I was sure Slidell knew the basics, that he’d worked similar cases in the past. I wondered at his uncharacteristic interest in the physiology of carbon monoxide poisoning.
My brain fired a series of stats on CO blood levels. Of symptoms of toxicity. Bizarre. A stored holdover from some long-ago grad school course. 1 to 3 percent: normal. 7 to 10 percent: normal in smokers. 10 to 20 percent: headache, poor concentration. 30 to 40 percent: severe headache, nausea, vomiting, faintness, lethargy, elevated pulse and breathing rates. 40 to 60 percent: disorientation, weakness, loss of coordination. 60 percent: coma and death.
Slidell sighed. “How ’bout a ballpark?”
“Of?” Larabee had squatted to inspect Ajax’s hands.
“How long you last.”
“Inhaling air with a carbon monoxide level as low as point two percent can produce carboxyhemoglobin levels exceeding sixty percent in just thirty to forty-five minutes.”
“That’ll kill ya?”
“That’ll kill ya.”
Slidell jotted, then gestured with the spiral. “And we got that here?”
“Engine running in an enclosed one-car garage. Door lowered. Windows shut. Definitely.” Larabee spoke without looking up. “In as little as five to ten minutes.”
“So Ajax was toast soon after he turned the key.”
“Assuming he turned the key.”
“Assuming that.”
“And that he was breathing when he went into the car.”
“And that.”
“Which I suspect was the case. See this?” Larabee lifted one of Ajax’s hands.
Slidell eyeballed it from where he was standing. “That blood-settling thing. Because the arms are hanging down.”
“Yes. But I’m talking about the nail beds.”
Slidell bent for a closer look. “They’re bright pink.”
“Yes again. Which suggests he was alive.”
I pictured the cherry-red blood and organs Larabee would see when he made his Y incision. The slivers of liver, lung, stomach, kidney, heart, and spleen still cherry red when floating in formalin. Still cherry red when sliced into thin sections and placed on microscope slides.
“Remind me. When does the blood-settling thing start?”
“Livor. Within two hours of death. Peaks in six to eight.” Larabee stood. “But it’s cold out here. That would slow the process.”
“The livor in the fingers. That says no one moved the body, right?”
“Yes.”
“And he ain’t in rigor.” Slidell pronounced it “rigger.”
“There’s some stiffening in the smaller muscles of the face and neck. But that’s it.”
“Rigor starts when?”
“In roughly two hours. But low temperatures would slow that, too.” Larabee stood. “I’ll run a full tox screen.”
“Looking for what?”
“Whatever he had in him. People often self-medicate before killing themselves.”
“What’s the story in the house?”
“According to the first responders, the bed was made, the TV and radio were off, there was a single coffee cup in the sink, clean and upside down.”
“No note?”
“No note.”
“Nothing to suggest a visitor.”
“Not last I heard.”
“I’m done with my prelim.” Larabee turned to Hawkins. “Joe?”
Hawkins shot a couple more angles, the flash burning Ajax white-hot onto my retinas. Draped over the wheel, he looked like a man dozing, or drunk after a night on the town.
Slidell and I stepped outside. Hawkins positioned the gurney as close to the car as possible. Then he bent and grasped Ajax by the shoulders. Ajax slid free, lifeless and limp. Hawkins pinned the arms to his chest. Larabee caught the legs before the feet hit the ground. Together they transferred him to the body bag.
Flash recall. Maneuvering Pomerleau from her barrel in Vermont with Cheri Karras.
After collecting Ajax’s glasses and placing them by his head, Hawkins zipped the bag. Then he rolled the gurney to the van, loaded it, and slammed the doors.
I watched the van disappear. Feeling cold inside and out.
“I want to see what this piece of dog shit’s got in his trunk.”