CHAPTER
33
DR. WALTER KELLERMAN had once been a far heavier man but had dropped a lot of weight, noted Puller, when they arrived for the autopsies. He deduced this from his sagging facial skin and his belt having four additional holes cut in the leather to accommodate his shrinking waist.
The bodies had been transported from the funeral home to Kellerman’s surgery. It was in a two-room brick building behind his office, which clearly used to be someone’s home and was located about a mile from the downtown area. Portable refrigeration beds had been brought in to hold the bodies.
“Is the man sick or eating better?” Puller asked in a low voice to Cole as they slipped on surgical gowns and gloves.
“Little of both. He’s walking more, cutting out the red meat, and eating less. They took out his gallbladder and left kidney about a year ago. He knows if he wants to see his seventies he needs to get it together.”
“You attended autopsies before?” asked Puller.
“More than I wanted to,” she replied.
“Lindemann said the last murder you had was ten years ago.”
“They do autopsies for other reasons. Accidents mostly. In coal mining country you have quite a few of those. And car accidents. Have quite a few of those too.”
“Okay.”
“And if you’re wondering whether I’m going to start puking when he starts cutting, the answer is no.”
Kellerman had a trim white beard, blue eyes, little hair on his head, and a friendly manner. When he was introduced to Puller he said, “I pulled one stint in the Air Force. Two years in Vietnam, but the GI Bill helped pay for college and I went on and got my medical degree.”
“See, Uncle Sam can do things right,” said Puller.
“I never regretted it. Makes you stronger.”
“If you survive it,” said Cole.
Puller noted the body on the steel table with the sheet over it. “Who’s first?”
“Colonel Reynolds.” Kellerman glanced at the portable cold beds. “I have two trained assistants helping, but it’s still going to be a long day.”
“We’re just here to observe and ask questions,” said Cole.
“You’re very welcome to do both. I looked over the bodies this morning. An interesting mixture of wounds. Shotgun, small-caliber handgun, strangulation, and blunt force trauma.”
“Any idea what was used to kill the teenagers?” asked Puller.
“Probably a hand.”
“How can you be sure of that?” asked Cole.
“I’m not sure. He asked if I had an idea. And that’s it.”
“But why a hand?”
“A bat, metal tool, or other foreign object would have almost certainly left some sort of residue or telltale mark on the skin. Did one post where you could make out the logo of a Louisville Slugger bat on the deceased’s chest. But the hand leaves a distinctive mark too. And I found trace embedded in the neck of the boy.”
“What was it?” asked Puller.
“Looks to be a bit of black leather.”
“Meaning they wore gloves.”
“How I see it, yes.”
“It’s not easy to hit the medulla just right to kill someone,” noted Puller. “It’s only about three inches long.”
“I’d say you were looking for someone with special training. Maybe martial arts.”
“Or military,” suggested Cole.
“Right. Or military,” agreed Kellerman.
He slid down his clear face mask, lifted the sheet from the dead colonel, and readied his instruments.
“Shall we?”
Even with the two assistants’ help the seven bodies took many hours to properly autopsy. Puller had boxed up quite a bit of the evidence in special containers, carefully marked, that he would ship down to USACIL. He would include with the packages specific instructions for the lab at Fort Gillem when they processed the evidence. And he would follow up those instructions with an email and a phone call.
Kellerman had left his assistants to sew up the Y-incisions, changed his clothes, and gone home. Cole and Puller walked outside. Puller put the boxes into Cole’s car. He had also filled up his recorder with notes on the posts and Cole had taken extensive handwritten notes as well. Yet there was nothing too remarkable revealed by the process.
Shotgun wadding was taken from Reynolds’s head and would be compared to find the gauge of gun used. Some of the white material found embedded in his face had not been wadding. Kellerman had theorized it was a blindfold they had made the colonel wear.
“Probably why he didn’t try to defend himself or throw up his hands,” said Puller.
“He never saw it coming,” added Cole.
Stacey Reynolds’s torso had been filled with shotgun pellets. The two kids had died from strikes to their necks as they had speculated. Eric Treadwell and Molly Bitner had been killed by .22 caliber shots into their brains. The bullets had come out in reasonable shape and now all they needed was a gun to match them to.
Wellman had been struck on the head hard enough to cause unconsciousness. His life had not been ended by a broken neck. That required a considerable drop that the low ceiling in the basement could not provide. Instead, Wellman had suffered a slow asphyxiation.
Cole and Puller leaned against her car. She slid out a cigarette and lit up.
“Don’t look at me like that, Puller,” she said. “I just sat through seven bodies being cut up. It’s stressful.”
“They didn’t leave much behind,” he said.
“You have any ideas?”
“None that work all the way through right now.”
She checked her watch. “Dinner at my sister’s.”
“Why does she want me there?”
“I don’t know, other than you’re younger, taller, and fitter than her husband.”
“So you’re saying she cheats on him?”
“I’m not saying anything, because I don’t know. Roger’s gone a lot.”
“She didn’t seem overly concerned about the death threats.”
“Roger is not a popular guy. I guess you get desensitized to it.”
“She might be, but he clearly isn’t. He was both pissed and scared.”
“Well, he’s the target, not her.”
“True.”
“I can drop you off at your car and then pick you up at the motel. Give us both time to shower and change. I need to scrub hard to get the smell of death off me.”
“I don’t think anyone can scrub that hard.”
“I’m sure as hell going to try.”