspection of the brain. No subdural or subarachnoid hemorrhages.
“It isn’t funny,” Wingo began his indignant litany, “not the least bit funny. How can anybody laugh at something like that . . .”
The woman’s scalp was lacerated but that was it. What killed her were multiple pelvic fractures, the blow to her buttocks so violent the pattern of the vehicle’s grille was clearly visible on her skin. She wasn’t struck by something low to the ground, such as a sports car. Might have been a truck.
“She saved it because it meant something to her. Like it was something she wanted to believe. Maybe that’s why she went to the bar last night. She was looking for someone she’d been waiting for all her life. Her encounter. And it turns out to be some drunk driver who knocks her fifty feet into a ditch.”
“Wingo,” I said wearily as I began taking photographs, “it’s better if you don’t imagine some things.”
“I can’t help it . . .”
“You have to learn to help it.”
He cast wounded eyes in the direction of Marino, who was never satisfied unless he got a rise out of him. Poor Wingo. Most members of the rough-and-tumble world of law enforcement were more than a little put off by him. He didn’t laugh at their jokes or particularly relish their war stories, and more to the point, he was, well, different.
Tall and lithely built, he had black hair cropped close on the sides with a cockatoo spray on top and a rat tail curling at the nape of his neck. Delicately handsome, he looked like a model in the loose-fitting designer clothes and soft leather European shoes he wore. Even his indigo-blue scrubs, which he bought and laundered himself, were stylish. He didn’t flirt. He didn’t resent having a woman tell him what to do. He never seemed remotely interested in what I looked like beneath my lab coat or all-business Britches of Georgetown suits. I’d grown so comfortable around him that on the few occasions when he accidentally walked into the locker room while I was changing into my scrubs, I was scarcely aware of him.
I suppose if I’d wondered about his proclivities when he interviewed for the job several months ago I might have been less enthusiastic about hiring him. It was something I didn’t like to admit.
But it was all too easy to stereotype because I saw the worst example of every sort in this place. There were the transvestites with their falsies and padded hips, and the gays who flew into jealous rages and murdered their lovers, and the chicken hawks who cruised parks and video arcades and got carved up by homophobic rednecks. There were the prisoners with their obscene tattoos and histories of sodomizing anything on two legs inside the cell blocks, and there were the profligate purveyors in bathhouses and bars who didn’t care who else got AIDS.
Wingo didn’t fit. Wingo was just Wingo.
“You can handle it from here?”
He was angrily rinsing off his gloved and bloody hands.
“I’ll finish up,” I replied abstractedly as I resumed measuring a large tear of the mesentery.
Walking off to a cabinet, he began to collect spray bottles of disinfectants, rags and the other odds and ends he used for cleaning. Slipping a small set of headphones over his ears, he switched on the tape player attached to the waistband of his scrubs, momentarily shutting out the world.
Fifteen minutes later he was cleaning out the small refrigerator where evidence was stored inside the autopsy suite over the weekend. I vaguely noticed him pulling something out and looking at it for a long moment.