Read Online The Calling by Inger Ash Wolfe - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Inger Ash Wolfe
Ads: Link
pair of thin blue gloves.
Delia Chandler was lying in a white body bag in a steel drawer. Deacon pulled the drawer open with a clunk and rolled a steel trolley underneath her, slid her onto it, and brought her under some lights. He unzipped her and they saw the Y of heavy stitching holding her trunk closed. The wound in her neck had also been roughly stitched shut and lathered over with surgical glue. The three of them leaned in to her, and Hazel shot a look at Wingate, who seemed to be holding it together.
“Okay, a couple of things,” said Deacon. “We took a sample of vitreous fluid and put the time of death at five P.M. yesterday afternoon, give or take. Cause of death was acute blood poisoning. She was already dead by the time he tried to cut her head off.”
“Do you think he was trying to remove her head?” said Wingate. “To take it?”
Deacon tapped the slit in Delia Chandler’s throat with the back of a gloved finger. “The cut on her throat is surgical—it goes through her windpipe and esophagus on the first cut; he goes back in a second time to deepen it all the way to the spinal cord. I think if he wanted a trophy he could have had it. Anyway, he had all the time in the world, and he didn’t cut it off. Look at this.” He tapped his pointer to Delia’s mouth. Wingate and Micallef shifted up the table. “Rigor mortis has resolved now, but at the scene, her tongue
was lifted up against the back of her teeth. Howard said it looked like she was hollering or something.”
“God,” said Wingate.
“You want to see the pictures?” Wingate nodded, and Jack Deacon opened a folder on a table beside him and drew out a sheaf of photographs. He pulled one out and handed it to Wingate. “Rigor mortis sets in about three or four hours after death. It starts in the small muscles of the face and moves down the body and it takes about twelve hours before it’s done. Then the process reverses itself and the rigor dissolves. In rare cases you might see muscles that seized up at the moment of death, but that’s usually in the case of a violent death—then you get these cadaveric spasms and people gripping onto things like railings, or their killer’s hair, that kind of thing. But this”—he tapped the photo repeatedly with the pointer—“this isn’t really possible. Even if you’re screaming when somebody shoots you through the heart, you still fall down and your tongue tumbles out of your mouth, and three hours later, everything starts to harden up.”
“So how did this happen?” said Hazel.
“The only place you find faces frozen in looks of terror are in horror movies. Mostly, the dead wear expressions of drunken stupor. They don’t open their mouths and touch their tongues to the back of their teeth.”
Hazel found herself mimicking Delia’s mouth. “So what’s happening here?”
“To get her mouth to look like this, the person who killed her would have had to wait at least three hours and then hold her mouth and tongue in this position until the muscle set. He would have been standing there about forty minutes with his fingers in her mouth.”
Hazel pulled off her gloves and Wingate did the same. “There’s one more thing,” said Jack Deacon, and he lifted one of the corpse’s arms from the slab. He held the hand up for them to see. Delia Chandler’s left pinkie finger was broken.
“She put up a fight?” said Wingate.
“There’s no evidence that this is a defensive wound. And he does it before he bleeds her. There’s evidence of edema—swelling.” Hazel looked closely at the other hand. “Just one.”
“Just the one.”
“The easiest one to break,” she said, and Deacon nodded. The three of them stared at the hand for almost a full ten seconds.
“Maybe he didn’t want her to feel any pain,” said Wingate. “So he breaks her finger?”
“To make sure she’s asleep,” he said. “Then he poisons her, puts the port in her leg, and he begins.” Deacon lowered
Delia Chandler was lying in a white body bag in a steel drawer. Deacon pulled the drawer open with a clunk and rolled a steel trolley underneath her, slid her onto it, and brought her under some lights. He unzipped her and they saw the Y of heavy stitching holding her trunk closed. The wound in her neck had also been roughly stitched shut and lathered over with surgical glue. The three of them leaned in to her, and Hazel shot a look at Wingate, who seemed to be holding it together.
“Okay, a couple of things,” said Deacon. “We took a sample of vitreous fluid and put the time of death at five P.M. yesterday afternoon, give or take. Cause of death was acute blood poisoning. She was already dead by the time he tried to cut her head off.”
“Do you think he was trying to remove her head?” said Wingate. “To take it?”
Deacon tapped the slit in Delia Chandler’s throat with the back of a gloved finger. “The cut on her throat is surgical—it goes through her windpipe and esophagus on the first cut; he goes back in a second time to deepen it all the way to the spinal cord. I think if he wanted a trophy he could have had it. Anyway, he had all the time in the world, and he didn’t cut it off. Look at this.” He tapped his pointer to Delia’s mouth. Wingate and Micallef shifted up the table. “Rigor mortis has resolved now, but at the scene, her tongue
was lifted up against the back of her teeth. Howard said it looked like she was hollering or something.”
“God,” said Wingate.
“You want to see the pictures?” Wingate nodded, and Jack Deacon opened a folder on a table beside him and drew out a sheaf of photographs. He pulled one out and handed it to Wingate. “Rigor mortis sets in about three or four hours after death. It starts in the small muscles of the face and moves down the body and it takes about twelve hours before it’s done. Then the process reverses itself and the rigor dissolves. In rare cases you might see muscles that seized up at the moment of death, but that’s usually in the case of a violent death—then you get these cadaveric spasms and people gripping onto things like railings, or their killer’s hair, that kind of thing. But this”—he tapped the photo repeatedly with the pointer—“this isn’t really possible. Even if you’re screaming when somebody shoots you through the heart, you still fall down and your tongue tumbles out of your mouth, and three hours later, everything starts to harden up.”
“So how did this happen?” said Hazel.
“The only place you find faces frozen in looks of terror are in horror movies. Mostly, the dead wear expressions of drunken stupor. They don’t open their mouths and touch their tongues to the back of their teeth.”
Hazel found herself mimicking Delia’s mouth. “So what’s happening here?”
“To get her mouth to look like this, the person who killed her would have had to wait at least three hours and then hold her mouth and tongue in this position until the muscle set. He would have been standing there about forty minutes with his fingers in her mouth.”
Hazel pulled off her gloves and Wingate did the same. “There’s one more thing,” said Jack Deacon, and he lifted one of the corpse’s arms from the slab. He held the hand up for them to see. Delia Chandler’s left pinkie finger was broken.
“She put up a fight?” said Wingate.
“There’s no evidence that this is a defensive wound. And he does it before he bleeds her. There’s evidence of edema—swelling.” Hazel looked closely at the other hand. “Just one.”
“Just the one.”
“The easiest one to break,” she said, and Deacon nodded. The three of them stared at the hand for almost a full ten seconds.
“Maybe he didn’t want her to feel any pain,” said Wingate. “So he breaks her finger?”
“To make sure she’s asleep,” he said. “Then he poisons her, puts the port in her leg, and he begins.” Deacon lowered
Similar Books
