“Sorry, Walt,” Jimmy mutters.
“It’s not your fault,” the sheriff replies quickly. “You two have done one helluva job. More than we could have hoped for. I’m just stating the obvious.” He buries his hands in his jacket pockets. “We’re getting our asses kicked.”
Nob does a quick inspection of the body, noting the bindings, the missing finger, the missing eyes; the obvious. With the help of his assistant, Mark, he tips the body on its side. The advancing rigor mortis holds the limbs in position, like turning a fiberglass mannequin. It’s grotesque in its rigidity.
“No obvious puncture wounds,” Nob notes, running his gloved fingers along the back. “No powder marks. The blood appears to be limited to his face, neck, and shoulders, except for some splatter.” With a pair of scissors he cuts away Chas’s shirt and peels it from the body. “Bag that,” he tells Mark as he hands over the shirt.
“Lividity suggests he died right here, or was placed here soon after death.” Nob points out the purplish red skin discoloration where the blood has settled to the lower portions of the body as it lay on the floor, pulled down by gravity and the absence of a heartbeat.
Lividity.
Another fancy word used in the death industry. It’s Latin for “black and blue” and is related to the word livid; which is why you can say He was livid, or He was so mad he was blue in the face, and you’re really saying the same thing.
*
The next half hour is a blur of activity as the crime scene investigators arrive and start setting up. The town house is secured front and rear and it’s not long before a crowd develops and the media arrives.
For my part there’s little to be done. Sad Face came in the front door and left the same way. He confronted Chas only feet from where he beat and killed him, and the only other place he went was into the kitchen, to the sink, where he washed the blood from his hands. He was careful to clean the sink thoroughly, and the shine on the bottle of bleach in the cupboard below tells me we won’t find any DNA.
Smart.
Before leaving he opened the fridge and I can see where he grasped the plastic rings on a six-pack of Coke, holding it in place or picking it up, I can’t tell which. One can’s missing, though. And he was careful to wipe away any prints.
I’m standing just outside the living room when Dr. Wallace finishes his site work and sends Mark to the van for a body bag and a gurney. Nob collects his work bag and takes a seat at the dining room table, where he carves out some notes and a few reminders.
Chas is alone.
That bothers me, for some reason; it always has. In my mind I picture loved ones in anguish over the news of such a death; I hear the flurry of questions: Did they suffer? Where are they now? Are they alone? When we lose someone, there’s something troubling about them being alone. We know they’re dead. It shouldn’t matter if they’re alone. But it does.
I move close to Chas and kneel beside him, muttering a small prayer. I stay with him until Mark comes back in and parks the gurney next to us. As he’s unfolding the body bag, I say, “Give me a minute,” and dig my iPhone from my pocket.
I snap a quick photo: another picture for the Book of the Dead.
Mark gives me a quizzical look.
“I collect them,” I say in a flat voice.
“You collect pictures of the dead?”
“It’s so I remember the ones I’ve failed.” It takes him a second to realize my meaning and then his face goes ashen and he drops his eyes. He wants to say something but can’t, and so I leave him to his task.
As I head for the front door, it catches my eye: a weeping wound on seasoned wood, but wood doesn’t bleed. It’s there for all to see, yet still invisible to the detectives and crime scene investigators milling about.
It’s only a spot, but it’s fresh … and it’s all Sad Face.
My partner is engrossed in conversation with a detective near the stairs, something about Chas’s eyes, something I probably don’t want to hear. I have to prod him a couple times before I get his attention—and then he looks annoyed, like it’s my fault I found evidence that could be crucial to the investigation.
“What?” Jimmy whispers forcefully after I drag him into the hall.
I tip my head to the front left leg of the hall table. He doesn’t see it at first, so I crouch and draw a circle in the air around it. He crouches beside me, still looking, and then his eyes go wide.
“His?”
I nod.
We’re like an old married couple that way: one-word conversations, gestures, the occasional grunt, and constantly finishing each other’s sentences.
“We’re going to need—”
“CSI,” I say, pushing myself upright. “I’ll get Palmer.”
Terry Palmer is a twelve-year veteran of the sheriff’s office and a certified CSI for the last five of those years. Like in a lot of jurisdictions, he’s a deputy first. The CSI part of his job is a collateral duty, like a pair of fancy shoes you only wear on special occasions.
“I’ve already taken a dozen blood samples from around the body,” he’s saying as I lead him into the hall. “I don’t think another’s going to make much difference.”
“This one’s different,” I insist.
“How so?”
There’s the rub.
I can’t very well say, Because it has Sad Face’s shine all over it. He would instantly have two questions: What’s shine? followed closely by, What kind of meds are you on?