Sophie.”
“Thanks.” She gave him her trademark smile, one hundred percent phony. “You take care, too.”
John Doe’s postmortem was already under way when Jonah and Ric arrived. The deputy medical examiner was hunched over the grayish body, poking a gloved finger around the mouth.
“Stippling above the lips,” Dr. Froehler said to his assistant. “Fouling visible as well.” The deputy ME gazed down at the burn marks left by gases that spewed from the pistol just after the trigger was pulled. He was obviously building support for the manner of death he planned to put in his report: suicide.
Jonah reached for the jar of Vicks sitting on the counter just inside the door. He swiped some gel under his nose to help with the smell before handing the jar to Ric.
“I hate this place,” Ric muttered.
“Yeah, me, too.”
Jonah stepped up to the steel table, giving himself the same vantage point he’d had this morning when he’d been in here with Jodi Kincaid and then Eric Emrick. Walter Graham had been autopsied in the suite next door, and Ric had stood in for that one.
Three autopsies in one day. It was a career record, one Jonah hoped never to repeat.
“Detectives.” Froehler glanced up and nodded.
“Doc.” Ric replaced the lid on the gel and plunked it on the counter. “The boss knock off early today?”
The deputy ME sniffed, which Jonah took for an affirmative. It was common knowledge that Froehlerwas the workhorse around here, while the head ME was more of a figurehead. Even so, the man had dragged himself out of bed this morning to perform two of the four autopsies. Jonah figured he’d taken note of all the news coverage and decided he needed to look hands-on.
“Still no ID,” Jonah informed the doctor. “Any tattoos or scars that might help us out?”
“None.”
Jonah glanced at the series of X-rays lined up on the light box across the room. “How about prosthetics? Unusual dental work?”
“His bones and his teeth look normal.”
Jonah and Ric exchanged looks. By the tone of his answer, they could tell something
didn’t
look normal. But knowing Froehler, they’d have to wait around to hear what it was. This doctor was meticulous—sometimes frustratingly so—and he didn’t venture his opinion without evidence to back it up.
“What about personal effects?” Ric asked. “Anything we missed in his pockets?”
“Just the Timex wristwatch that was handed over this morning.”
“His clothes are over there,” Froehler’s assistant added. “I didn’t find anything.”
Jonah glanced at a table across the room, where some clothes had been spread out. Black Hanes T-shirt, size medium; blue jeans, size 32 X 30; socks; underwear; and a pair of size-nine Altamas in desert brown.
The boots were favored by military guys, and they—more than the shooter’s skill with a gun—had convinced Jonah that running the fingerprints through a military database might not be a total waste of time.
“How about track marks?” Ric persisted. “Evidence of drug use?”
Froehler straightened his wire-rimmed glasses but didn’t look up. “We’ll know when we get the tox screen.”
Jonah gritted his teeth. His fuse was short today, and it wasn’t just because he’d gotten up at the butt crack of dawn to come up here and watch two innocent people get sliced open. “Is there
anything
you can tell us yet? We need an ID here.”
Froehler stopped what he was doing and gave him an appraising look. “There is one thing.” He moved to the side of the body and lifted the left arm, which was lax now that rigor mortis had passed. “It’s possible he’s recently divorced.”
Jonah stepped closer and frowned down at the hand. No wedding band, but sure enough, there was a faint white line around the ring finger.
“I’ll be damned,” Ric said. “I didn’t notice the tan mark yesterday.”
“Also note the callus,” Froehler said, separating the last two fingers to show them the marks
“Thanks.” She gave him her trademark smile, one hundred percent phony. “You take care, too.”
John Doe’s postmortem was already under way when Jonah and Ric arrived. The deputy medical examiner was hunched over the grayish body, poking a gloved finger around the mouth.
“Stippling above the lips,” Dr. Froehler said to his assistant. “Fouling visible as well.” The deputy ME gazed down at the burn marks left by gases that spewed from the pistol just after the trigger was pulled. He was obviously building support for the manner of death he planned to put in his report: suicide.
Jonah reached for the jar of Vicks sitting on the counter just inside the door. He swiped some gel under his nose to help with the smell before handing the jar to Ric.
“I hate this place,” Ric muttered.
“Yeah, me, too.”
Jonah stepped up to the steel table, giving himself the same vantage point he’d had this morning when he’d been in here with Jodi Kincaid and then Eric Emrick. Walter Graham had been autopsied in the suite next door, and Ric had stood in for that one.
Three autopsies in one day. It was a career record, one Jonah hoped never to repeat.
“Detectives.” Froehler glanced up and nodded.
“Doc.” Ric replaced the lid on the gel and plunked it on the counter. “The boss knock off early today?”
The deputy ME sniffed, which Jonah took for an affirmative. It was common knowledge that Froehlerwas the workhorse around here, while the head ME was more of a figurehead. Even so, the man had dragged himself out of bed this morning to perform two of the four autopsies. Jonah figured he’d taken note of all the news coverage and decided he needed to look hands-on.
“Still no ID,” Jonah informed the doctor. “Any tattoos or scars that might help us out?”
“None.”
Jonah glanced at the series of X-rays lined up on the light box across the room. “How about prosthetics? Unusual dental work?”
“His bones and his teeth look normal.”
Jonah and Ric exchanged looks. By the tone of his answer, they could tell something
didn’t
look normal. But knowing Froehler, they’d have to wait around to hear what it was. This doctor was meticulous—sometimes frustratingly so—and he didn’t venture his opinion without evidence to back it up.
“What about personal effects?” Ric asked. “Anything we missed in his pockets?”
“Just the Timex wristwatch that was handed over this morning.”
“His clothes are over there,” Froehler’s assistant added. “I didn’t find anything.”
Jonah glanced at a table across the room, where some clothes had been spread out. Black Hanes T-shirt, size medium; blue jeans, size 32 X 30; socks; underwear; and a pair of size-nine Altamas in desert brown.
The boots were favored by military guys, and they—more than the shooter’s skill with a gun—had convinced Jonah that running the fingerprints through a military database might not be a total waste of time.
“How about track marks?” Ric persisted. “Evidence of drug use?”
Froehler straightened his wire-rimmed glasses but didn’t look up. “We’ll know when we get the tox screen.”
Jonah gritted his teeth. His fuse was short today, and it wasn’t just because he’d gotten up at the butt crack of dawn to come up here and watch two innocent people get sliced open. “Is there
anything
you can tell us yet? We need an ID here.”
Froehler stopped what he was doing and gave him an appraising look. “There is one thing.” He moved to the side of the body and lifted the left arm, which was lax now that rigor mortis had passed. “It’s possible he’s recently divorced.”
Jonah stepped closer and frowned down at the hand. No wedding band, but sure enough, there was a faint white line around the ring finger.
“I’ll be damned,” Ric said. “I didn’t notice the tan mark yesterday.”
“Also note the callus,” Froehler said, separating the last two fingers to show them the marks
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