Chapter 30

Andrew Daisuke locked the door to his Chinatown diner and began the six-block walk to his apartment on California Street, not far from Old St. Mary’s Cathedral. It being close to midnight, there was no one on the sidewalk, and only an occasional car sped by. His diner, The Golden Spoon, served a variety of Asian and American fast foods and had been busier than usual for a weekday evening. Andrew spent an hour after the last customer left, making out his grocery list to give his vendor in the morning.

The night air was cool and crisp, and, as he ambled along, he marveled at a large yellow moon that had risen over the Bay. Passing the cathedral, he remembered his daughter’s catechism class held earlier that evening. He would have to get the particulars from his wife, May, when he got home. It was gratifying to have the family cathedral in the neighborhood, so convenient for Mass and other activities. Especially bingo. Andrew loved bingo.

At the intersection, he turned the corner and headed east toward the Bay. Passing a dark alleyway, he paused, for something caught his eye--a brief movement in the darkness. The sidewalk was empty, and only a few lights glowed from apartment windows that overlooked the street. He stood for a moment, pulse rising, searching the dark alley. Seeing nothing, he continued his walk but, again, a muffled sound stopped him. He turned and peered into the alley.

“Who’s there?” he said. The hairs on his neck stiffened, his skin prickled.

Nothing.

Andrew took a step into the alleyway and scanned its depths. It was difficult to see into the darkness, but he satisfied himself that there was nothing there. Must have been a cat, he thought.

Just as he directed his attention back to the sidewalk, he was grabbed from behind and jerked into the dark recess of the alley. Something had him by his neck and shoulder, and its hot breath blew past his head. He struggled against the powerful grip on his neck and shoulders, to no avail.

“What the hell?” he shouted. “Who are you? What d’ya want?”

There was no answer. Andrew continued to struggle.

“Stop it, dammit! For Christ’s sake! Lemme go!”

He twisted his arm up and managed to get a hold on one of the hands that gripped him. Good god, it felt different, like fur or something. From behind him came a growling, grunting sound, one that sounded like something from another world. Like a large animal. The grip he had on the hand felt cold and wet. Strong.

He tried to wrestle free, but it was no use. The more he struggled, the tighter was the grip on his neck and shoulders. He felt an arm move around his neck into a chokehold and squeeze. He couldn’t breathe.

The growling was louder, and he fought to get a breath. His heart pounded, and he felt as if he was going to vomit.

“Turn me loose, dammit!” he shouted, inhaling enough air to speak.

Andrew fought with all the force he could muster, but he felt himself fading, his strength waning. The other arm of whoever was attacking him wrapped around his head, forcing him down.

Then everything went black.

***

FBI Special Agent Hank Jacoby strolled into the San Francisco morgue located in the office of the medical examiner in the Hall of Justice. A pert secretary whose black glasses were too large for her face greeted him. After peering at his identification, she led him down a long, brightly lit hallway and ushered him into a cramped office.

“I’ll tell Dr. Brathwaite you are here, sir,” she said. She left him standing next to a small window that overlooked the Bryant Street parking lot below. A fresh wind blew leaves into small whirlwinds while people scurried about their daily activities.

A young man in scrub attire entered the office. He smiled through a neatly trimmed beard and extended a hand.

“Special Agent Jacoby,” he said, eyeing the agent through wire-framed glasses. “I was apprised that your office wished to be notified if any victims arrived exhibiting a manner of death similar to the woman of a week ago.”

“Yes, yes, Doctor,” Jacoby said. “What do you have?”

Brathwaite picked up a file off the desk and handed it to Jacoby, who took it and began thumbing through it.

“This victim was brought in early this morning,” the doctor said. “Our office picked him up over in Chinatown. As you can see by the photographs, the man was the victim of a vicious attack by person or persons unknown.”

The doctor picked up a Styrofoam cup half filled with cold coffee and gulped it down. He waited while Jacoby looked at the crime scene photos before continuing.

“I called because the man’s wounds are similar to the woman’s from last week. I was just getting ready to do the man’s autopsy. Would you care to join me? You can see first hand what you are dealing with.”

Jacoby’s stomach twisted. He hated postmortems, but they were a necessary part of the job. He was glad all he had for breakfast was a roll and coffee.

“Sure,” he said. “When do we start?”

“Let’s get you into some scrubs first. Follow me.”

Jacoby followed the young pathologist through a maze of sterile hallways before finally reaching large room whose sign on the door read, MEDICAL STAFF LOUNGE. The room contained several sofas and chairs, a television, a cabinet with coffeepot resting on its surface along with a platter of doughnuts and rolls. A microwave completed the appointments.

Brathwaite led the agent through the lounge and into a smaller locker room. He pulled a set of scrubs from a shelf, handed them to Jacoby, and pointed to the bathroom behind the bank of lockers.

“Find yourself an empty locker, and you can use the bathroom if you need to. I’ll wait in the lounge.”

Jacoby changed into the scrubs and joined Brathwaite. The doctor led him to the autopsy room, where the lifeless body of the victim lay naked on a stainless steel table. A surgical light shone brightly on the corpse. Brathwaite moved to one side, and a technician took up a position on the opposite side of the table. Jacoby stood at the doctor’s elbow.

Talking both into a microphone and to Jacoby, Brathwaite’s voice was soft but firm. “The victim is Andrew Daisuke, a fifty-two year old Asian male.”

With that introduction, the doctor began the methodical routine of the autopsy. First, he examined the surface of the body in minute detail, even using a magnifying glass at times. Jacoby could see for himself that the victim had met with a horrific and violent end. Similar to the woman of the previous week, the face had been destroyed, the skull crushed. There were numerous gaping wounds on the arms and torso of the victim. Dried blood covered the body. Jacoby fought the urge to leave. His stomach churned.

Brathwaite continued his dictation. “The face has been totally destroyed,” he said. “The edges of the wounds are ragged in nature, indicating a macerating type of injury. The posterior skull is crushed, numerous cranial fractures are evident, and brain matter is both exposed and missing. There is a crush injury of the larynx, indicating a chokehold or garrote. The victim may have died as a result of suffocation.”

Jacoby peered over the pathologist’s shoulder to gain a better view. The swollen, blue gray neck had a reddish mark over the Adam’s apple. The victim was choked, he surmised.

“Moving to the skin,” Brathwaite continued, “there are numerous gaping wounds over the entire body resulting in a tremendous loss of blood. Most notably, there are large bite marks over the entire back, large areas on the anterior torso where skin and muscle are missing. The left arm has been dislocated and nearly torn away from the shoulder.”

The technician turned the corpse over. Brathwaite took a set of calipers and began measuring the marks on the victim’s back. He methodically went from wound to wound, and Jacoby noticed he was intimately engaged in his work. The pathologist seemed unaware of the agent’s presence. “Wounds on the back have the appearance of bite marks,” Brathwaite said into the microphone. “There are numerous abrasions and avulsions of the skin and, in many areas, deep lacerations.”

As Brathwaite worked his way over the body, the technician charted each one by a simple sketch with measurements. At one point, Brathwaite stopped his work and turned to Jacoby.

“The shape of the mouth arch on the arch width on some of these wounds is puzzling,” he said. “There are some wounds here that still show definite bite mark characteristics. You can see them here.” He pointed, and Jacoby nodded. “And here and here.”

Again, Jacoby nodded. “You said they are puzzling, Doctor. How so?”

“Well, for starters, the measurements are outside the range of most human bites.”

“What do you mean?”

“Bite mark injuries and suspect teeth possess pertinent physical characteristics, which are amenable to digital measurement. The most obvious are the distance from cuspid to cuspid, the shape of the mouth arch, the evidence of a tooth out of alignment, the width and thickness, spacing between teeth or missing teeth, the curves of biting edges, the arch width, and the labiolingual position.”

Jacoby didn’t need a bunch of medical double talk. He needed the young pathologist to get to the point. Holding back his irritation, he smiled and nodded as if he understood. “So what are you saying, Doctor?”

“I don’t believe these wounds came from a person,” Brathwaite said. “Most likely came from an animal of some sort.”

“I don’t quite understand.”

“Each person has a unique dental arrangement, and these unique features are sufficiently replicated in a bite mark to identify an individual to the exclusion of all others. The marks left by the teeth of a person may be used to identify the individual. A human bite mark is usually described as an elliptical or circular injury. That is not evident in these wounds. The differences in size and shape of teeth can sometimes be easily noticed, especially when teeth are missing or prominent. However, a bite mark is not always an accurate representation of the teeth. It depends on the jaw movement and use of the tongue. The lower jaw is moveable and gives the most biting force. The upper jaw is usually stationery and holds and stretches the skin.”

“Please, Doctor,” Jacoby said, now losing patience with the science, “just cut to the chase here. You said these bite marks weren’t made by a human, right?”

“That is my initial opinion, yes. You see, it’s the shape of the arch and its measurements that lead me to that conclusion. But let’s finish the post, shall we?”

The rest of the autopsy failed to yield any surprises and ended in a routine fashion. Jacoby felt like leaving but stayed to the bitter end. As he sat in the locker room and changed back into his suit, Brathwaite brought him a cup of coffee.

Jacoby accepted it with gratitude, took a sip of the coffee, and shrugged. “Sorry if I was short in there, Doctor. I don’t handle medical speak very well.”

Dr. Brathwaite sat and cleaned his glasses. “Not to worry,” he said. “It comes second nature to me, and I sometimes forget that not everyone gets as excited as I do. You’re going to have your hands full with this one, I’m afraid.”

“Doctor,” Jacoby said as he tied his tie. “I would like you to do something for me.”

“Sure, if I can.”

“I would like it very much if you could go back to the autopsy on the woman of last week and take another look at her injuries. I would be interested to know if they are in any way similar to today’s victim. See if she had any bite marks and, if she did, if they were similar to this victim’s. Can you do that?”

“Certainly,” Brathwaite said. “I didn’t do her postmortem, but I can review the findings and let you know. Would later this afternoon be satisfactory?”

Jacoby nodded. “Fine, just fine,” he said.