I pull a face. Then I rise and follow his flashlight beam. We’re in an open area, so it’s not as if her killer had to drag her through thick bush, leaving an obvious trail. There’s that patch of crushed vegetation, and when I kneel, I see evidence that someone has swept away signs of dragging.
“So the crime scene is that way,” I say. “Let’s grab Storm and—”
Anders comes running at a jog. “April’s ready for the autopsy, if you want to be there.”
I look from the trail to the distant clinic.
“The scene’s not going anywhere,” Dalton says. “I’ll have Kenny guard the area. You go sit in on the autopsy.”
* * *
“You’re wrong about this case,” April says as I walk into the clinic. Okay, she actually says it in April-speak. “Your preliminary conclusions regarding the death of this woman are mistaken, Casey.” Also, “I will ask you—again—not to speculate on cause of death. You have me here for that.”
“For speculating on cause of death?”
She skewers me with a look. “For determining cause of death.”
I walk to the table and look down at Jolene’s corpse. “So what have you determined?”
“Nothing, obviously. I have yet to perform the autopsy. I have drawn only preliminary conclusions.”
“Ah, speculating, you mean.” I wave off her protest. “I’m teasing you, April. I’m not sure, though, how you know my preliminary conclusions when I haven’t even spoken to you yet.”
“The slit throat is not what killed her.”
“Yep. Her heart had stopped before the cut was made, right? That’s why she wasn’t sitting in a pool of blood. Also, it explains her expression, which is not indicative of a violent death. If my throat was cut, I’d die with bulging eyes and my hands frantically trying to stop the blood flow.”
She shakes her head. “It is entirely possible for a person with a slit throat to realize their death is imminent and close their eyes to surrender to it. That is what I’d do.”
“Yeah, not me.” I grip my throat and bug my eyes, and the barest hint of a smile tweaks her lips. “So I’m wrong then? Jolene didn’t die before her throat was cut.”
“No, she did. Eric failed to impart that portion of your speculation.” She sets down her clipboard to look at me. “That was very fine detective work, Casey.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I’m paying you a compliment.”
“And I’m waiting for the rest of it. The part that starts with ‘However…’”
“I was giving you a moment to savor the compliment first.”
Now her lips definitely do twitch, and I clap a hand on her shoulder. “I appreciate it. Now get to the part where I screwed up and should refrain from practicing medicine without a license.”
“‘Medicine’ does not quite seem the right word. ‘Forensic medical science’ is better.” She walks to Jolene. “My preliminary finding is that yes, she died before her throat was cut. Her heart, as you say, had stopped. I thought first that perhaps she had been strangled.” She looks over at me. “That would be clever, would it not? Strangle your victim and then cut their throat to cover the signs of strangulation?”
“Practicing detective work without a badge again, April? We’d still see strangulation in her eyes and organs. It could, however, cover marks left by the murder weapon, which might be useful. That isn’t what happened here, though. I checked the sides and back of her neck for ligature marks.”
“You are correct. She was not strangled. I will know more once I perform an autopsy.”
“Drug screening, too, please.”
“You think she was drugged, then.”
“I think nothing. Just covering all the bases while allowing the doctor to do her work.”
I give a little bow, and she rolls her eyes. Then she says, “I’m presuming you’d like to be present for the autopsy? I was going to ask William to assist.”
“Better not.”
Her brows shoot up. “Surely no one would suspect him of this crime.”
“He said earlier that, right now, he expects to be blamed for everything from murder to stale muffins. He’s not wrong.”
She frowns. “How would he be responsible for stale muffins?” Her eyes widen. “Unless he left open a bag while removing one to poison for Conrad’s breakfast tray.”
“April…”
“Not that William would ever do that. I was simply trying to come up with a scenario in which he was responsible for stale muffins.” Her gaze lifts to mine. “Stale muffins and murder. At once.”
“Uh-huh. So, are we doing this autopsy tonight or not?”
She checks her watch. “Do you think the bakery would have muffins ready yet? I’m quite peckish.”
I hand her a scalpel and then open the back door to find Anders standing guard.
“April wants a muffin.”
“But not a poisoned one!” she calls.
His brows rise.
“Don’t ask,” I say. “Just see whether Eric will grab muffins and coffee. Stat.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
April conducts further preliminary examinations. Then we pause for coffee and muffins before we begin the autopsy. Dalton has joined us by then, and we eat and drink and talk while poor Jolene awaits the knife. I suppose it’s better than pausing for coffee halfway through, though we could have done that, too. You don’t grow up in our family without an iron stomach.
If it seems at all disrespectful to eat first, one must remember that an autopsy can take two to four hours. Under my sister’s meticulous care, we’re looking at the far end of that. We have questions that need answers, and she’s not giving them until she’s absolutely certain of her facts.
Fact one is—as suspected—Jolene’s heart had stopped pumping blood before her throat was cut. She’d died, and then her body had rested enough for the blood to settle. It’d been moved upright—probably at the tree—and her throat had been slit.
Why slit her throat? Almost certainly it was intended to cover up how she died. Did the killer not realize the lack of major blood loss would give it away? Or did they think that with a neurosurgeon for a coroner, we wouldn’t figure it out?
We easily figured it out. Just as April easily figures out the cause of death.
Suffocation.
“Lack of oxygen,” April says. “That is all I can conclude for now. She was deprived of oxygen and perished.”
From there it’s on to other injuries. There’s a bit of chafing on one cheek, which suggests a gag. Her ankles show the same marks as her wrists, though the abrasions are more superficial. Bound hand and foot while fighting madly, mostly with her hands.
As my sister continues her examination, I return to Jolene’s hands. To those ragged nails. I turn Jolene’s hands this way and that. They’re clean. Same as her feet, which had been wearing crew socks.
“There is a contusion on her skull,” April says. “It’s a hard blow.”
“Enough to knock her out?”
“It’s a hard blow. That is all I can say. It could have rendered her unconscious. Or it might merely have stunned her.”