gave the AME a sharp look. “This better be good, Milos.”
“Look closely at the wounds behind the ear.”
Moran peered at the bullet holes.
“Notice anything odd?”
Moran leaned in farther, nodded and frowned. “Powder burns. The barrel was up against the skin.”
Chang noticed the lieutenant’s frown. “What’s wrong?”
Moran stepped back and cast the wounds a questioning look.
“Ah… nothing… nothing.”
“You see something I missed?”
Moran shook his head. “Everything’s fine, go on.”
“C’mon, tell me what else you noticed?” Chang pressed.
“No bloodstains around the wounds,” Moran said.
Chang smirked. “That’s because dead people don’t bleed. Look at the contusions. They’re in the same place as the skull fracture.
The fatal blow caused heavy hemorrhaging and accounts for the dark area in his brain. I’d say he was shot thirty to sixty minutes after he was dead.”
“That kind of blow would cause some of the victim’s blood to splatter on the killer,” Moran said. “But why shoot a dead man?”
Chang shrugged. “That’s your department. I only cut and sew. But I will say this. Because he was in the water for that length of time, and with the pollution and river currents, it’ll be nearly impossible to get any fingerprints or traces of the perpetrator.”
Moran walked away tapping his lower lip with his fingertips. “If you’re right, it means we’re dealing with a pretty strong individual. Someone able to wield something heavy enough to kill a person with one blow.”
“Not necessarily. It doesn’t take much to kill someone if he’s struck in the right spot on the temple.”
Moran turned and fixed his eyes on Chang. “Okay, so the perp shot him to throw us off.” He winced, then bent over and massaged his right knee.
“Knee again, uh?” Chang asked.
“Word of advice,” Moran said. “Don’t get shot in the knee,”
Moran said “You should see a doctor,” Chang said.
Moran gave the AME a pained smile. “You mean Mr. Goodwrench. Naw, it’s fine. Must be the dampness in here. What about the blood and skin tissue under Myer’s fingernails and the blood on his shirt?”
“The blood found under the fingernails was type AB. It’s found in only five percent of the population. The same blood type was on the back of his shirt. Myer’s blood type was type O, the most common. I sent the skin under Myer’s nails and a bloodstained fragment from the back of his shirt to Forensics. But don’t hold out much hope. The skin sample may be too microscopic to obtain results, and the bloodstain was too diluted and possibly contaminated after days in the water.”
Moran straightened and stepped forward. “When you did the autopsy on Lacy Wooden, were there any vaginal signs of forcible penetration? I’d like to know if she was raped or had consensual sex before she died.”
“I didn’t perform the autopsy; I was on vacation at the National Poets’ Conference in Hawaii. First time I’ve left since my wife passed away.”
“When are you goin’ to let me read some of your poetry?”
“If it ever gets published, I’ll give you an autographed copy.”
Moran nodded. “For now, send me a copy of Wooden’s autopsy report.” His face was dark, like a hurricane about to make landfall. There was more to Lacy Wooden’s death than the Commish ever imagined.
In another basement in another part of the city, a pallid red light illuminated a dark room. A pair of hand rubber-gloved hands held a set of tongs. They dabbed at an 8x10 inch sheet of photographic paper that floated in a tray of developer. Slowly, the image of Frank Hernandez seated behind the wheel of his car began to emerge.
A moment later, a dark figure silhouetted by the red light moved to a row of clothespins that held six drying photographs strung across the room. The figure gingerly added the seventh picture.
When the stranger stepped back, his gaze floated across the pictures. He had placed them in the order in which they had been taken--from the moment Frank Hernandez had left his building until he climbed into his Camry. A smug smile peeked across the photographer’s face.
Moran entered the elevator and pressed the tenth floor button to the NYPD’s Forensics’ Laboratory. While he rode up, he reached into his pocket and brought out the evidence bag that Chang had given him earlier. Moran gazed at the two bullets. Two different calibers, two different guns. But why? The two-gunmen theory didn’t make sense, especially when the shots were not what killed Myer. The case had taken a new twist.
Minutes later, Moran stepped into the lab and walked past its four long rows of technicians hunched over microscopes and other state-of-the-art equipment. Moran craned his head and spotted an emaciated-looking man in a white lab coat at the last station. The man was peering at a computer screen whose glow lit his bony features. The lieutenant recognized him as Manny Langdon, Chief of Forensics, a man in his mid-fifties. His thick, horn-rimmed glasses and spiky red hair made him seem like a heron standing in a marsh waiting for its prey to surface.
When Moran reached the chief, he noticed a network of branching vessels on the screen.
“Didn’t expect to find you here,” Moran said. “Where’s Maureen?”
“Called in sick. Some kind of bug,” Langdon replied in a high-pitched, squeaky voice. He didn’t take his eyes off the screen.
Moran pointed to it. “What is that?”
“Blood vessels.”
“You said on the phone there was something I should see,” Moran said.
Langdon raised his head and turned to Moran. “I did?”
Moran emitted a thin smile. Langdon was famous for accuracy and meticulousness, but short-term memory was not his strong suit. Then he said, “Ah, yes. Stay here, let me get the file.” He strode to his cubicle a few feet away. “Here,” he said when he returned, and lay a thick file on the countertop. He opened it, thumbed through a stack of reports, drew one out, and handed it to Moran who examined the two-page report.
When he read the last paragraph, Moran raised his eyes and shot Langdon a surprised look.
“You got all this despite the condition of the body?”
Langdon’s face brightened with pride. “That’s
