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Authors: Eileen Dreyer
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in over her shoulder. "Women suicides used to be so simple. A coupla pills, a note, a little lipstick. Now, they want to be Dirty Harry. I'll tell you, Molly, if this is equality, I'm not so sure you should fight so hard."
"This ain't the equality I'm fighting for," she assured him, marking her outline with the victim's injuries. "We got a name? Family? All that good stuff?"
Rhett checked his notes. "Her name's Ryan, Mary Margaret. Single, no wants or warrants, address in the county."
Molly sighed, set her paperwork aside so she could bend to examine the body more closely. "Family?"
"Checkin' now."
"Transport's here!" Mort called from the door.
Molly nodded absently. "Send 'em in. I need to move her to do a complete exam."
No obvious tracks, no obvious bruising or abrasions. Molly wanted to check the victim's hands for defensive wounds, just in case. She'd wrap them in paper bags until they got the body downtown so they could check for blowback or residue that would prove the victim was the one holding the gun.
It should be a score. The injuries were commensurate with immediate-range injuries. The livor, where the blood had pooled inside her when she died, matched her present position. And her rigor panned out to be about seven or eight hours old. Molly would check the temperature to corroborate it, but it looked as if the couple downstairs was about right.
Molly could hear the clatter of the cart being dragged up the steps. She straightened to get her thermometer and Polaroid so she could get shots of the body before she moved it. Double the police shots with her own of the blood spatter pattern, the injuries, the placement of the gun just beyond the victim's right hand. When she told the family what happened, Molly would have to ask what hand the victim used. The last thing they needed was a closed suicide case where the gun was in the right hand of a left-handed woman.
Molly was at the front door checking her pictures when she heard the sudden squeal of tires out on the parking lot. A siren howled to life. Suddenly, there was a lot of running and yelling, and Mort was poised in the door like a jet on takeoff.
"Butler!" he yelled into the room. "Officer down!"
Rhett immediately lost interest in the bathroom. "Where?"
Mort could hardly stand still in the doorway. "On the move, Kingshighway southbound heading for Oakland. Myers got himself shot and taken with his own damn gun."
Rhett was almost dancing with impatience. "Shit! That's right down the block!"
Immediately, the suicide was put into perspective within the parameters of not only the justice system, but the medical one. Balance the effort given to a young woman who didn't care enough to sustain her own life against a known officer who was fighting to save his. Even Molly wanted to run help.
"Molly?" Rhett asked, turning on her, poised.
"Leave me the rookie," she said, and they ran.
The transport team took their place with the tarp on which they would lay out the victim so Molly could get a better look. Molly got out her thermometer and set it.
The uniform, a fresh-faced kid named Roscoe, turned up his walkie-talkie so they could listen. The evidence tech, now just waiting for Molly to be finished so he could take away the gun, stood with the rookie.
Molly took the victim's temperature and took more pictures, and all the while she listened to the terse chatter on the talkie Roscoe brought back up with him. She helped the transport team lift the body out of the bathroom onto the tarp so she could check the dorsal aspect for surprises, even though in her mind she was following the cars and helicopters along the side streets of the city She cataloged injury, personal effects, prescription medications, and a small bag of white powder the evidence tech already held that Molly didn't really think was Equal, and prayed for a man who needed her prayers, because her patient had already taken her chances and lost. Molly gathered the medications to carry along
"This ain't the equality I'm fighting for," she assured him, marking her outline with the victim's injuries. "We got a name? Family? All that good stuff?"
Rhett checked his notes. "Her name's Ryan, Mary Margaret. Single, no wants or warrants, address in the county."
Molly sighed, set her paperwork aside so she could bend to examine the body more closely. "Family?"
"Checkin' now."
"Transport's here!" Mort called from the door.
Molly nodded absently. "Send 'em in. I need to move her to do a complete exam."
No obvious tracks, no obvious bruising or abrasions. Molly wanted to check the victim's hands for defensive wounds, just in case. She'd wrap them in paper bags until they got the body downtown so they could check for blowback or residue that would prove the victim was the one holding the gun.
It should be a score. The injuries were commensurate with immediate-range injuries. The livor, where the blood had pooled inside her when she died, matched her present position. And her rigor panned out to be about seven or eight hours old. Molly would check the temperature to corroborate it, but it looked as if the couple downstairs was about right.
Molly could hear the clatter of the cart being dragged up the steps. She straightened to get her thermometer and Polaroid so she could get shots of the body before she moved it. Double the police shots with her own of the blood spatter pattern, the injuries, the placement of the gun just beyond the victim's right hand. When she told the family what happened, Molly would have to ask what hand the victim used. The last thing they needed was a closed suicide case where the gun was in the right hand of a left-handed woman.
Molly was at the front door checking her pictures when she heard the sudden squeal of tires out on the parking lot. A siren howled to life. Suddenly, there was a lot of running and yelling, and Mort was poised in the door like a jet on takeoff.
"Butler!" he yelled into the room. "Officer down!"
Rhett immediately lost interest in the bathroom. "Where?"
Mort could hardly stand still in the doorway. "On the move, Kingshighway southbound heading for Oakland. Myers got himself shot and taken with his own damn gun."
Rhett was almost dancing with impatience. "Shit! That's right down the block!"
Immediately, the suicide was put into perspective within the parameters of not only the justice system, but the medical one. Balance the effort given to a young woman who didn't care enough to sustain her own life against a known officer who was fighting to save his. Even Molly wanted to run help.
"Molly?" Rhett asked, turning on her, poised.
"Leave me the rookie," she said, and they ran.
The transport team took their place with the tarp on which they would lay out the victim so Molly could get a better look. Molly got out her thermometer and set it.
The uniform, a fresh-faced kid named Roscoe, turned up his walkie-talkie so they could listen. The evidence tech, now just waiting for Molly to be finished so he could take away the gun, stood with the rookie.
Molly took the victim's temperature and took more pictures, and all the while she listened to the terse chatter on the talkie Roscoe brought back up with him. She helped the transport team lift the body out of the bathroom onto the tarp so she could check the dorsal aspect for surprises, even though in her mind she was following the cars and helicopters along the side streets of the city She cataloged injury, personal effects, prescription medications, and a small bag of white powder the evidence tech already held that Molly didn't really think was Equal, and prayed for a man who needed her prayers, because her patient had already taken her chances and lost. Molly gathered the medications to carry along
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