“What about tourist cabins, rental properties in your area?”
“Yes, sir,” Mote answered.
“Lots and lots of them.” He turned to Ferguson.
“Max, I reckon we’d better check them, too. Get a list, see who’s been renting what.”
I knew Wesley sensed my troubled mood when he said, “Dr. Scarpetta?
You look like you have something to add. ”
“I’m perplexed by the absence of vital reaction to any of her injuries,” I said.
“And though the condition of her body suggests she has been dead only several days, her electrolytes don’t fit her physical findings…”
“Her what?” Mote’s expression went blank.
“Her sodium is high, and since sodium stays fairly stable after death, we can conclude that her sodium was high at the time of her death.”
“What does that mean?”
“It could mean she was profoundly dehydrated,” I said.
“And by the way, she was underweight for her age. Do we know anything about a possible eating disorder? Had she been sick? Vomiting? Diarrhea? A history of taking diuretics? ” I scanned the faces around the table.
When no one replied, Ferguson said, “I’ll run it by the mother. I gotta talk to her anyway when I get back.”
“Her potassium is elevated,” I went on.
“And this also needs to be explained, because vitreous potassium becomes elevated incrementally and predictably after death as cell walls leak and release it.”
“Vitreous?” Mote asked.
“The fluid of the eye is very reliable for testing because it’s isolated, protected, and therefore less subject to contamination, putrefaction,” I answered.
“The point is, her potassium level suggests she’s been dead longer than her other findings indicate.”
“How long?” Wesley asked.
“Six or seven days.”
“Could there be any other explanation for this?”
“Exposure to extreme heat that would have escalated decomposition,” I replied.
“Well, that’s not going to be it.”
“Or an error,” I added.
“Can you check it out?”
I nodded.
“Doc Jenrette thinks the bullet in her brain killed her instantly,” Ferguson announced.
“Seems to me you get killed instantly and there’s not going to be any vital reaction.”
“The problem,” I explained, “is this injury to her brain should not have been instantly fatal.”
“How long could she have survived with it?” Mote wanted to know.
“Hours,” I replied.
“Other possibilities?” Wesley said to me.
“Commotio cerebri. It’s like an electrical short circuit–you get a bang on the head, die instantly, and we can’t find much if any injury.” I paused.
“Or it could be that all of her injuries are postmortem, including the gunshot wound.” Everybody let that sink in for a moment. Marino’s coffee cup was a small pile of Styrofoam snow, the ashtray in front of him littered with wadded gum wrappers. He said, “You find anything to indicate maybe she was smothered first?”
I told him I had not.
He began clicking his ballpoint pen open and shut.
“Let’s talk about her family some more. What do we know about the father besides he’s deceased?”
“He was a teacher at Broad River Christian Academy in Swannanoa.”
“Same place Emily went?”
“Nope. She went to the public elementary school in Black Mountain. Her daddy died about a year ago,” Mote added.
“I noticed that,” I said.
“His name was Charles?” Mote nodded.
“What was his cause of death?” I asked.
“I’m not sure. But it was natural.”
Ferguson added, “He had a heart condition.” Wesley got up and moved to the white board
“Okay.” He uncapped a black Magic Marker and began writing.
“Let’s go over the details. Victim’s from a middle-class family, white, age eleven, last seen by her peers around six o’clock in the afternoon of October 1 when she walked home alone from a church meeting. On this occasion, she took a shortcut, a path that follows the shore of Lake Tomahawk, a small man-made lake.
“If you look at your map, you’ll see there is a clubhouse on the north end of the lake and a public pool, both of which are open only in the summer. Over here you’ve got tennis courts and a picnic area that are available year-round. According to the mother, Emily arrived home shortly after six-thirty. She went straight to her room and practiced guitar until dinner.”