“Hey, Phil,” she called out to her older squadmate.
He glanced over his shoulder at her, raising one arm absently in greeting, then, spotting her face, performed a double take.
“Is it Jack?” he asked. Phil had four kids.
“Not why I’m cranky,” she gritted out.
“Alex…”
“Not why I’m cranky!”
“Her parents are coming,” Neil supplied from behind her.
“You have parents?”
D.D. glared at Phil. He quickly returned his attention to the victim’s computer, which allowed her to return her attention to the kitchenette, where a small wooden table had been shoved against the far wall. It featured two rickety wooden chairs, one of which was currently occupied by a corpse.
The ME, Ben Whitley, was leaning over the body. He looked up at D.D. as she approached, but she noticed he was careful to keep his gaze away from Neil.
Hmm, she felt like saying. It’s probably just a phase.
She switched her attention to the vic, an either really fat or really bloated white guy with greasy brown hair and twin bullet holes through the left side of his forehead.
“No one heard the shots?” she asked. Her eyes still stung from the stench of urine. She understood Neil’s handkerchief now and resiliently forced herself not to gag.
“In this neighborhood?” Neil replied wryly.
D.D. pursed her lips, acknowledging his point.
Dead guy’s considerable mass was just beginning to contort inside the sausage-like casings of his jeans and button-down red flannel shirt. The force of the shots had sent his head back, where his features had probably locked in the first two to six hours due to rigor mortis. Within two to three days, however, rigor had passed, the muscles slackening, the flesh of his jowls seeming to slide down his face like wax melting from a candle. Next step in the decomp process: putrefaction. Within twenty-four hours, bacterial action inside the body produced gases, leading to swelling and a very distinct odor known to homicide detectives and MEs the world over. Skin around the lower abdomen and groin turned blue-green, while stomach contents started to leak out through the mouth, nose, and anus.
Nothing pretty about decomp, which meant that all in all, D.D. was pleasantly surprised by the corpse’s intact condition. Bacterial action was just starting up, versus already running amok through the dead guy’s intestines. Made the scene more bearable, though she still wouldn’t want to be standing as close to the body as the ME was.
“So you’re thinking three to four days?” she asked Ben now, the doubt obvious in her voice.
He pursed his lips, considering. “Cold temperatures impede decomp. Given the apartment’s chilly ambience, I think that explains the slow putrefaction process. But won’t know for sure until I open him up.”
“First thoughts?”
“Cause of death is most likely twin GSWs to the left side of the forehead,” he stated. “Double tap, up close and personal. Notice the powder burn ringing the entry wounds, as well as the tight pairing. GSW one and GSW two are not even half an inch apart.”
“Execution style?” D.D. asked with a frown, venturing closer in spite of herself. “Any defensive wounds?”
“Negative.”
D.D. trusted Ben implicitly—he was one of the best ME’s the city ever had. But she couldn’t stop from glancing at the vic’s hands because the lack of defensive wounds didn’t make any sense. Who sat at his kitchen table and just let himself be shot?
“You’re sure it’s not suicide?” she asked Ben.
“No gun at the scene. No GSR on his hands,” the ME reported, then added, as a slight rebuke for her questioning his findings, “Unless, of course, he was wearing gloves which he kindly removed after shooting himself to death and hiding the murder weapon.”
D.D. got his point. She glanced back at Neil. “Forced entry?”