named Larry whom I know from my days working the ER, explains that a frantic 911 call came in from this address, made by a woman named Susan McNally, the victim’s roommate. Apparently Susan came home from a date and found the victim dead on the floor.
Larry then explains how he and another officer were the first to arrive and he tells Izzy everything they did to determine the victim’s situation and secure the scene.
“This information is critical,” Izzy informs me as he scribbles notes in a small pad, “in establishing what led up to the victim’s death. Plus, we need to know everyone who might have had contact with the body. If we find any trace evidence that isn’t from the victim, we need to be able to determine its source and its significance.”
Izzy walks me through the process of identifying and establishing a perimeter around the body, which includes blood splatters that spread well beyond the immediate area. Someone, most likely the roommate, has already walked through one small pool of blood, tracking it through part of the house before the police arrived. Izzy carefully photographs the blood splatters, the footprints, and finally, the body itself. In addition to the pictures, he draws a sketch of the area in his notebook, showing the general layout of the room, what pieces of furniture are where, and the position and location of the body.
When this is finished, he removes a package from his suitcase that contains a folded, white, paper sheet, which, when opened to its full size, is some ten feet square. We lay it out alongside Karen’s body so that when we turn her over onto it, any trace evidence that might be clinging to her body will be captured on the sheet, which will then stay with the body until it reaches the morgue.
Using rubber bands, we secure brown paper bags over Karen’s hands, labeling them with the date and our initials. Izzy explains that this is to preserve any trace evidence that might be found on the hands or beneath the nails, and that paper bags are used rather than plastic ones to prevent moisture buildup, which can damage certain types of evidence.
As we work, Izzy points out certain details that will help us determine how long Karen has been dead. There is a flattening and clouding of her corneas, and while her skin feels cool to the touch, it still feels warmer than the ambient temperature in the room. Izzy shows me how to assess the degree of rigor mortis that has developed, which in this case, only involves the muscles of the face and jaw. We then turn Karen over onto the sheet and check her back, arms, and legs for livor mortis—a discoloration of the skin caused by blood pooling. This is complicated by the vast amount of congealing blood clinging to Karen’s back. The bullet’s exit wound is here too—a jagged hole three times the size of the entry wound.
After assessing all these factors, Izzy makes the pronouncement that Karen has been dead for at least two hours, but probably not more than four.
I get caught up in the technicalities and science of what we’re doing, forgetting at times that this is the dead body of someone I knew and worked with for more than six years. But every so often the realization that this cooling, empty shell of flesh is Karen Owenby hits me like a cold wave breaking over my back. It is impossible not to identify with her…to wonder if her death was instantaneous, or if she lay there a while knowing she was dying, unable to get help, hoping someone would find her.
I wonder who hated Karen enough to want her dead. A family member? An acquaintance? The roommate, perhaps?
David?
While we work, the people around us go about their own tasks, dusting surfaces for fingerprints, drawing sketches of the scene, taking photographs, and examining every square inch of the place. When we’re finished with our examination, Izzy and I wrap the white sheet around Karen’s body and slide her into a body bag. Two guys from the Johnson Funeral Home have been standing by, waiting for us to finish, and once we have the body bag loaded and closed, they hoist it onto their stretcher so they can carry it to the morgue. They’ve just started wheeling the stretcher toward the door when Hurley hollers out, “Hold it.”
I turn to look along with everyone else and am horrified to see Hurley on his hands and knees in front of the chair that is hiding my underwear. With his gloved hand, he pulls the panties out and holds them gingerly between two fingers, looking at them as if they are some sort of toxic nuclear waste.
As my brain starts scrambling to figure out a way to either fess up to, or dismiss the significance of the underwear, Hurley places a finger inside each end of the elastic waistband and pulls it taut, holding the panties out for all to see. “Look at the size of these bloomers,” he mutters, and from the look on his face, you’d think he was holding up the combined sails for the Nina, the Pinta, and the Santa Maria. A couple of the cops in the room snigger.
“I don’t think they belong to the victim,” Hurley continues, his brow wrinkling in puzzlement. “She’s smaller than this and the lingerie I found in her dresser is all fancy stuff. Like from Victoria’s Secret. These are kind of plain.”
Maybe that’s what drew David to Karen, I think. She had better underwear. I hear more sniggers from the bleacher section and suddenly fear everyone in the room can read my mind.
“And look how worn the elastic is,” Hurley goes on. He tugs the waistband a few times to show just how far it can stretch. “Izzy, did you see any evidence that the victim was sexually molested?”
“Nothing obvious,” Izzy says. “But I’ll let you know for sure when I’ve completed her post.” He hands me a paper sack and says, “Go bag those.”
I am only too happy to oblige. I walk over to Hurley and grab the panties from his hand, stuffing them into the bag.
“Hey, careful with those,” Hurley says. “They’re evidence.”
Yeah, evidence that I need to start a serious diet. I fold the top of the bag closed while I wonder what the penalty is for tampering with crime scene evidence. No way am I going to admit now that those panties are mine. And if I can figure out how to get away with it, this evidence is going to disappear.
I’m pondering my dilemma and following the funeral home stretcher out the door when Hurley grabs me by the arm. He holds me a moment, giving me a quick scan from head to toe. “There’s something you’re not telling me,” he grumbles.
Shit. He figured it out. Took a gander at the broad beam of my ass and made the connection.
“What else do you know about Karen Owenby?” he asks, eyeing me suspiciously.
Oh, that. Well, there’s the fact that she’s a husband-stealing, skin-flute playing, two-timing slut, but I figure I probably shouldn’t speak so unkindly of the dead. Frankly, I’m reluctant to speak at all, the scene I witnessed earlier between David and Karen still fresh in my mind. I’ve seen enough episodes of Murder She Wrote to know things aren’t looking particularly good for David right now. And while I currently consider him a lower life form than pond scum, I don’t think he’s capable of murder. I need some time to sort things out.
Of course, all Hurley has to do is ask questions at the hospital and he’ll know everything anyway. Gossip spreads through that place at warp speed, and by now it’s likely even the dishwashers in the cafeteria know all the gory details, right down to the size and shape of the birthmark on David’s Mr. Winkie.
“Well?” Hurley prompts.
“I think she’s seeing my ex-husband,” I offer as nonchalantly as I can.
Hurley’s eyes narrow. “Ex-husband? You’re divorced?”
“Might as well
