Read Online Murphy's Law by Lisa Marie Rice - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Lisa Marie Rice
Tags: Fiction, Suspense, Romance, Literature & Fiction, Contemporary, Romantic Comedy, romantic suspense, Mystery & Suspense
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quadrant of his torso, find myself a nice intercostal space, take out a punching awl and punch a hole through the skin with enough force to reach the center of the right lobe of the liver. After which I will insert a thermometer into the hole and thence down to the liver. Any questions?”
“No, sir! ” Loiacono shouted and dropped to his knees.
For one crazy moment, Dante thought Loiacono had had a religious epiphany, but he was only getting close to Guzzanti. Who was going to punch a hole in a man’s liver. Right now. This minute. A trickle of sweat tickled its way down Dante’s back.
“Remove the man’s clothes, inspector,” Guzzanti ordered as he pulled out a long, thin instrument. “I need access to the liver. Very good,” he said as Loiacono bared the right side of the man’s abdomen.
Dante wanted desperately to look away, but he couldn’t. He willed his cell phone to ring. Any interruption would do. Fire. An earthquake. Anything.
Guzzanti put a notepad and pen in Loiacono’s hands. “Okay now, inspector, please take notes.” Guzzanti read off the thermometer. “Ambient temperature twenty-eight degrees.” He drew a line in the air from the body’s nipple down to the edge of the rib cage. He pressed hard against the ribcage with his left hand, while lifting the awl in his right.
“This is the theory, Dante.” He looked up and squinted. “Are you okay?”
“Fine,” Dante assured him, swallowing bile. “Perfect.”
“All right. Now, this is the point of the exercise. After death, the body cools at a constant rate of half a degree per hour for the first twelve hours postmortem.” He pressed the tip of the awl against the point indicated by his left hand. He pushed hard then, gripping the awl with both hands. He leaned down heavily. “Damn chest wall. Ah!”
With a pop, he broke through the skin, pressing down until the awl had penetrated to the hilt. He probed delicately, frowning. “ Gesù , the guy’s liver is like butter.”
Dante’s stomach roiled as he remembered eating fegato alla veneziana the evening before. The delicate, Venetian liver-and-onion dish was one of his favorites.
Guzzanti pulled back. “Okay, now. Take this, inspector.”
The awl emerged with a slight, sickening pop and Guzzanti handed it to Loiacono. He picked up the thermometer and inserted it into the hole, holding it there for three minutes, which he timed by looking at his wristwatch.
“Right, Loiacono, please record. Ambient temperature twenty-eight degrees, corpse hepatic temperature thirty-point-one degrees, which would indicate…let me see…circa twelve hours from moment of death.”
Loiacono wrote fervidly, while Guzzanti took a felt-tip pen, circled the puncture hole and put his initials next to the circle. “That’s so no one can accuse me of having delivered a killing blow to the liver. Heh-heh.”
Dante smiled sickly.
Guzzanti stood and pulled off his gloves. “Well, that was fun. Trust the Americans to provide the best entertainment. Do you want me to do a vitreous humor test, Dante?”
Saliva was pooling in Dante’s mouth. He had to swallow. “Vitreous…what’s that?”
“I stick a needle in the guy’s eye and syringe out the liquid. ’Course the eyeball collapses, then,” Guzzanti said cheerfully. “Another American technique, bless their souls.”
“No, that won’t be necessary,” Dante said. “Loiacono, see to the cleaning up here. Then go downstairs and advise the Americans I want to talk to them, and arrange for their transport down to headquarters. Ask the magistrate for the authority to sequester the foreigners’ passports, and then collect them. The Americans are from Southbury, Massachusetts. It so happens I know the Chief of Police there. His name is Sam Murray. I want you to email him with the names of the foreigners and ask him to email me what they have in their files. Print out the answers and leave them on my desk.”
“Sir!” Loiacono’s dark eyes
“No, sir! ” Loiacono shouted and dropped to his knees.
For one crazy moment, Dante thought Loiacono had had a religious epiphany, but he was only getting close to Guzzanti. Who was going to punch a hole in a man’s liver. Right now. This minute. A trickle of sweat tickled its way down Dante’s back.
“Remove the man’s clothes, inspector,” Guzzanti ordered as he pulled out a long, thin instrument. “I need access to the liver. Very good,” he said as Loiacono bared the right side of the man’s abdomen.
Dante wanted desperately to look away, but he couldn’t. He willed his cell phone to ring. Any interruption would do. Fire. An earthquake. Anything.
Guzzanti put a notepad and pen in Loiacono’s hands. “Okay now, inspector, please take notes.” Guzzanti read off the thermometer. “Ambient temperature twenty-eight degrees.” He drew a line in the air from the body’s nipple down to the edge of the rib cage. He pressed hard against the ribcage with his left hand, while lifting the awl in his right.
“This is the theory, Dante.” He looked up and squinted. “Are you okay?”
“Fine,” Dante assured him, swallowing bile. “Perfect.”
“All right. Now, this is the point of the exercise. After death, the body cools at a constant rate of half a degree per hour for the first twelve hours postmortem.” He pressed the tip of the awl against the point indicated by his left hand. He pushed hard then, gripping the awl with both hands. He leaned down heavily. “Damn chest wall. Ah!”
With a pop, he broke through the skin, pressing down until the awl had penetrated to the hilt. He probed delicately, frowning. “ Gesù , the guy’s liver is like butter.”
Dante’s stomach roiled as he remembered eating fegato alla veneziana the evening before. The delicate, Venetian liver-and-onion dish was one of his favorites.
Guzzanti pulled back. “Okay, now. Take this, inspector.”
The awl emerged with a slight, sickening pop and Guzzanti handed it to Loiacono. He picked up the thermometer and inserted it into the hole, holding it there for three minutes, which he timed by looking at his wristwatch.
“Right, Loiacono, please record. Ambient temperature twenty-eight degrees, corpse hepatic temperature thirty-point-one degrees, which would indicate…let me see…circa twelve hours from moment of death.”
Loiacono wrote fervidly, while Guzzanti took a felt-tip pen, circled the puncture hole and put his initials next to the circle. “That’s so no one can accuse me of having delivered a killing blow to the liver. Heh-heh.”
Dante smiled sickly.
Guzzanti stood and pulled off his gloves. “Well, that was fun. Trust the Americans to provide the best entertainment. Do you want me to do a vitreous humor test, Dante?”
Saliva was pooling in Dante’s mouth. He had to swallow. “Vitreous…what’s that?”
“I stick a needle in the guy’s eye and syringe out the liquid. ’Course the eyeball collapses, then,” Guzzanti said cheerfully. “Another American technique, bless their souls.”
“No, that won’t be necessary,” Dante said. “Loiacono, see to the cleaning up here. Then go downstairs and advise the Americans I want to talk to them, and arrange for their transport down to headquarters. Ask the magistrate for the authority to sequester the foreigners’ passports, and then collect them. The Americans are from Southbury, Massachusetts. It so happens I know the Chief of Police there. His name is Sam Murray. I want you to email him with the names of the foreigners and ask him to email me what they have in their files. Print out the answers and leave them on my desk.”
“Sir!” Loiacono’s dark eyes