Autopsy (Kay Scarpetta, #25)(88)

With decomposition comes the inevitable destruction by teeming bacteria. It literally eats evidence that might identify the killer. I place the fingernail clippings into a paper envelope I mark as evidence. Holding the left hand, then the right under the light, I examine the margins of the multiple incisions and hacking injuries around the wrists.

“Some type of sharp nonserrated instrument was used.” I describe what I’m seeing, and I can feel Marino’s body heat as he stands close, looking on. “I’m going to take samples of muscle for toxicology. I’ll make incisions into subcutaneous tissue, looking for hemorrhages associated with fresh bruising, these reddish areas we’re seeing.”

He watches as I do all this. I place the tissue samples, the fingernail clippings inside a locked evidence refrigerator while explaining that eventually we’ll boil away the flesh so we can examine the cuts made to bone. Zipping up the black vinyl pouch, I return it to the cooler, having no doubt whose body parts we’re talking about.

We stop by the evidence room on our way out. Several examination tables are covered with white paper and arranged with personal effects. Against a wall are big cabinets with glass doors, the Star Wars blanket opened up and hanging inside one of them. It’s fouled with blackish crusty blood that’s thick in areas. But other parts of the blanket have been spared.

“The blood likely will be too decomposed to help us. We’re not going to get a DNA profile from it, I’m fairly certain,” I tell Marino. “But we already know whose blood it is, assuming what we suspect is correct, and this is the blanket from Gwen’s bed.”

That shouldn’t be hard to prove, I explain. Fibers can be compared to those I recovered from the body, and taking off my gloves, I send DNA analyst Clark Givens a text. I’m letting him know what awaits him in the morning. The earlier he can get started the better, and I send him a picture of the blanket.

Then I photograph the bloody sweatpants and T-shirt in a separate cabinet. The clothing believed to be Gwen’s was cut off her body, and there’s a pair of bloody running socks. Either she wasn’t wearing undergarments or her killer disposed of them elsewhere.

“It’s also possible he kept them as a souvenir,” Marino says as I place the baggies of pennies inside an evidence locker.

It’s almost ten-thirty when we drive out of my parking lot, and I’m getting a different impression about the killer. Despite his premeditations, he can be sloppy and impulsive. For one thing, he should have picked a more remote location to dispose of his gory evidence.

“I say he because it’s easier.” I explain to Marino we have to be careful about making assumptions. “We don’t know the gender, one would assume a male but I’ve been surprised before. Whoever it is, this person doesn’t have special skills when it comes to dismemberment. The way the hands were cut off, for example. That wasn’t done by someone who’s an expert. The question is why do it at all.”

“I don’t believe it’s about getting rid of her fingerprints mafia-style,” Marino says.

“We didn’t need them to confirm her identity,” I agree. “And I have to suspect her killer is shrewd enough to know that.”

“Maybe he’s sending a message,” Marino supposes. “And that makes me think of the spying aspect of all this. Like maybe Gwen was messing with the wrong people, and we’re barking up the wrong tree. Maybe we’re way off base thinking her murder is connected to Cammie’s all because of a bunch of pennies.”

“That’s not the only reason we’re thinking it,” I reply as more misgivings shake me to my core, and I text Benton I’m fifteen minutes out.

He doesn’t answer but Lucy does. She’s letting me know that her mother has crashed in the guestroom. It would seem Dorothy got carried away with the margaritas and is down for the count. I tell Marino he may as well stay at my house, and it’s not a problem.

He’s done it before when my sister is “under the weather,” as she puts it. Marino keeps an overnight bag in his truck for such contingencies, always has as long as I’ve known him.

“I’ll throw something together for a late supper,” I decide, and my White House takeout was long ago. “When’s the last time you had something to eat? I’m starved.”

“You know me, Doc, I can always find room,” he says as Lucy texts me again.

We pull pitch at 0800 hours. She informs us that we have an early morning. Also, this is all over the Internet, she adds, and attached is a link to click on.

The Dana Diletti story aired while Marino and I were out in the foggy dark looking for pennies that probably have nothing to do with anything. “The Railway Slayer,” I tell Marino as we reach Old Town, the restaurants hopping, the roadsides crowded with cars. I click on the video file, and the celebrity correspondent is live on CNN, talking about her huge story.

“. . . That’s right, police won’t confirm it,” she’s saying, “but my sources tell me that Doctor Scarpetta, the chief medical examiner, is investigating this very possibility. She believes that Gwen Hainey’s brutal murder may be connected to a body found on Daingerfield Island last April. The growing concern is a serial killer could be in the greater Washington, D.C., area, and just how many other victims might be out there is anybody’s guess . . .”