Entering the autopsy room is like stepping into a cave where some grotesque beast stores its kills. Ensconced in gray ceramic tile, the room is maintained at a cool sixty-two degrees. But despite the state-of-the-art HVAC system, the smells of formalin and decaying flesh are ever-present reminders of why this place exists. It’s a large room, about twenty feet square. Stark fluorescent light pours down from several overhead lamps onto stainless steel counters. There are a dozen or so white plastic buckets. Gleaming instruments lie atop stainless steel trays, the uses of which I don’t want to ponder. Two deep sinks with arcing faucets are butted against the far wall, next to a scale used to weigh organs.
“What’s the cause of death?” I ask.
“Strangulation due to the compression of the carotid arteries causing global cerebral ischemia.”
I follow the doc to a gurney situated beneath a lamp that’s been pulled down close. A green sheet marred by several watery stains covers the body. I brace an instant before Doc Coblentz peels away the sheet.
I steel myself against the sight of the massive Y-incision cut into Dale Michaels’s torso. The flesh is blue gray with a sprinkling of silver hair on a chest that’s sunken and bony. A few inches above his navel, a neat red hole the size of my pinkie stands out in stark contrast against the pasty skin.
“So he was still alive when he was hanged from those rafters?” I ask.
“Correct. There was a good bit of bleeding from both gunshot wounds, which tells me the heart was still beating when he sustained them.”
“There were two gunshot wounds?”
“Sorry to do this to you, Chief, but you need to see this.” He draws the sheet down to mid-thigh, revealing more of Dale Michaels than I ever wanted to see. A shriveled penis and scrotum are nestled in silvery pubic hair. There’s a wound there, too, and I can barely force myself to look. My eyes skim over jutting hip bones and the tops of skinny thighs. But Michaels was not a thin man. The abdomen bulges and is slightly gelatinous with fat.
The urge to look away is powerful, but despite my aversion, I don’t.
“For simplicity’s sake, I’ll refer to them as Wound One and Wound Two.” Using a wooden, cotton-tipped swab, he indicates the hole near the navel. “On Wound One, we’ve got an entry wound here. The slug penetrated the stomach wall between the greater curvature and the pyloric canal and lodged near the spine.”
“Did it paralyze him?”
“Probably not, but the trauma so close to the spinal cord may have temporarily immobilized him.”
“Looks like a small caliber.” But I’m finding it increasingly difficult to focus on Dale Michaels’s brutalized body. “A .22 or maybe a .25.” I look over at him. “Is the slug intact?”
“I have one slug, which I’ve bagged for you. The other was a through and through.”
I make a mental note to get with the CSU that processed the scene. If the second slug wasn’t found inside the body, maybe it’s still at the scene, in a wall or in the ground.
“Going on to Wound Two.” Using the swab as a pointer, he indicates the hole near the groin. “The missile entered the anterior aspect of the left thigh, just to the left of the genitalia. It fractured the superior ramus of the pubis, tore through the neck of the bladder, and left the body through the perineum, compromising the entire genitourinary tract.”
“Jesus,” I hear myself say, but I’m keenly aware that the buzzing of the overhead lights seems inordinately loud as I stare down at a hole the color of raw meat. Despite the chill, I feel sweat break out on the back of my neck.
I swallow hard. “So there’s no slug for the second wound.”
“Correct.”
“Was he alive when he sustained it?”
“Yes.” Doc Coblentz shifts his attention to the neck. “Interestingly, the vertebrae are free of any fractures.” He indicates the throat area, where the rope dug a deep groove into the flesh.
“What does that mean?” I ask, but I already know.
“I would venture to guess he was hoisted up from the ground as opposed to being dropped down from the rafters,” he tells me. “Unconsciousness would have occurred in a relatively short period of time, probably one or two minutes. Death occurred when the oxygen and blood flow to the brain were cut off. Most of the damage you see here occurred postmortem, gravity working against the weight of his body.”
I think about that for a moment. “Would he have survived the gunshot wounds if he hadn’t been hanged?”
“Well, both were serious, penetrating wounds. But there were no major arteries involved. Hemorrhage was present, but not life threatening. If he’d received prompt medical attention, and barring any preexisting medical conditions, he would have survived.”
Some of the tension leaves me when he pulls the sheet up and covers the body.
“Any sign that he was engaged in a struggle or physical confrontation?”
“No.”
“Tox?”
“Won’t be back for two or three days.”
“What about that Amish doll, Doc? Do you know if it was put into his throat before or after his death?”
“Before. There were abrasions on the upper part of the pharynx, along with a minute amount of bleeding. It wouldn’t have been a comfortable ordeal for the victim.”
“I get the sense there was a lot of rage involved with this crime.”
“I agree.” He shrugs. “The level of brutality…”