Eddie gave another of his formal, inclining nods. “An excellent suggestion.”
“But unless those images contradict what we’re seeing and feeling and thinking, I’d say that our man Shiflett here wasn’t biting down on that blasting cap when it went off.”
“No, apparently not,” agreed Eddie. “It would almost appear that he was trying to swallow it.”
“Or trying not to.” I turned for one more look, and when I did, I accidentally stepped on Eddie’s foot. For a moment I was off balance, and in that moment, I instinctively reached out to steady myself. My hand nudged the block that was wedged beneath the shoulders, and it shifted beneath my weight. When it did, the corpse’s head turned toward me. Flopped toward me. I shot a startled look at Eddie, then looked back at the corpse. The head was rotated a full 90 degrees. Reaching out with both hands, I gently rotated it back to center, then continued rotating until I had turned it 180 degrees. “My God,” I said, “did you know this?”
“I had no idea,” Eddie said. “This case is getting very interesting.”
AN HOUR LATER, AFTER I HAD CHANGED OUT OF MY surgical scrubs and returned to my office at the north end of Neyland Stadium, the Cooke County sheriff’s dispatcher patched me through to Jim O’Conner, who was winding up his second day at the Shiflett place with the ATF team.
“Broken? You’re sure?”
“I’m sure, Jim. His neck was snapped, and his spinal cord was severed.”
“It didn’t seem broken when they took the body away.”
“He was still in rigor mortis then. The muscles would have stabilized the head. Now he’s out of rigor, and his neck’s as floppy as a limp noodle.”
“Interesting,” he said.
“It gets even more interesting, Jim. The severed spinal cord was the cause of death. His heart and his lungs stopped working instantly. The blasting cap was just a smokescreen, shoved down his throat and detonated after he was dead.”
“What makes you think that? Couldn’t the shock wave from the explosion have done the damage to his spine?”
“Could’ve, maybe, but didn’t,” I told him. “The CT scan shows torsional damage to the vertebral column and the spinal cord. His neck was broken by a hard twist, not a shock wave. Besides, there’s no way he could have been biting that blasting cap when it went off. The x-ray and the CT scan both show that it was halfway down his throat when it went off.”
“Damn,” he said. “Are you willing to repeat all that to the ATF’s point man? This definitely sounds like it could affect his investigation.”
“Sure. What’s his name?”
“Special Agent Tim Kidder.”
“Oh, I know Kidder. I worked a case with him just a few months ago. He’s good. Put him on.”
I heard the phone change hands.
“Dr. Brockton? Tim Kidder here.”
“Hey, Tim. Glad to hear ATF is sending in the best. You having fun up in Cooke County?”
“It’s a blast,” he said—a joke I felt sure he’d made countless times in his career. “Sheriff O’Conner says you’ve got an interesting update for me.”
“I think so.” I told Kidder what I’d told O’Conner. He listened without interrupting, except for a few monosyllabic grunts to register surprise or thoughtfulness.
“That is interesting,” he said when I was finished.
“Would y’all like me to send you copies of the x-rays and CT scans? That way, you guys can tell me if I’ve misread anything,” I said. “Besides, the images might be useful for training, too—give your folks some interesting insight into blast-related trauma.”
“That’d be great, Doc,” said Kidder. “I’m glad you passed this along. I think maybe it explains something we’ve been wondering about up here at the scene. Something that doesn’t add up.”
“Such as?”
“There’s a shed in the woods here where our detectors are going crazy. Alerting for dynamite, nitroglycerin, ammonium nitrate, C-4, and a couple other things only demolition experts have ever heard of.”
“Y’all be careful taking that stuff out,” I said.
“No need to be, Doc. The shed’s empty. The detectors are alerting on residues. Only residues. Leftover traces of stuff that isn’t here anymore.”
“So you’re saying there was a lot of stuff in the shed at some point—”
“No. Recently. Very recently.”
“But now it’s gone?”
“Gone, baby, gone,” he said. “And from what you just told me about Jimmy Ray Shiflett and his afternoon snack, I’m thinking somebody besides him cleaned out that shed.”
I had a bad feeling. “So what you’re saying, Tim, is that we might be looking for a killer who’s got explosives and isn’t afraid to use them?”
“Not ‘might be’ looking, Doc. Are looking. I just hope we find him fast.”