Secrets in Death (In Death #45)(31)

“No, indeed. A single cut to the brachial artery with a sharp, smooth blade. A scalpel. There are no other wounds, offensive or defensive.”

“The angle. Face-to-face?”

“That’s my conclusion. It would take only a second.” He lifted a scalpel off his tray, flicked his wrist. “And done.”

“The medicals on scene speculated about the time frame for her to bleed out without intervention. What’s your take?”

“I discussed that with Garnet last night.”

“You … okay.”

He set the scalpel down. “She contacted me. As you surely understand, she felt both frustration and guilt that she’d been right there, and could do nothing to save the victim, even with the assistance of another doctor, and you.”

“Mars didn’t last ten seconds after she went down.” But Eve did get it, absolutely.

“And you wouldn’t have changed that, as I explained to Garnet, if you’d reached her sooner. Both Garnet and the doctor who tried to help assumed, certainly hoped for, a slower leak.”

“They didn’t see the bathroom, the spatter. She lost a pint—more—before she got out the door.”

“The initial gush and spray.” Morris nodded. “She might have died then and there, within a minute or two, but— Conversely, we’ll say, you sever your arm, through an attack or due to an accident.”

“I’d rather not.”

“Who could blame you,” Morris said easily. “However, with this amputation, your brachial artery gushes with your heartbeat. Pulse and gush. Why don’t you die? Many who sever limbs are saved—most, in fact—and the severed limb can be reattached with excellent results.”

“Still rather keep all mine where they are.”

“That’s the hope. With the insult of a severed limb, the blood vessels compress, slowing the blood loss long enough for treatment—if treatment comes. In this case, there was some compression. Enough it allowed her to walk as far as she did, to try to get help.”

“How much time?”

“I’d estimate she lived for about four minutes, perhaps five. But she passed the point of saving within about ninety seconds. The blood loss was too severe, confirmed by your on-scene record. Without immediate intervention from that point, she was the walking dead.”

And Morris smiled. “A marvelous, classic screen series.”

“What?”

“The Walking Dead. Have you seen it?”

“No.”

“Zombie apocalypse, fascinating. You’d like it. But to Larinda here, a severed hand would have given her a better chance to survive than what would appear to be a smaller injury.”

“He—fairly sure on he—could have stepped out, held the door shut for thirty seconds. Really wouldn’t have to bother,” she thought out loud as she circled the slab. “Even if she managed to get out and up the stairs in, say, a minute, nobody’s going to wade through the panic and—what? Do what?”

“Tourniquet off the blood flow—the flow that’s pumping out with every heartbeat. Just as you and the medicals attempted. Or cauterize the wound. Administer a transfusion.”

“Not going to happen in thirty seconds. Or ninety.”

She glanced at her wrist unit, then mimed slicing her arm.

“What do I do? That initial gush. I’m stunned, pissed. Look at my skin suit. What the fuck! I probably stumble back, grab at the wound. You son of a bitch. But he steps out, closes the door.”

“You’re already woozy,” Morris told her. “Your reactions are slowed within only seconds.”

“Right, so I stagger for the door, light-headed, maybe still too pissed to really be scared. I stumble toward the steps—it’s a good five feet. Already past the sixty-seconds mark by then. Maybe I try to call out. It’s noisy up there, and I’m weak. I pull myself up by the rail, brace a hand on the wall because I’m so dizzy. Maybe I grip the wound again, trying to stop the bleeding, but I can’t stop it. By the time I get up eighteen stairs, I’m past that two-minute mark. I still have to get to the doorway.”

“The blood’s no longer feeding your brain.”

“Not thinking now,” Eve murmured. “It’s just blind, animal instinct that keeps me moving forward. Really, I died back on the stairs. Zombie time,” she said and made him smile again.

“Basically.”

“Three minutes minimum before she made it into the bar.” She nodded at her wrist unit. “The suspect I’m leaning toward left the bar under two minutes before TOD, so likely no more than five minutes after the attack, likely nearer to four. He just had to walk up the stairs, across the bar, and out the door. I’d say he planned it out, timed it. He got lucky, as two couples were leaving as he did, but that was just a bonus.”

She intended to go back to the bar, do another round of timing the walk, at a brisk New York pace, from the restroom to the door. Just to nail it down.

But now she looked down at Mars. “Did she tell you anything else I can use?”

“As far as useful, you’ll be the judge, but she has a lot to say. I can tell you that though her official data lists her age as thirty-seven, I’d say she’s solidly a decade older.”