Kendra said, “The killer could’ve dressed her afterward.”
Munroe nodded approvingly. “Quite right, Miss Donovan. There can be no doubt—now—that she was fully clothed when she was killed. In my work, I’ve found it is best not to make assumptions regarding what may seem obvious.”
They returned to their inspection of the dead woman. Her knees were black and blue, and swollen from the impact of falling. Her right ankle was also distended, and, Munroe determined, broken. Kendra suspected the injury had come at the end. She imagined April Duprey had fallen one last time.
“Miss Duprey died as the result of a single knife wound. The blade entered her chest cavity, most likely piercing her heart. There’s bruising surrounding the injury, consistent with marks made by the hilt of a knife.” Munroe meticulously measured the entrance wound. “The blade appears to have been one-inch in width, but an internal examination will better determine the width, as well as the length. Again, Miss Donovan, I will ask you—”
“I’m staying.”
“Very well.”
Kendra had attended countless autopsies before, and this one—despite the lack of electrical saws, high-tech tools, stainless steel, and overall sterile atmosphere prevalent in her own time—was surprisingly similar, beginning with the standard Y-shaped incision curved beneath the breasts toward the breast bone, bisecting the body to the pubic bone. Familiar, too, was the stench of decay and blood and internal gases that wafted up from the cadaver.
Despite the cool temperature of the room, a fine film of sweat gathered on Munroe’s brow as he worked to open the woman’s rib cage with pruning shears, allowing him access to the internal organs. Once again Kendra was surprised and impressed by the doctor’s painstaking approach. She’d known medical examiners in the twenty-first century who were less thorough.
“The blade was approximately five inches long. Double-edged. Most likely a hunting knife or dagger of some kind,” he said, carefully inspecting the organs with measuring instruments. “The attacker thrust the knife into the chest, angling the weapon in an upward motion, which punctured the victim’s heart. She died of cardiac tamponade.”
The Duke crowded closer to examine the organ. “I am unfamiliar with the term. What exactly is cardiac tamponade, Doctor?”
“It is the process where blood fills the pericardium—the membrane surrounding the heart. ’Tis what prevented her heart from pumping.”
“Fascinating.”
Kendra said, “I don’t know who was luckier—the killer or April Duprey.” When the men stared at her, she shrugged. “It’s actually not that easy to kill someone with a knife. The fact that it was only one knife wound suggests the killer got lucky. One thrust, and April Duprey was a goner. On the other hand, her death was relatively quick, probably within minutes. If she hadn’t died immediately, I don’t think the killer would’ve stopped stabbing her.”
Munroe raised his brows. “An interesting hypothesis, Miss Donovan. You appear to be an expert on the heart.”
Kendra stiffened, immediately on the defensive. “The only thing I know about the heart is that it beats approximately one hundred thousand times daily. And it doesn’t like pointy things stuck in it.”
The doctor’s eyes behind the round glasses gleamed with amusement. “I wasn’t criticizing you, Miss Donovan. You are quite correct in saying many people survive stab wounds. Then again, Julius Caesar was stabbed twenty-three times by his assassins, but the physician Suetonius proved that it was only one wound—the second one near his heart—that was mortal.” He smiled, and returned to his examination.
It became apparent that April Duprey had not bled out so much as bled internally. The sac around her heart wasn’t the only thing filled with her blood; so too was her lungs and stomach.
“My conclusion is that Miss Duprey was a healthy, middle-aged woman . . . except for the knife wound that killed her,” Munroe said as he finished his inspection, and began the process of sewing her back up.
Middle-aged? That gave Kendra a jolt. Though, given the average life span for women during this era, she supposed thirty-five would be about middle-aged. It made her a little queasy, and she nearly laughed at the absurdity. She had no trouble watching an M.E. disembowel another human being, nearly up to his elbows in blood and gore, but the idea that someone in their thirties would be considered middle-aged left her weak in the knees.