“Juveniles, typically gangs,” Lucy says. “There have been a number of tire slashings in the Cambridge area of late. Kids stab the tires of half a dozen cars in a lot and hide out and watch the fun. Then they tailgate one of their victims to have the extra fun of watching the tire go flat and rob the person when he finally pulls over. A car like this would cost you more than a hundred grand if it’s in mint condition. The assumption would be if they caused him to crash he might be worth robbing.”
“Well, now their little prank may have just killed someone.” Ernie mops his forehead with his Tyvek sleeve.
“Why do you think I have run-flat tires?” Lucy walks around the wreckage, peering inside at what looks like the original saddle leather interior, the rosewood gearshift and steering wheel, blood and gray hair everywhere. “The question’s going to be whether other cars parked at the pub last night were similarly damaged.”
“I’ll pass it along because it’s a very good point,” Ernie says. “What else can I do for you?” he asks me.
I tell him about the fibers and fluorescing residue and the ointment that smells like a mentholated vapor rub.
“If you could check the residue in SEM because I have a hunch about the elemental composition. It may be something that’s showed up in an earlier case in Maryland. There’s also a fence post that might have been damaged by a tool coming in,” I add.
“Who’s doing what?” He wants to know the order of examination.
“You’re the first stop for everything except DNA. I’m hoping to get lucky with the vapor rub and then it will be your turn,” I answer. “Possibly we’ll be able to tell by the chemical composition exactly what it is.”
“Maybe not the brand,” he considers dubiously, “but menthol for sure. An alcohol found naturally in mint oils, plus eucalyptus, cedar leaf, camphor, turpentine, to mention a few. A home remedy that’s been around forever and people can be extremely creative what they use it for.”
“Have you ever had it show up in a case?” I ask.
“Well, let’s see. Anal swabs were positive for it in a possible sex crime, this was years ago. It turned out the victim was using a vapor rub to treat hemorrhoids. We recovered it from someone’s scalp, which the police thought might be part of some kinky ritual or maybe the decedent was demented. A treatment for dandruff, we found out. I once had a case of a homemade vaporizing lamp with an open flame. Unfortunately it exploded and a toddler was killed. And then there are people who apply the stuff on open wounds and to chapped lips, and camphor can be toxic.”
I explain the petroleum-based ointment was found in the grass of an athletic field and that one theory is it could be a muscle rub and unrelated to Gail Shipton’s death.
“Certainly it would be a similar composition,” Ernie ponders. “Although pain-relieving ointments tend to be more potent with higher levels of certain oils. I’m not sure we’ll be able to tell.”
“It might not matter. Maybe we’ll get lucky with DNA,” I reply. “But I’m having a hard time envisioning why someone would be digging into a jar of a vapor rub outside in the rain.”
“It depends on what he was using it for,” Ernie explains. “He might not have been wiping it on himself or on his skin.”
“Then on what?” I ask.
“Some people saturate nasal strips with Vicks to help their breathing, snoring, sleep apnea.”
“That would be a weird thing to do outside in the middle of the night,” Lucy comments as I recall Benton’s dark ramblings, what struck me as a disturbing non sequitur about the depraved killer Albert Fish.
Inhaling a sharp odor to block out distractions, to focus. Pleasure laced with pain, a fragrance that contains methyl salicylate, and Benton worries about the influence he’s had. He fears that the Capital Murderer may have read journal articles that reference Les Fleurs du Mal, the flowers of evil. What I remember about Baudelaire’s poetry from my college years is its cruel sensuousness and his view that human beings are slaves toiling through their uncertain, fleeting lives. I found him as depressing as Edgar Allan Poe at a time when I still held the belief that people were inherently good.
I peel off my gloves and ask Ernie to let me know when he has anything and then my phone rings.
“Nothing for you to do about right now,” Bryce tells me as Lucy and I leave the evidence bay. “Just a heads-up. Marino overheard a call on that channel he loves to monitor constantly on his radio? When he scans for other area frequencies – you know, like he’s always done? What I call snooping?”
“What kind of call?” I ask.
“Apparently a Concord PD dispatcher mentioned NEMLEC. It sounds very secretive, whatever it is, nothing on the news so far. I’ve been checking every other second. Marino asked if I knew if anybody’s dead and I said only everybody in this place. Beyond that, he wouldn’t give me any information, but I’m assuming it’s probably something big if the local troops are being called out.”
“Is he responding?”
“Well, you know he will now that’s he’s Sherlock. Maybe they need a K-nine, one that rides around in the car all day.”
Marino must have volunteered his services to the North Eastern Massachusetts Law Enforcement Council, comprised of more than fifty police departments that share equipment and special expertise such as motorcycle units, SWAT, bomb techs, and crime scene investigation. If NEMLEC mobilizes, the situation is serious.
“Make sure one of the scene vehicles is gassed up and ready to go just in case,” I tell Bryce.
“No offense but who’s supposed to do that these days? Harold and Rusty are busy with autopsies, I can’t ask the scientists or the docs, and I wouldn’t think of asking Lucy. Is she standing right there? I hope she hears me. Until we hire Marino’s replacement, and even then there’s no guarantee…Wait. Are you asking me to play gas station attendant?”
“No worries. I’ll take care of it myself.” I don’t need another reminder that Marino’s quitting has changed everything for me. “I’m off to find Anne. See if Gloria can drop by x-ray so I can turn over DNA evidence to her.”
28
Through a cloud of soft lighting we follow gray walls and recycled glass tile glazed a grayish-brown called truffle. The acoustical ceiling conceals RFID trackers and miles of wiring while hushing our progress as we bend around a floor that eventually will run into itself. Every corridor in my building is a circle.
Life stops where it starts and what is straight becomes round and I define my facility as a port not a terminal. I illustrate the work in this place as part of a journey that redefines and re-creates and not the endpoint or final destination. The dead help the living and the living help the dead and I find the seven round corridors inside my round building to be a metaphor for hope or at least a springboard for a less morbid conversation.
Long past are days when I didn’t think twice about referring to the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner as the morgue or a hospital for the dead. It’s part of my employee handbook and a priority in our training that we are appropriate and professional in all we do and say. One never knows who’s listening, and those we serve aren’t stiffs, corpses, crispy critters, roadkill, or floaters. They’re patients or cases. They’re someone’s family, lovers, friends, and I encourage the perception that the CFC isn’t a dead house but a lab where medical examinations are conducted and evidence is scientifically analyzed and those left behind are welcome to learn as much as they can tolerate.
I’ve instituted a spirit of transparency that allows visitors to watch us work through observation windows and the one Lucy and I walk past now is the evidence room where bloody clothing is air-drying from hanging bars inside HEPA-filtered cabinets. Spread out on a white paper–covered table are a pair of broken eyeglasses, a hearing aid, shoes, a wallet, cash, credit cards, and a wristwatch with a shattered crystal. The personal effects of the man whose wrecked car we just saw, I suspect, and next is ID. I nod a good morning at forensic technicians processing fingerprints on a
pistol inside a downdraft powder station and at other stations are other weapons. A barbell, a knife, a mop handle, a brass art sculpture, all bloody and being fumed with superglue.
“The Medflight chopper just radioed Logan requesting clearance to the southwest at one thousand feet.” Lucy is monitoring an app on her phone. “Their BK117 took off from a location in Concord, headed back to Plymouth.”
“If it’s not headed to a hospital then it’s either nothing or someone’s dead.” I open the door to large-scale x-ray.
Lucy scrolls down on her phone, checking air traffic control live streams. “It landed in Concord exactly fifty-five minutes ago. Obviously it responded to something there. It could be unrelated. I’ll keep listening.”
I take a seat at Anne’s console. On the other side of a leaded window is the large-bore CT scanner and she’s sliding the table in.
From my perspective I can see a deformed head and gray hair matted with brain tissue and blood. I see a bloody lacerated ear. The sixty-three-year-old psychiatrist who crashed into a guardrail, a possible homicide by kids who thought it was entertaining to puncture a stranger’s tire and possibly rob him. Or alcohol really could be to blame. You don’t have to be legally drunk to fall asleep at the wheel or lose control of your car.
I push the intercom button to talk to Anne on the other side of the glass.
“Who’s posting him?” I ask.
“When Luke finishes the fire death,” her voice sounds from a speaker on her desk. “He already did a blood draw for a STAT alcohol.”
“I heard.”
“Point-oh-four. Barely a decent buzz and not worth dying for.” Anne continues talking as she opens the door connecting her work area to the scanner room. “Anyway, his super-lawyer’s already called.”
“I heard that, too,” I reply.
“And how’s Lucy today?” she asks me as if Lucy isn’t here.
Shy-Anne, as Lucy calls my gifted radiology tech, who couldn’t be more pleasant but talks about people disconnectedly and often won’t look them in the eye. She’s the sort I imagine as the class brain in high school who got the attention of cheerleaders and football players only if they needed help with their homework.
“Life sucks,” Lucy says to Anne. “And you?”
“By the way,” I add, “we don’t talk to lawyers who call about our cases unless they’re prosecutors or defense attorneys, preferably with subpoenas in hand.”
“Bryce didn’t tell her anything that matters but was on the phone long enough to get an earful and then he gave me one,” Anne says as I spot Benton through the observation glass, walking briskly along the corridor, headed toward us in a pair of borrowed black leather sneakers.
“Carin Hegel,” I assume, and Lucy is next to me, looking at what’s on the flat screen, postmortem images of the man whose car we just saw.
Dr. Franz Schoenberg, with a home and office address in Cambridge near Longfellow Park, and I keep seeing him in the photographs I looked at hours ago. Gray-haired with a kindly, pleasant face that couldn’t have looked more stunned or distraught as he stared at his dead patient who had texted him she planned to fly to Paris from her roof. Maybe she was out of her mind on drugs. But it seems what she did was for his benefit, what I call taking someone out with you, and so many suicides are more angry and vindictive than just plain sad.
“We had his patient through here a few days ago,” I comment. “The young fashion designer who committed suicide. She jumped off the roof of her building right in front of him.”
“Maybe that’s why he was fighting with his wife and went out drinking.” Anne sits down beside me and I notice she’s wearing purple scrubs with lace trim, pockets, and pleats, what I call her Grey’s Anatomy attire.
“It didn’t help matters, that’s for sure.” I study Dr. Franz Schoenberg’s scans.
Open comminuted fractures of the left temporal and parietal bones, axons and blood vessels sheared due to extreme rotational forces. His head accelerated and decelerated violently on impact and probably struck the side window, not the windshield. I wonder how fast he was going. The skid marks should tell us. I note very little cerebral edema. His survival time was minimal.
“Carin Hegel was trying to reach me earlier,” I tell Anne. “At around five-thirty this morning as I was headed to the scene at MIT. She told Marino she wanted to talk to me. I assumed it was about Gail Shipton.”
“Business is booming for ambulance chasers,” Anne says.
“She isn’t exactly an ambulance chaser.” I’m amused but puzzled.
Hegel and I usually don’t have cases in common for the simple reason that most of my patients and their families can’t afford an attorney like her. Most of what I deal with is on the criminal side and the super-lawyers of the super-rich very rarely appear on my radar and yet she has twice today.
Anne slides out a call sheet and other paperwork from a file holder on her desk as Benton walks in. Not far behind him is Bryce, with big sunglasses parked on top of his head, in extra-slim jeans, a chunky cable-knit sweater, and red suede loafers. He’s carrying a pizza box, napkins, and paper plates, and Lucy steps into the doorway to intercept him, making sure he doesn’t escape until we’re fed.
“Are you aware of anything going on in Concord?” I ask Benton and the way he looks at me conveys that something is.
“Approximately an hour ago.” He positions himself behind my chair. “A call for an active shooter that turned out to be false.”
“Explaining why Medflight was deployed and then turned back,” I suggest.
“I assume so.”
But the way he says it makes me think there’s more.
“What else do we know about this case?” I then ask Anne for more details about the patient in her scanner, Dr. Schoenberg.
“DOA at Cambridge Hospital at around four a.m.” She shuffles through paperwork. “Apparently he left the pub around two but it took a while to get him out of his car. If you look at it in the evidence bay, you can see why. One of these classic old Jags, a real beaut before hydraulic tools opened it up like a can of soup.”
“A Jag E, early 1960s.” Lucy is standing back from us, in the doorway. “It was probably what he envied when he was old enough to drive and didn’t have the money. The problem is these antiques don’t have air bags.”
“Which pub?” I ask Anne.
“The Irish one Marino likes so much. He’s taken me there a few times pretending it’s not a date. I admit their lager mac and cheese is to die for – and I didn’t just say that, sorry, Fado’s. They’ve got a killer slow-roasted pork belly in a cider-reduction sauce…I’m going to stop talking now because my Tourette’s is acting up.”
“Fado’s isn’t in the best part of town,” Benton says. “Not far from the projects in West Cambridge.”
“He left the pub and do we know where he was headed?” I inquire as I remember the police call earlier, suspicious youths in a red SUV who may have just broken into a number of vehicles in the parking lots of the subsidized housing development on Windsor Street.
“According to his paperwork, he was on Memorial Drive near the Mass Ave Bridge. It may be he was headed home,” Anne says.
I imagine gang members in a red SUV following the Jaguar, waiting for the tire to go flat, maybe planning to rob the driver, but things turned out a lot worse than that. Possibly they nudged the car, sending it out of control into a guardrail.
“If they get the kids seen fleeing the projects on Windsor, we need to compare the paint of their red SUV to the paint transferred to the Jaguar,” I decide. “Let’s make sure the Cambridge police know.”
“Well, if Carin Hegel was trying to find you as early as five-thirty, she sure as hell didn’t waste any time.” Anne stops talking about food and quits the bad puns. “She called here about an hour ago, at almost eleven. You know it’s got to be the pub’s fault. The pub shouldn’t have kept serving him. And of course we couldn’t offer what his blood alcohol is, that he wasn’
t intoxicated, because we can’t release his information before the investigation is completed, et cetera, et cetera. The usual, from what I gathered from Bryce, who told me the same story in fifty different ways of course.”
“I heard my name and it better not have been in vain,” he says.
“Apparently Hegel doesn’t know a tire was slashed and that he may be a homicide,” I say to Anne as Lucy holds out her hands to make Bryce surrender what promises to be a large pie with beef, sausage, pepperoni, peppers, fresh tomato, onions, garlic, extra mozzarella, and Asiago. The usual I order.
My mouth waters and hunger stabs my empty stomach. It feels constricted, practically tubular, and if aromas were audible, the volume would be as high up as it could go. It would be deafening.
“Not so fast.” Bryce pulls the box away from Lucy. “Not even if you tell me to put my hands up or you’ll shoot.”
“Don’t dare me.”
“Oh I’m scared. You’re not even armed.”
“How do you know?”
“You’re such a monster even when you’re sweet.”
“Looking for someone to sue,” Anne is saying to me. “Let me guess. The wife wants money from her husband’s death and we’ve not even autopsied the poor guy yet.”
“I guess Carin Hegel doesn’t discuss her other clients.” I look at Lucy.
“She has a lot of rich ones but how do we know he was a client?” She directs this at Bryce.
“Well, I assumed,” he says. “She was asking questions about how drunk he was and if that’s why he crashed his car. She sounded upset and sensitive for a lawyer and kept saying what a bad day it’s been. Maybe she knew him.”