“Areas of necrosis?”
I shook my head. “The tissue was gone right down to the skull. Each lesion was oval and measured roughly one inch by two.”
Above our masks, our eyes held. Larabee’s showed bewilderment. Mine undoubtedly showed revulsion.
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying the killer took”—I struggled for the right word—“specimens from Pomerleau and placed them on his victims.”
“The hair in Leal and Estrada’s throats?”
I nodded.
“The vials. Christ, he also took blood? Maybe used the Q-tips as swabs to get DNA?”
“I think it’s possible.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
Larabee’s brows drew together. He started to speak.
At that moment Hawkins’s head popped through the door. “Ready,” he said quietly.
“Be right there,” Larabee said.
A long minute passed.
“Ajax was a doctor. He’d have the skill to draw blood. To incise tissue.”
“Yes,” I agreed.
“If the liquid in those vials tests positive as human blood, serology should fire it through for DNA sequencing.”
“I’ll phone Slidell,” I said.
“Thanks.”
Stripping his mask and gloves, Larabee hurried from the room.
After shooting a final series of photos, I repackaged the slice of scalp and placed it in the cooler. Then I went to my office.
Maybe it was fatigue. Maybe distraction. Slidell showed no reaction to my news. Just asked that I phone when Larabee finished the autopsy. He was at Mercy, talking to Ajax’s co-workers.
At three-thirty Larabee came into my office. His scrubs were dark at the underarms and stained with blood. Spatter on one sleeve reminded me of the electric icicles framing my neighbor’s front door.
I set aside my report and assumed a listening pose. The boss liked to share detail.
Larabee found no fluid or adhesions in the pleural cavities, no congestion or hemorrhage in the lungs, no infarction in the heart, no ulcer in the stomach, no fibrosis in the liver, no thromboembolism, no varices in the arterial, venous, or lymphatic systems.
Except for minor arteriosclerosis, normal in a man of forty-eight years, Hamet Ajax was in good health. He hadn’t eaten all day. Had only coffee in his stomach.
Larabee had observed the telltale cherry-red blood and musculature, as well as marked hyperemia, or blood engorgement, in all tissues. He’d noted hyperemia, edema, and diffuse punctate hemorrhages throughout the cerebral hemispheres of the brain, widespread degeneration of the cortical and nuclear ganglion cells, and symmetric degeneration of the basal ganglia, particularly the nuclei.
“Asphyxia by acute carbon monoxide poisoning.”
“Manner?” I asked.
“Tougher call.”
“Any hints at something other than suicide?”
“Not really. But I’ll wait for tox results before signing it out. I also want to know what they find in that house.
“And now.” His elbows winged out as he pushed to his feet, one palm on each knee. “I have a Christmas party to attend.”
“Holiday.”
“What?”
“Can’t forget Hanukkah.”
“And Kwanzaa.”
With that he was gone.
I passed none of the minutiae on to Slidell. Simply reported that Ajax’s death was confirmed as due to carbon monoxide poisoning. And that Larabee would know more when he received toxicology results.
I also called Ryan. As I laid it all out, I could picture him running a hand through his hair.
“So Slidell thinks the souvenirs nail the coffin on Leal, Gower, and Nance. And possession of Pomerleau’s DNA ties in Estrada,” he said.
“He wasn’t chatty, but I’m sure that’s his thinking.”
“Skinny should be decking the halls. Four solves and bye-bye, Tinker.”
“He sounded exhausted.”
“What about the others?”
“I don’t know.”
“It sucks that Slidell can’t question Ajax,” he observed.
“It does.”
“Stand down on my end?”
“I guess so.”
“I was out of road anyway.”
A long stretch of silence.