Madison walked in just as Dr. Fellman completed the Y-shaped incision on the body of James Sinclair.
Fellman had already completed an extensive external examination and removed the man’s pajamas. Livor mortis, the discoloration of parts of the body caused by the settling of blood, had shown that it had not been moved after death. Blood, urine, and hair samples had been collected, and oral and anal swabs taken. Nothing indicated that a sex crime had taken place, but in this kind of homicide Dr. Fellman was too experienced not to cover all the bases.
Brown was leaning against the opposite wall with a view of the autopsy table. The doctor was dictating his notes into a hanging microphone; they would take final shape in his report. His voice was a steady monotone of details and instructions to Sam, his assistant, also in green scrubs and wearing a clear plastic eye-mask.
“. . . Organs congested and slightly cyanosed. Presence of an old appendectomy. We found that the brain was swollen and engorged. The lungs appear similarly congested. Appearance consistent with prolonged inhalation of chloroform. Toxicology will confirm. See blindfold.”
Madison tapped her envelope for Brown to see. “I’ve got it,” she said.
“Any problems?”
“No. I have the picture, a comparison signature, and prints. Have you seen the check?”
“Yeah, Documents has it upstairs. It’s pretty creased up but workable. They’ll have to compare the signature before it gets dipped for prints. They’re waiting for you.”
“What have they found?”
“Chloroform.” Brown looked over at the notes he had taken as Dr. Fellman was talking. “There was bruising on the zygomatic bone under his left eye, probably from the butt of a gun. Enough strength to knock him out for a few minutes but no broken bones. I guess our killer then went on to do his business with the mother and the kids. When the father came to, he was tied up, blindfolded, and inhaling the poison.”
“He struggled.” Madison could see the deep red marks around his wrists and feet from where she was standing.
“Constraints almost cut through to the bone. He struggled till his heart gave out.”
“Doctor,” Madison asked, “how long was he conscious?”
It was something that had bothered her from the start, the difference in the manner in which the death sentences had been dealt out.
“It’s difficult to say. It has been known to take up to fifteen minutes for chloroform to take effect. In this quantity and proximity, I’d say a few minutes definitely. With convulsions and severe pain.”
Madison turned to Brown. “Several minutes of Sinclair thrashing around on the bed . . .” she said.
“Yet the covers were neatly turned under the bodies when they were found.” Brown nodded.
“The killer made the bed before he left.” She finished her thought.
Thus Madison saw him for the first time—the intruder, waiting for his victim to grow still, watching over him as his life ebbed away, then gently smoothing the sheets under the bodies, slightly moving this or that, until the tableau was complete. She did not recoil from the image. In her mind, she stood silently by the door and watched him work and tried to see his face. Dr. Fellman was starting on gastric contents as she left.
Fingerprint Identification and Disputed Documents were on the second floor of the drab concrete building. Madison had visited often during a stint in Robbery and was on good terms with the technicians.
Bob Payne was in shirtsleeves and drinking rosehip tea. Madison had taken an extra course in Forensics, and that gold star went a long way with him.
“How are you doing, Detective?”
“Very well. I have the signature.”
“Documents has a copy. I couldn’t wait.”
Madison took out the set of fingerprints from the envelope and gave it to Payne. He looked at the name on the top of the page.
“I see. I’ll run a parallel check for exclusion, as with the family members. Points of entry, the usual.”
Madison remembered something. “Did you work the Nostromo?”
“For what it was worth. It was clean as a whistle. It had been completely wiped down.”
Madison could smell the strong, unpleasant, metallic odor of ninhydrin mixed with the overripe-bananas scent of amyl acetate. It was the best solution for dipping paper and would not cause the ink to run. She wasn’t sorry to leave the room.
“When you see Brown, remind him this is my day off,” Payne called after her.
Wade Goodwin in Documents pushed his glasses back on his nose. “Frankly, I’d be a lot happier if we had a number of genuine originals to compare this with. You’re not giving us very much to work with here, and this is a long way from standing up in court. Do you know about top-of-the-letter and bottom-of-the-letter comparisons?”
“I do,” Madison replied.
They were looking at two zigzag lines he had just drawn over the partial name.
“Well, having said all that, I think the check signature was forged.”
“Thank you,” Madison said. It was a beginning: five minutes ago they’d had nothing, and now they had a possible motive. Someone had forged a check; people had died.
On Blue Ridge the neighbors were cooperative and concerned, but nobody remembered anything unusual about Saturday night or the days before it. Even though Brown knew that the King County Prosecutor’s Office wouldn’t hang a mad dog on eyewitness testimony, it paid to have it on your side.
Bob Payne and his people were dusting and comparing prints from dozens of items. The process took the time it took—snapping at their heels would not make them go any faster.
Dr. Fellman compared the angles of the entry wounds on the victims who had been shot and the bruising on the father’s face.
“What do you think?” Brown asked as the doctor stepped away from the operating table.
“I know what I think, and it’s too damn little to help.”
“Go on.”
“The victims were lying down when they were attacked; there was hair and blood on a door frame when he moved one of the children. I’d say he’s about five eleven to six one, or near enough. Right-handed and physically strong.”
“Mr. Average. It fits. From the angle of the letters incised in the wood, they were probably carved with the right hand.”
“There was no sexual activity of any kind, so no body fluids.”
The internal telephone rang, and Dr. Fellman picked up. After a few words he replaced the receiver.
“I found a few hairs in the ligature knot on Sinclair’s wrists.” He snapped off his gloves. “I had them checked.”
“Whose are they?”
Fellman smiled. “Unidentified adult male’s.”
“We’ve got his DNA?”
“The hairs are beautiful. Roots and everything. Couldn’t ask for more.”
Dr. Fellman looked pale and drained, almost ghostly in his green scrubs. Brown shook his hand and left.
For hours he had tried to reach Nathan Quinn on his cell phone. He wanted to ask whether James Sinclair had ever mentioned John Cameron. As he sat in his car, he tried again. No answer; the phone was still off.
Brown was tired and hungry. The rain had turned to thin snow, and the air in the car was sharp.
On the way to the precinct, he stopped for a chicken sandwich and a cup of coffee and had both as he drove.