Risk Factors Ch. One

Risk Factors--Chapter One



When Hendricks heard the solemn intonation of the State Police dispatcher, "There's been an untimely in Wade township a shooting can you come?” he thought "I've never seen a timely death yet." He would soon know that he was wrong this time. But he got the directions to the head of the trail where a State Trooper with an all terrain vehicle would meet him and bounce him the two additional miles to the spot. He knew what they'd find. There would be a former human being, now Medical Examiner's Case, with a story to tell, and a bunch of cold ambulance attendants and hunters milling around talking nervously about bad luck, and what ought to be done about it. Getting drunk on the contents of their side flasks was usually the first thing on that list. He called his answering service, to put the needs of the living on hold for a few hours, and bundled up for the ride. He wore his own hunting clothes, partly for their warmth, and partly to avoid standing out from the crowd in his more upscale ski clothing. With local hunters, he was always self conscious in a $250 Gore Tex parka. Instead he wore a wool felt overcoat with blaze orange shoulder patches, to avoid being mistaken for a one hundred seventy pound trophy. And yet he still stood out. All the old timers dressed for concealment, in dark green or red buffalo plaid, and were secure in the belief that they wouldn't be shot if they were invisible. Never mind that nearly every year, somewhere in the Northeast, a believer in the invisibility theory was either killed or wounded by an excitable hunter. The old timers' lore was not susceptible to mere facts, and despite his explanations for all the orange clothing, he knew they still sneered privately. He'd always be a flatlander, no matter what.
He drove as directed, listening absently to the chatter on the C.B. radio. All the homebound folk with police scanners had the word out immediately, and the speaker crackled with fading snatches of rumors of death. He found the turnout, and the promised State Trooper, who brightened up considerably when he saw Hendricks. It was Sergeant Blunt, who now had the end of his shift in sight. Blunt and he had had several such meetings, and enjoyed a certain grim comradeship.
"Hi, Doctor Hendricks, glad you could make it."
"Hello Detective Sergeant Blunt," he said mocking the Trooper's formality, "what have we got?"
"Hunter, Doc. Haven't I.D. ed him yet. No license, and no wallet"
"What does it look like?"
"Looks like someone shot a noise, and got scared off when they saw what they'd shot. We've got about ten minutes to go on this trail. Jump on."
Blunt stood up astride a knobby tired All Terrain Vehicle, and when Hendricks was barely settled behind him, he gunned it and took off, throwing up clods of frozen mud and white smoke.
Conversation became impossible, so Hendricks steeled himself for the coming sight. He was a regular country doctor most of the time, and did this job as a favor to the State's Chief Medical Examiner. Dr. Andre Robillard was a diminutive, hyperactive backslapper, who curried his regional examiners out of the ranks of local physicians. His office covered vast areas with a thinly spread collection of small town docs, all kept in place by the personal pleading and encouragement of the Chief. None had any special training, and Hendricks in particular didn't relish the moments before he arrived at the death scenes. His imagination had always been vivid, and yet the realities had always outdone even his worst fears. Plus, he knew his forensic skills were gleaned largely from watching TV, and he feared screwing things up worst of all. Generally, the detectives had it all pretty well in hand, and led him gently around the scenes, but it was he who had to move and examine the corpses first, and the officers usually hung back discreetly for that.
They passed a blue Caprice with black wall tires and too many radio antennae, parked next to a battered Comanche four wheel drive pickup nose up in deep brush, and then the trail widened out to a large clearing. They had arrived at last at the scene, and it was just as he'd predicted. A small knot of hunters stood casting furtive glances back at the body, and shifting nervously from one foot to the other, like a flock of winter flamingoes. The ambulance crew sat in their van with the engine running and the flasher on.
"Jesus," Hendricks thought, "they must really hate to walk, if they negotiated that van all the way up here."
Another detective in street clothes stood with the hunters and waited until Blunt swung the ATV around to where they were. Blunt hopped off and walked over to the group with a cowboy swagger and a hitch at his belt. Hendricks gathered up his numb legs and butt, straightened his aching back, and dismounted with considerably less bravado.
"This is Doc Hendricks", said Blunt. "Doc Hendricks, detective Lieutenant Dick Simmons".
The detective was impatient to get the formalities over with, and turned to walk to the body without a word. Hendricks had the distinct impression he had annoyed the man already, but he didn't know how. His presence was a legal nicety only, and mostly amounted to delay for all concerned, waiting for the doctor's arrival. Still, he had to sign his name to the death certificate, or order an autopsy, and he couldn't very well do that on someone else's say so.
He labored behind the detective' brisk walk, over frozen tussocks and through scattered birches and red softwood whips. They were in a clear area surrounded by much denser woods, with a logging road cutting through and up a steep hill to the right. The clearing must have been a turnout for log skidders, though the area could not have been logged for years. The detective paused, and Hendricks, absorbed in keeping his footing in the frozen wheel ruts and tangled saplings, nearly bumped into him. He saw a green wool felt hat just ahead, lying on the ground, and covered with a light dusting of snow. It looked as though it had been cut nearly in half with a dull scissors, right through the crown. He couldn't see any blood.
They walked around the area in a fifteen foot circle, and the body came into view. It was a middle aged man, in camouflage hunting clothes, lying face down with his gun slung over his shoulder. His right hand was still in his pants pocket, and he looked like a tin soldier that had been tipped over. He had obviously died instantly. His head was creased from back to front, the bald scalp thrown up in a pale furrow. There was very little blood on the ground.
"Yep, he's dead." Hendricks said softly. "What have you got so far, Detective?"
"He was apparently walking along this road toward his truck. that could be his you passed at the start of the clearing. It is registered to a Mountain Counties Development Co. no individual owner listed."
Hendricks let his notice of the company name's similarity to the county hospital drop without comment.
"I make it a deer rifle, fired from the trees over there, probably from about fifty to seventy five yards."
"Why did you pick that range?" Hendricks asked.
"The bullet hit going pretty flat. The ground rises sharply past that, and the shot would have been more downward from further out. But that's really your department."
"That seems pretty close to mistake him for a deer, don't you think?"
"I think any number of idiots out here at the crack of dawn could have shot from cover into these whips and bagged him, and then cut out when they found out he didn't have antlers."
"No idea who it is yet, huh?"
"We haven't moved him yet we just patted him down for a wallet, and didn't find anything."
"Anything else?"
"Just the hat."
The hat lay fifteen feet from the body, presumably thrown along the path of the bullet. Hendricks walked back and picked it up gingerly. There were no markings and no blood. He sighted back to the body and beyond, to where the trees thickened and the ground began to rise. The trees and brush were very dense in there, a natural place for a hunter's stand. It would also be very hard to find a shell or other clue in that brush, he thought. Maybe someone could have shot from that cover without a clear view, but the victim's path down the logging road would have carried him fairly close to the shooter's position before the road turned toward his truck. The shooter waited until he got another fifty yards away before he fired. Hendricks didn't buy the Detective's theory yet. He turned and looked the other way, further along the path of the shot, and saw nothing but smooth barked birches and saplings. He couldn't see a bullet hole, but he thought that someone might be able to find that bullet in a tree downrange, if the lines were preserved. He turned back to the detective.
"You guys are checking the trees for the bullet, right?"
The Detective just grimaced and said nothing. Hendricks replaced the hat in its original position walked back again and stood at the side of the body.
"Well, let's turn him over, and see who he is." He pulled some rubber gloves from his coat pocket kept handy for skinning rabbits, also and pulled them over his cold hands. He grabbed the victim's jacket to heave him over. He was quite stiff, and just as heavy, but he rolled over without complaint, and Hendricks froze at the sight of the face. It was O'Leary. The face was a dark mottled purple from dependent lividity, and the ample jowls were molded to the ground he died on, but it was nobody else but O'Leary.
"You don't need a wallet, Detective. I know this man. It is Doctor O'Leary.

Chapter Two

O'Leary! It was O'Leary. The poetic justice, the very impossibility of the fact made Hendricks look and look again at the dead face. A horror mixed with an almost smug mirth held him transfixed there, squatting in the frozen mud and staring as though something about the scene would change if he waited long enough. Everything had changed, but nothing was changing now. In that instant, Hendricks became convinced that this was no accident, but a premeditated murder. And there would have been quite a line of people waiting for the chance to do this buzzard in. Even Hendricks had fantasized causing a bad end for O'Leary after a few particularly bitter committee meetings. Enjoying a moment's fantasy of revenge is a long way from committing a murder, but it was just too much to ask of coincidence to believe that this death at this time was an anxious hunter's mistake.
Detective Simmons broke his heated reverie with a question -"What are you looking for?"
Hendricks flushed and looked up, aware suddenly that sixty silent seconds had passed, and he tried to stand. His knees were quite stiff, and unequal to the task, so he sagged over on his right hand, and let O'Leary flop back into the wheel rut. Now he was completely embarrassed, and scrambled stiffly to attention next to the corpse, unable to meet the Detective's eye. "Sorry."
"Sorry. I'm a bit shocked. I know him well, and I didn't expect to find him here."
"Neither did he" Simmons said dryly. "We still need his wallet and whatever else, if it's not too much trouble." Hendricks turned back so the task of rolling his bulky associate onto his side, and then feeling in various pockets for whatever they held. He first felt inside the clothing over the abdomen and noted a fleeting warmth, evidence that the death had likely occurred in the last 4 8 hours. Even a minute later it was imperceptible. Hendricks wished he'd thought of it when he first turned the body. He continued on grimly. The shirt pockets gave up a hunting license in a transparent carrier clipped into the cello wrap of a pack of Marlboros. The inside jacket pocket gave up a silver side flask, carried to fortify one against the chill. This one was empty. The opposite jacket inside pocket yielded a small plastic compass, and the outer coat pockets only a plastic shell case, nearly full of .30 06 silver tipped ammunition, and a red cotton bandanna, thoroughly used as a handkerchief. There were all handed gingerly over to the lieutenant, who bagged them unceremoniously and handed them off to the uniformed trooper.
Next came the job of examining and unloading the rifle. Hendricks rolled O'Leary the rest of the way onto his back, and pulled his hand out of his pants pocket. A key ring fell onto the ground. The arm was stiff, the fingers more so, indicating again that some hours had passed since the time of death. The rifle sling came off the shoulder without problem, and Hendricks unlocked the bolt to take the firing pin down from full ready before handing it off the Simmons. It was a Browning A Bolt rifle, a finely made and espensive gun, but showing evidence of having been carried in the woods for years. Simmons worked the bolt immediately and ejected a silver tipped round into his gloved hand. He opened the magazine trap from below, dumped the remaining 5 cartridges, then closed the bolt and replaced the safety. He handed the rifle off to Blunt, and returned his attention to the dead man.
"Can you fix a time of death?" Hendricks dreaded the question, since he hated to commit verbally and then be found wrong later. He also feared misleading a serious criminal investigation. Cases of little old recluses dead of natural causes didn't ask for much accuracy, but in murder cases, alibis hung and fell on just theses facts. However, he had surprised even himself at the depth of his observation already, and the logic of his conclusion.
"I'd say about 6 hours, with outside limits of 4 and 9.
The Detective didn't speak, so he continued. "The body shows early fixed dependent lividity in the face, and we'll see the rest at the mortuary. The belly was very minimally warm, and would be expected to hold heat against the ground for a time. The rest of the body is quite cold. the fingers how early rigor mortis, and the longer joints less, but consistent with that time frame in cold weather like this. We will draw some samples and take a core temperature at the mortuary to confirm it, but that's about the size of it."
The Detective still said nothing. His face remained unchanged, leaving Hendricks convinced he was unconvinced and angry. Hendricks struggled to fill in the long blanks in the conversation.
"This will clearly be an Medical Examiner's case I'm sure Andre Robillard will want to do an autopsy, so when you're done with the scene, we can move him to Bittner's funeral Home, so I can complete the preliminary exam."
"Put him back the way he was for a bit. We'll get a few more pictures and then bag him. I've got about all I'll need. Simmons turned away and strode over to the hat. Blunt handed him a 3x5 accordion front camera, and he took several exposures from the hat along the line of the body toward the rise. He circled the scene and did the same in the other direction, and then he motioned to the ambulance crew to take over. He bent over and collected the hat, and headed back toward the cars.
Hendricks followed, to get a look at the truck. The Detective had already been through it, but Hendricks, felt obligated to check it all out himself, since medical details might suggest themselves. The truck was cold, and reeked of cigarettes. The ashtray was full, and the floor full of fine ash mixed with powered mud. Hendricks noted only Marlboro butts. The interior was empty except for some gun oil wrapped in a rag, and a loose crow bar and jack under the seat. The glove box was absent its door, and empty. He pulled the sun visors down and found nothing more, and he flipped the seat forward, to reveal only dirt and the plastic rings from a few spent six packs; a scan of the back of the truck was similarly unrevealing. He went over to Simmons, who was packing the camera away in an aluminum case and putting the rifle and the bags into the trunk.
"Do you want more pictures at the mortuary, detective? Hendricks asked. A record of the lividity might be helpful."
"No, thanks, I've got enough. Blunt can go with you. I'm going to get back to the office.
"OK, I won't be long. I'll call you if anything new turns up."
"Don't get your hopes up, doc. This is a cold one. No weapon, no other physical evidence, and no bullets. Unless the one who did it had friends with him, or brags about this, we'll never figure it out. I suggest you rule it accidental, and get on with real life."
I don't know, Detective Simmons, but I know a lot of people around here won't be sorry he is dead. And I'd say that people will wonder how we really could believe that such a popular guy could have had a hunting accident. You know better than I do that more than one local feud has ended in a "hunting accident". I think this may be the case here."
Simmons face drew taut, and he faced Hendricks squarely, his hands on his hips. "You can speculate all you want. All the local yokels will, too, but so what? Murder cases turn on evidence, and we don't have any. So short of asking around at local hangouts, and hoping that alcohol loosens a worried tongue somewhere, we are stuck with an open homicide. What makes you say anyone would want him dead, anyway?"
Hendricks hardly knew where to start.
"Let's just say that that man was the richest doctor in five counties, and controlled Mountain Countries Hospital completely. He made and broke administrators, other doctors, and he broke a lot more than he made."
"If you have any evidence to give, Doctor, you'd better do it. If you know someone with motive, means, and no alibi, I guess its my job to hear it. But I haven't got time for overactive imaginations. I can't go to a prosecutor with any of that shit, and I don't care what John Q. Public thinks about it."
"Right. Just the facts, ma'am," said Hendricks, but his Dragnet imitation didn't raise even a look from the detective. Hendricks decided Summons wasn't a very happy individual generally, and today wasn't even particularly a bad day.
"What a pain it would be to have to deal with him on a regular basis." he thought. Simmons shot him a look as though he'd read that thought, and then pulled his long legs into the car. He turned the key and said, "Thanks for your help doctor. I'll be speaking to Robillard tomorrow. Sergeant Blunt can take it from here." He slammed the door shut and put the car into reverse, backed out around the Comanche and popped the Chevy into drive while rolling backward. The car jolted into drive like a horse under a sudden lash, and then trundled down the frozen dirt road with a whine and crunch of over taxed automatic transmission and oversized studded tires.
Blunt sauntered up behind Hendricks smirking, trying not to laugh out loud.
"How'd you like Dick Simmons? Helluva guy, Helluva detective. They don't call him Dick for nothing."
"Wow! What'd I do? Either he is a major league jerk, or I'm the dumbest thing he's ever met."
"No no don't flatter yourself. You just entered his field of vision, and that's enough to piss him off. He's that way all the time, near as I can tell. He has given up making any distinction between the good guys and the bad guys. Everybody is a liar and a fool, usually in the way of his solving his cases. Either they're criminals, and lying about it, or just incompetents who will surely fuck everything up. You are clearly in the latter category to him, but don't worry. He doesn't think much of Robillard, or me either."
"I guess they don't call you Blunt for nothing, either."
Blunt smiled a sly smile, and ambled back to the ATV.
"C'mon Doc, we've got to get you back to someplace warm.''
"To the funeral Home, then, Sergeant. Just the place."
The ambulance crew had completed the task of zipping O'Leary into the stiff plastic body bag, and were wobbling over the uneven ground with his bulk strapped to an aluminum stretcher. They shouted over to Hendricks "Which funeral parlor Doc?"
"Bittner's!" shouted Hendricks, and they waved their understanding.
Blunt was again astride the clamorous ATV, and Hendricks mounted behind him. His lower back objected immediately but it was too late to consider riding back in the ambulance. That prospect didn't appeal much anyway, so they departed as they had arrived, in a swirl of white smoke and metallic noise. They soon reached the cruiser and Hendricks' car. Blunt paused to allow Hendricks to dismount, and ran the ATV onto a smowmobile trailer tilted up behind the cruiser. It tipped to horizontal as he drove up, and Blunt jumped off and briskly began securing the trailer and strapping down the ATV. Let's get a coffee, Doc. The crew will be 15 minutes yet. They have got to call in."
"OK, Sergeant. I'll follow you into town."
Hendricks was left to himself in the relative silence of his car to think about what he had to do now. He felt a bit queasy about the rest of exam. A dead naked O'Leary was not on his list of sights he'd like to see, but it was to be his fate apparently. That same feeling of mirth and horror babbled back into his consciousness, and he turned his thoughts from the nitty-gritty of today to speculation about murderer and motive. He had surprised himself at the firmness of his conviction that this was murder. Probably his own desire to see O'Leary come to a bad end played into that, but also he couldn't believe that in his last few moments, O'Leary had not been close enough to the shooter to be seen clearly, even in poor light. Hendricks was suspicious generally of coincidence, especially in the politically charged world of Mountain Counties Hospital. He remembered countless confrontations between various staff members and O'Leary, some only stopping short of fisticuffs because of cooler heads intervening. When he thought of the level of civilization as expressed in those staff meetings, he could only shake his head sadly. Pure, naked aggression was the norm, and recourse to civil restraint more commonly a play for positional superiority rather than a sincere bid for peace. It was pathetic, but it had only been worse before his arrival. He and his partner Bill Morgan had been injected into a very closed, traditional community, lured by recruiting promises from an aggressive young hospital administrator. The staff was far less enthusiastic about the arrival of two well trained young Internists from the big city than Hendricks had been led to believe. The truth was more that they regarded them as a direct threat, as over credentialed young upstarts who would steal patients from their practices. Times were not good generally, so the threat was real. They all made a comfortable living on a high volume of patients, and despite a high level of unpaid bills. The well insured patients came at a premium, and were the more likely to turn away from their general practitioner to see a fancier board certified internist. The poor were, as they say, always with them. The result was that after a stilted welcome reception, the staff had settled into an uncomfortable silence, and referrals to Hendricks and his partner were slow in coming. The only exceptions were the ophthalmologist, who had a monopoly, and the youngest of the three surgeons on staff, Peter Klein who was similarly new and insecure in his position. He had made an immediate effort to be friendly and helpful, even if the point was plainly to solicit goodwill and referrals from the new doctors. The man was sincerely friendly, however so Hendricks didn't mind. He was the best surgeon on the staff anyway, so referring cases was easy. The elder chief surgeon, Dr. Martin, was very old fashioned and autocratic, and still expected nurses to stand when he arrived on the ward. He had not bothered to do more than grunt in Hendricks' general direction, even including at the reception party, so it was easy not to send referrals his way, even when the opportunity arose. His surgical skills were as old fashioned as he was anyway, so Hendricks avoided the whole dilemma. The third surgeon, Dr. Pope, was engaged in maintaining his lock on the Chief's spot, since the Chief was in his late 60's and sure to retire or die sometime soon. Pope made as few waves as possible did competent surgery, and referred all complexities out of town to the regional medical center. Keeping tough cases in town made waves if they did badly, so sick patients endured long ambulance rides over terrible snowy roads to do their dying in the medical center. Referring patients to Hendricks also made waves with the Family Practitioners, so that never happened, even though Pope was outwardly friendly. He was never wanting for work, though by comparison to Dr. Klein, who seemed a bit desperate for cases. Klein tended to keep the complex trauma cases at Mountain Counties, which suited Hendricks fine, since he enjoyed the challenge of caring for sick patients in the intensive care unit. They had a good collaborative relationship in the ICU, and had salvaged some badly injured patients, without resorting to a "Miracle Center" transfer. That made waves, for sure. The patient's families were happy not to be traveling, and the administrator was ecstatic at the increased billings, but the older surgeons and family practitioners were clearly jealous, and vocal in their "concern" if anyone went sour.
Those quality review meetings were the grimmest, most bitter scenes Hendricks could imagine, and he hated that aspect of small town practice worst of all. There was no escaping the politics, and no way not to appear to be choosing sides.
The brake lights of the Trooper's cruiser unexpectedly close brought Hendricks back to the task at hand. Blunt shot him a look in the rearview mirror to see if Hendricks was still awake. Hendricks smiled wanly, and turned into the gravel lot in front of Mabel's.
"Don't make me write you up for following at an unsafe distance, Doc. Jeezum! I thought you were going to nail my trailer. We'd be doing paperwork till tomorrow night."
"Sorry. I'm just a bit preoccupied. Coffee will cheer me up."
They stepped into the smoky entrance of Mabel's Kozy Kitchen Restaurant, and the thin afternoon crowd fell silent.
"Hey, Doc, Jack," a thin man in the front booth piped up. How are you boys?
Not bad, Marcel, the trooper answered. Silence fell again. The man with Marcel Gagnon was a town selectman, Walter Brubaker. Marcel ran the branch bank in town, and was the soul of propriety, always friendly, but revealing nothing. Brubaker was a politician, when he wasn't running his law practice, and never hesitated to ask hard questions in public places.
"What happened in the woods today, doc?"
Hendricks looked at Blunt and back to Brubaker. "Well, Walter I can't say much yet. A man was shot, apparently an accident, but his next of kin haven't been notified yet. I'll know more in a little while." More silence followed. Mabel rescued the moment with a smoke husky "What'll you have boys?" and Hendricks gratefully blurted "Two coffees, one black for me."
"And a regular for me, Mabel" said Blunt. Hendricks laid two dollars on the counter and scooped up the coffees, and they bustled out before more questions could follow.
" See you later, gentlemen, and lady," said Hendricks as he retreated. "Bad idea, Blunt." he said as they got out into the fresh air. "They know more than that from the CB I'm sure, so they're real disappointed to miss out on the scoop first hand".
"Too bad." said Blunt, who seemed to enjoy the superiority of the privileged information. "Too bad."
The ambulance flashed by just then at well over the speed limit, so they got back into their cars and followed to the funeral parlor.
Hendricks watched the oncoming traffic first watching the ambulance, then spotting the state trooper's car a second later. Each one braked suddenly, and slowed rapidly to the limit. The speed gun mounted on the dash flickered red at each car's approach. Blunt could have made a week's quotas right there. "He must have fun catching these clumsy fools." thought Hendricks. He could imagine all the cursing and heart pounding going on in each car until it rolled out of sight and out of danger of a confrontation with the trooper. The ambulance arrived at last the basement side door of a large Victorian house, set apart by open land from the surrounding houses. Mr. Bittner himself had unlocked the side door and awaited their arrival. Blunt cradled his coffee and went straight inside to wait, while Hendricks lingered to chat with George Bittner.
"Hi Doc!" George said.
"Bad way to spend your Saturday."
"I'm on call anyhow," said Hendricks.
"What's the story today, Doc?"
"This is Doctor O'Leary." said Hendricks, to Bittner's obvious surprise.
"Oh no, Doc. What happened?"
"Hunting accident, apparently. At least that's what the investigating officer thinks. It's going to be an M.E. case, so I just need to look him over more thoroughly before the State Medical Examiner office comes to pick him up."
"We'll do the transfer, Doc. We have a standing contract. Let's get him in, so you can get home."
They went in behind the litter, into the part of the funeral home not seen by grieving families. The ambulance attendants were used to seeing it, but still fell into a hush as they maneuvered past the parked hearse and lawn equipment and then past stainless steel carts of mortuary equipment and onto the lift.
The lift was too small for anything more than the litter, so they all tramped up the stairs silently while George Bittner sent it groaning upward with its doleful cargo. He opened the outer door, and the attendants slid the litter out of the lift, and into a cold, bright tiled room. Bittner had a steel embalming table waiting, and another pale corpse lying on the other table. The attendants resumed grumbling about the weight of their load, and the length of time spent on this call, and briskly slid the body bag onto the empty table. Bittner began unzipping it, and the attendants fell silent again, pausing for a last look before departing.
"That be all, doc?" the driver asked.
"Thanks boys." Hendricks said. " Sorry to keep you waiting so long."
"No problem Doc. Take it easy."
And then they left, loading the empty litter onto the lift, sending it downward again and clattering off down the stairs after it. George Bittner followed them out. Hendricks looked around at the other corpse, an elderly lady he also knew, dead of breast cancer after a prolonged struggle. Both breasts were absent replaced by white "S" shaped scars, and the ribs protruded through sagging skin and wasted flesh. George would have a job getting her presentable for a wake, he thought. Bittner returned and they completed the unzipping of the bag, rolled O'Leary out onto the table, and then began the task of undressing him. The boots were tough, but came off with a malodorous flourish. The pants gave less trouble, and gave up no more secrets from the pockets. The jacket and overshirt were no problem either, but the underwear had to be cut off with shears. The socks went rapidly into a plastic bag, where they could give no more offense. Bittner placed a rubber block under the shattered head, and at last he was ready for the exam. Blunt drifted in only mildly interested. He was on overtime in a warm place, and in no hurry. The body was purple over most of the front surface, despite lying on its back for the past half hour or more. To Hendricks it was no longer O'Leary, but a body to be viewed, described, sampled, and then written about. And however vicious and powerful he had once been, he was just a dead body now, and a rather unimpressive specimen at that. His purple features bore his usual impatient snarl, but made worse by black eyes and puffy purple lids, half closed over cloudy blue eyes. The wound was glancing only, and had grazed the skull, but had not entered completely. It had only depressed a furrow and gouged out the outer table of bone. It was pale, and nearly bloodless, suggesting his death had been instantaneous, without much persistence of heartbeat or blood pressure after the bullet struck.
The face showed fixed purple lividity, from blood pooled by gravity and then clotted into place. Early in the process, the purple color could be removed by pressing in the skin and blanching it. But with further time and cooling, the purple color remained after pressing, and gave a clue to the length of time that had passed since blood stopped circulating. The color also outlined where the weight of the body was in contact with the earth, since those areas remained pale, as had the chin and upper abdomen. The purple did not completely conceal the numerous red veins about the nose, which had told of hard drinking, at least in distant past, if not recently. Hendricks' gaze swept then over the frowning jowls, now sagging in the warmer air, revealing teeth stained and broken like old crockery. The chest was mottled, and sagging, a hulk of muscle gone decidedly to seed, and with more of the telltale varicose veins as on the face. The belly was protuberant, pale along the flanks and bulging slackly. His penis was shriveled to a wrinkled purple button under the bulge of his paunch, and his scrotum was swollen and dark. The legs were surprisingly well muscled in contrast to the rest of his flabby bulk. Hendricks made an effort to roll him halfway up to examine the back and Bittner hastened to help flop him over. It was a trick on that slanting, slick steel table not to drop him off. The back was pale, covered with blackheads and old cysts, but revealed nothing else. They rolled him back on his back.
"Ok, George. I've got a couple of samples to take, and we'll get out of your way. Do you have a 60 cc syringe with a long needle, and a smaller syringe with a needle?"
"Sure, Doc, I'll get them right off."
"Jack, I'll need two sample kits, for alcohol and toxicology screens in duplicate." Blunt produced the desired boxes as if by sleight of hand.
"Way ahead of you, Doc". Bittner returned with syringes and needles, and Hendricks went to work.
He palpated the chest on the left for the space between the fifth and sixth ribs, where they joined the breastbone. He inserted a three inch needle under the skin, and then advanced the needle straight in, almost to the hub, while drawing a vacuum on the plunger. he was rewarded with 40 ccs of strawberry red fluid, the serum left in the heart after the blood had clotted in the ventricle.
He withdrew the needle, and injected the fluid into the four tubes. He labeled each with a code number from the outside of the box, initialed each and sealed each with a coded sticker. The tubes were sealed into a foam lined cardboard box, and handed over to the trooper, who detached and returned a receipt back to Hendricks.
He turned next to his least favorite task of all, the collection of eye fluid for determination of time of death. The concentration of potassium salt rose steadily in the eye fluid as time passed after death, and was relatively temperature independent, and so was useful in cases where the person had died outside. He took the small syringe fitted with a slender needle, and pulled the outside corner of the eye backward toward the ear. He place the needle tip against the globe, and advanced it with a palpable 'pop' through the tough white sclera, again drawing a vacuum, and got 1cc of clear straw colored fluid. This he injected into a sterile tube, and again sealed, signed and transferred the tube to Blunt. It was done.
"Don't wash off the face or scalp, George, but you can hose the rest of him down. He soiled himself a bit at the end there but don't they all. I need to talk to Dr. Robillard now if I can use your phone."
"Sure, doc. Use my office desk."
Hendricks stepped into the carpeted hall and into the bland decor of the public areas of the converted Victorian house. He came to a heavy oak door marked "OFFICE" in bronze letters, and entered a bright corner room. It was getting dark, and he wanted to get this over with. A dark cherry wood desk covered with orderly piles of bills and invoices filled the corner, with the chair facing back inward toward the door. Ignoring the view of darkening rounded mountain tops set against a gaudy fuchsia and orange sky, he sat and dialed the Medical Examiner's answering service, and waited only a few minutes for the return call. While he waited he scanned the bills for caskets and supplies, and wondered idly about the markup, and the baser aspects of the funeral industry. George was a good sort, through so he put those thoughts aside, and resisted the impulse to riffle through the piles for more detail. The phone rang once, and Hendricks picked it up quickly.
"Hi Paul". It was Robillard himself. Twenty years in the department, fifteen as chief, and he still took every third weekend on call. "What's up?"
"Hi Andre." Hendricks said. I have a real problem case for you. Doctor James O'Leary was killed by a gun shot to the back of the head this morning, and I think you're going to want to have a look at him yourself."
"Sounds like it, Paul. What do you know so far?"
"Well, not much, really. He was hunting apparently and was shot from behind across the top of his head by someone only 50 or 60 yards away. The Detective is convinced it's an accident, or at least that he'll never prove otherwise, but I'm not sure. It seems to me the shooter was close enough to see what he was shooting even at 7 or 8 in the morning, and anyway, O'Leary didn't have too many friends."
"Well, that's too bad, too bad. Sorry you had to go out on a case involving a friend."
"He was no friend, but thanks. It was a shock to do a scene investigation on someone I know well.
"Yeah, life in small towns in small states can be hard sometimes. No one can be anonymous up here."
"You got that right. Any bottle of wine I buy is an open subject in town. They know every movie I ever rented, and whether I ever make it to church."
"I know it only too well. I grew up in Warren Township, you know. Now that I live in the capital, I won't don't miss life being that small town ever again. Anyway, was there any physical evidence?"
"Not much, No shell, no bullet, and no other obvious evidence at the scene. The detective was quite pessimistic about finding the shooter."
"Well, they generally know their territory pretty well. Who was the investigating officer?"
"Lt. Dick Simmons."
"Oh. Sorry again. Was he any trouble to you? I hate for him to badger my regional examiners, and make them want to stop doing cases. It's hard enough to recruit you guys as it is."
"Oh, he isn't too bad, said Hendricks, lying politely. "I guess he does know his business."
"Well, don't let him buffalo you. You have legitimate jurisdiction over the medical aspects of the scene, and your input is very important to these cases. You've done some good work for us before, like that suicide case where you found the medicine bottle they'd missed. Keep a sharp eye out, and write it all down. Maybe he heard about that case, and has a chip on his shoulder toward you."
"I doubt it, Andre. He's just in a hurry, and I'm probably in his way as much as anything."
"Not at all, Paul. It's a team effort. He's not the whole case, no matter how much be thinks he is."
"Well thanks for your encouragement, Andre. I need to discuss a few details with you, for my report." He shifted in his chair and hunted around for a pen and paper. A plastic pseudo quill in a marble base came to hand, and a memo pad with the Bittner letterhead sat next to it.
"Now, I figured the time of death as about 7 AM, about seven hours before my arrival at 2:00. There was early fixed lividity, and the belly had a faint trace of warmth left to it. The fingers were mildly stiff, and the arms a bit less, but there was definitely early rigor.
"Did you get a core temperature, Paul?"
"Oh shit, no I forgot. I don't even know if Mr. Bittner has a thermometer, and I don't have one with me."
"Never mind Paul You've got enough data to fix the time pretty close. I'm going to need some eye fluid.
"Already done, Chief. I got some heart blood for toxicology, as well."
"What drugs are you thinking of Paul?"
"Alcohol mostly, but you might consider a generic screen. You never know what might turn up."
"I don't know, Paul. I've got a budget to deal with over here. If you don't have any specific questions, I'll leave it alcohol for now."
"Ok Chief. That's probably the only thing involved, anyway."
Hendricks realized the improbability of his search for illegal drugs, and flushed at his own eagerness to find dirt where none existed. He really hated O'Leary after all, and looked for scandal. He'd better watch his own motives, never mind the shooter's. Robillard's encouraging voice brought him back to business.
"You go ahead and write it up as six to seven hours, and leave it open. I'll do the death certificate here after the autopsy, and I'll let you know what we find. Let me give you a case number for your report. Let's see #1990 196. Be sure to bill for all your time today Paul."
"Thanks, Andre. I appreciate your help."
"No, no, the thanks are all mine to give. I'm sorry the state can't afford to pay you fellows what you're really worth, but the legislators don't see paying doctors more as a big priority. Keep up the great work!"
He rang off, and Hendricks hung up, folded the memo paper up small and stuck it into his shirt pocket. He returned the pen to its holder, and went back to the embalming room.
George Bittner had O'Leary cleaned up, and back in the zipper bag. "Can you help me get him onto the litter, Doc?"
"Sure, George. Hendricks went to the foot of the table and got a grip. He heaved at the stiff plastic and slid him onto a wheeled cart and then Bittner threw a garbage bag with the clothing onto the feet. He strapped the chest down with an auto safety belt, and bound the clothes and feet with another.
They loaded O'Leary onto the lift, and started downstairs after it.
"Okay Doc. Thanks again. Let me show you out, and you can get back to your family."
"Hey when are you coming in about that blood pressure, George? I can see already you're working too hard, and you've gotta do something about it."
"I know, I know, Doc. I'll get in there, but I hate the thought of taking meds."
"Me too, but then there are worse thoughts, as you know." He glanced back at O'Leary.
"Okay Doc I get it. See you next week, perhaps."
"I hope so. This Medical Examiner job is even less fun when you know the party involved. See you soon."
Bittner closed the outer door behind them, and left them in the gathering dark and cold.
"Okay Sergeant, I'm all set. I'll send Simmons a copy of my report, and he'll take it from there. I should hear a preliminary from the Chief Medical Examiner office in a couple of days. If you all have any questions, you know where to find me."
"Take care Doc. It's been a pleasure, as always."
Hendricks drove off to his house, and to supper being kept warm for him by his long suffering and tolerant wife. He hoped that Blunt's family showed the same understanding.