Shamed (Kate Burkholder #11)(34)
The room is so cold, I half expect to see a coating of frost on the gray subway-tiled walls. I take in the rest of the details while trying not to look too closely. Stark fluorescent lights. Stainless-steel counters cluttered with white plastic containers, gleaming instruments lined up on trays, dual sinks with tall, arcing faucets, and a scale that hangs down, ready to weigh things I don’t want to contemplate.
Ignoring all of it, trying hard to keep a handle on my quivering stomach, I follow the men to the gurney where I see a body draped with a pale blue sheet. Doc Coblentz pulls on a headset with a small mike and recites the date and time, nine-digit case number, the names of everyone present, including his own, and the name of the deceased.
He pulls the cover down to her pubis. “Sixty-year-old female Caucasian. One hundred and fifty-three pounds. Five feet, four inches in height.”
Mary Yoder’s body is mature, etched with years and the scars of life. I see a round, slack face. A nose covered with freckles. Eyes at half mast. Long brown hair streaked with silver. I see flesh that rarely saw the sun. But her hands, face, and neck are tanned. I didn’t know Mary Yoder, but I’ve no doubt she was a modest woman. She wouldn’t want anyone to see her like this, and I find myself silently assuring her that it will be over soon. That I will do everything in my power to find the person responsible. That I will bring her granddaughter home.
I’ve attended more autopsies than I want to think about. I’m invariably astounded at the violence people are capable of. I never stay for the full course of the procedure; I couldn’t stomach it. However difficult, seeing a victim beneath the stark lights of the morgue is part of a ritual that will hopefully set me on the path to finding a killer.
“Dr. Blake has taken and preserved all possible evidence present on the body. It has been photographed extensively. Once those things were done, the body was washed and X-rayed.” Doc Coblentz looks at me, the goggles making his eyes look huge. “One of the more interesting things we found was that the victim had gravel in her mouth.”
I stare at him, surprised. “Any idea how it got there?” I look from man to man. “Could she have fallen in the driveway, struck her mouth on the ground?” Even as I ask the question, I recall that the attack likely happened inside the house.
“No way of knowing for certain,” Doc tells me. “It wasn’t just a small amount, Kate.”
“About four ounces,” Dr. Blake says.
“If I were to guess,” Doc Coblentz says, “I’d say someone put it there.”
“Postmortem?”
“Probably,” he tells me. “None of the gravel had been swallowed or ingested.”
“Any idea where the gravel came from?” I ask. “The driveway? Did the killer bring it with him?”
Dr. Blake chimes in. “We sent a sample to the BCI lab. They’ll run a comparison to the material in the driveway.”
I find myself thinking about the note found on Mary Yoder the day she was killed.
Food gained by fraud tastes sweet, but one ends up with a mouth full of gravel.
I make a mental note to see if Tomasetti has the resources to match the gravel to a specific area or to a company that deals in aggregate.
“Moving forward.” Doc Coblentz reaches up and repositions the light. “As you can see, the decedent suffered multiple sharp-force trauma.”
He indicates the victim’s hands. “Defensive wounds present on both hands and arms. Nonfatal superficial incised wounds on the left forearm. Left biceps. Right shoulder.” He grips the arm and opens the wound, so that it looks like a gaping red mouth carved into skin the color of ash. “Incised wound cut through the tissue, penetrating to the bone.”
“The killer is physically strong.” I hear my own voice as if it comes from far away and belongs to someone else.
“I concur,” Dr. Blake puts in.
“Do you have any idea what kind of weapon was used?” I ask.
“A knife with a serrated blade. As you can see, the edges of the incised wounds are not smooth. I would estimate the length at six to eight inches. I’m guessing now, but there was probably a guard. Likely some type of hunting knife.”
“How are you able to discern the length of the knife and that it had a guard?” I ask.
He looks at me, his eyes large behind the protective glasses. “I examined some of these incised wounds under magnification earlier. My findings were interesting.” He indicates a two-inch gash above the na vel, below her lowest rib on the right side. “When the knife penetrated, without the impediment of bone, it went all the way to the guard. You can’t see it with the naked eye, Kate, but under magnification there was bruising present as well as tissue damage where the guard impacted the flesh.”
Looking at the wounds, the sheer number of injuries, and the damage done to this woman’s body, I get that tremor in my gut again. Sweat breaks out on the back of my neck. Spit pools in my mouth.
“Judging by the force of these wounds, Kate, I would say this was a frenzied attack. The individual who did this was either out of control or simply determined to maim and kill.” He indicates several wounds to the shoulders and upper chest. “I believe it happened quickly. He didn’t aim. Several of these wounds struck bone, which impeded penetration.”
I wince inwardly, trying not to think of the pain that would have caused.…