Read Online Flesh and Blood by Patricia Cornwell - Free Book Online
Authors: Patricia Cornwell
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possibly symbolic. A shot to the mouth, a shot to the gut, a shot to an eye. We also have distant shots and solid copper bullets in common. Even if the ballistics don’t match, I suggest that we compare notes with Morristown. It’s in the realm of possibility that a shooter might not always use the same firearm.”
“Not likely,” Machado counters. “If you’re talking about a sniper, he’s going to use what he knows and trusts.”
“There you go with your assumptions,” Marino retorts.
“Jesus,” Machado mutters, shaking his head.
“Somebody’s got to work this intelligently before the fucker does it again.”
“Back off, buddy,” Machado snaps at him.
“I’m calling Kuster right now.” Marino pulls off his gloves and dips into a pocket of his jacket for his phone.
I place the bloody copper frag into the cardboard box. I tape the lid securely, handing the packaged evidence to Machado. I’ve just made it his responsibility to receipt it to the CFC and in the process I’m separating Marino and him. I remind Machado that the bullet fragments should be processed in the Integrated Ballistic Identification System, IBIS, immediately.
“There’s a problem with that. She’s not in …,” he starts to say, and I know what he’s alluding to and find it strange.
My top firearms examiner, Liz Wrighton, has been out sick with the flu for the past few days. I’m not sure why Machado would know about it.
“I’m calling her at home,” I reply.
I need her to use IBIS software to image the marks on the frag and run them through the National Integrated Ballistic Information Network, NIBIN. If the firearm in question has been used in other crimes we could get a hit in a matter of hours. I peel off my gloves.
“HELLO?” SHE SAYS STUFFILY.
“Liz? It’s Doctor Scarpetta.”
“I heard about the shooting on the news.”
“Apparently everybody has.” I look around as I talk.
Some of the neighbors are outside loitering on the sidewalks, in the street, and every car that passes slows to a crawl as people gawk. The sound of the news choppers is constant, and I notice a third one in the distance.
“The case is maybe two hours old. The media got here before I did,” I say to Liz.
“I saw it on Twitter,” she replies. “Let me see, I’m looking.
Boston-dot-com
says there was a shooting homicide in Cambridge, victim Jamal Nari. And another tweet reminds us who he is, you know, his
pulled pork powwow
with Obama. And I’m quoting. No disrespect on my part.”
“Can you come in? I’m really sorry. But this is important. How are you feeling?”
“Congested as hell but not contagious. I’m actually at CVS buying more drugs.” She coughs several times. “I can be there in forty-five.”
I look at Machado and nod that he can head to the CFC, and he walks swiftly to his SUV. Next I get my radiologic expert Anne on the phone. I tell her she has a case coming in that I want scanned immediately.
“I’m especially interested to see if he has a hangman’s fracture,” I explain.
A pause, then, “Okay. I’m confused. I thought this was a shooting.”
“Based on the position of the wound at the back of his neck and his lack of a vital response after being shot, I have a hunch we’re going to find a fracture involving both pars interarticularis of C-two. On CT we should be able to see the extent of his cervical spine injury. I’m betting his cord was severed.”
“I’ll do it as soon as the body arrives.”
“It should be there in half an hour. If I’m not back by the time you’re done, see if Luke can get started on the autopsy.”
“I guess no Florida,” Anne says.
“Not today,” I reply, and I end the call and crouch back inside the shelter of the privacy screens.
I tape small paper bags over the hands and a larger one over the head to preserve possible trace evidence. But I don’t expect anything significant beyond copper frag. I don’t think the killer came anywhere near
“Not likely,” Machado counters. “If you’re talking about a sniper, he’s going to use what he knows and trusts.”
“There you go with your assumptions,” Marino retorts.
“Jesus,” Machado mutters, shaking his head.
“Somebody’s got to work this intelligently before the fucker does it again.”
“Back off, buddy,” Machado snaps at him.
“I’m calling Kuster right now.” Marino pulls off his gloves and dips into a pocket of his jacket for his phone.
I place the bloody copper frag into the cardboard box. I tape the lid securely, handing the packaged evidence to Machado. I’ve just made it his responsibility to receipt it to the CFC and in the process I’m separating Marino and him. I remind Machado that the bullet fragments should be processed in the Integrated Ballistic Identification System, IBIS, immediately.
“There’s a problem with that. She’s not in …,” he starts to say, and I know what he’s alluding to and find it strange.
My top firearms examiner, Liz Wrighton, has been out sick with the flu for the past few days. I’m not sure why Machado would know about it.
“I’m calling her at home,” I reply.
I need her to use IBIS software to image the marks on the frag and run them through the National Integrated Ballistic Information Network, NIBIN. If the firearm in question has been used in other crimes we could get a hit in a matter of hours. I peel off my gloves.
“HELLO?” SHE SAYS STUFFILY.
“Liz? It’s Doctor Scarpetta.”
“I heard about the shooting on the news.”
“Apparently everybody has.” I look around as I talk.
Some of the neighbors are outside loitering on the sidewalks, in the street, and every car that passes slows to a crawl as people gawk. The sound of the news choppers is constant, and I notice a third one in the distance.
“The case is maybe two hours old. The media got here before I did,” I say to Liz.
“I saw it on Twitter,” she replies. “Let me see, I’m looking.
Boston-dot-com
says there was a shooting homicide in Cambridge, victim Jamal Nari. And another tweet reminds us who he is, you know, his
pulled pork powwow
with Obama. And I’m quoting. No disrespect on my part.”
“Can you come in? I’m really sorry. But this is important. How are you feeling?”
“Congested as hell but not contagious. I’m actually at CVS buying more drugs.” She coughs several times. “I can be there in forty-five.”
I look at Machado and nod that he can head to the CFC, and he walks swiftly to his SUV. Next I get my radiologic expert Anne on the phone. I tell her she has a case coming in that I want scanned immediately.
“I’m especially interested to see if he has a hangman’s fracture,” I explain.
A pause, then, “Okay. I’m confused. I thought this was a shooting.”
“Based on the position of the wound at the back of his neck and his lack of a vital response after being shot, I have a hunch we’re going to find a fracture involving both pars interarticularis of C-two. On CT we should be able to see the extent of his cervical spine injury. I’m betting his cord was severed.”
“I’ll do it as soon as the body arrives.”
“It should be there in half an hour. If I’m not back by the time you’re done, see if Luke can get started on the autopsy.”
“I guess no Florida,” Anne says.
“Not today,” I reply, and I end the call and crouch back inside the shelter of the privacy screens.
I tape small paper bags over the hands and a larger one over the head to preserve possible trace evidence. But I don’t expect anything significant beyond copper frag. I don’t think the killer came anywhere near
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