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Sixteen

Madison hustled through the corridors to the morgue. She was moving so fast that her legs could barely keep up, and it had her torso leaning forward. She must have looked hilarious.

“Finally!” Terry flailed his arms when he saw her. He was positioned in the morgue doorway. “Standing here so Richards won’t lock the doors, but I was starting to fear him coming along and pushing me into the hall.”

“Oh, Terry, you scare easily.” She smirked and entered the morgue. She went straight over to Cole Richards who was next to a gray slab where Chantelle Carson was draped with a white sheet from the breasts down. Her face appeared soft and relaxed, an observation Madison often made of the dead and found just as unusual every time. It often made her question if heaven or another spiritual plane did exist, but she didn’t get too caught up in philosophy. Who could really say for sure?

“Good morning,” she said.

“Morning.” Richards didn’t say anything about how close she was to being locked out, but his gaze and tone of voice certainly did. “I’ve reached out to the victim’s friend, Lana Barrett,” he said, “and she’s coming in to make the formal ID this afternoon.”

It was just procedure because Carson hadn’t been found with identification, but they were certain she was the woman on the slab. Basically, if they didn’t hear anything to the contrary from Richards, the ID held. In this instance, they’d proceed as if it was verified unless advised otherwise. “Okay, thanks.”

Richards dipped his head. “All right, so I’ve done a preliminary. Lividity told me that she died lying on her back.”

Lividity was how blood pooled to the lowest gravity points in a body after death. It was a good indicator of body position.

“She died in that shed, as we thought,” Madison said.

“I believe that’s safe to say.”

Madison remembered the drops of blood leading from the door to where Carson had come to rest. “Do we know what items were used as a murder weapon yet?” She recalled Richards had thought a couple things could have been used.

“One weapon. A five-inch blade, non-serrated. Possibly a kitchen knife.”

Madison glanced at Terry, back at Richards. “Sounds like you got that narrowed down.”

Richards smiled and moved toward Carson. He lowered the sheet, exposing Carson’s torso. The stab wounds had been cleaned but appeared raw. “As you know, I often x-ray the bodies before starting on the internal examination. Something turned up in the first wound.”

“The first?” Madison asked, curious how he determined which came first.

Richards pointed with his gloved finger from one stab wound to the next and, as he went along, said, “One… Two… Three.” He returned to number one.

She leaned over the body, the suspense killing her, but it was the smell of decomp that did her in. It shot straight up her nose and roiled her stomach. Bile started up her esophagus. How could she have anything left to puke? She stepped back and swallowed roughly.

Richards stopped all movement. “You all right?”

“Yeah…I…” She held up a finger and stared across the autopsy suite. She just needed to focus on the case and get the smell out of her— Another mouthful of bile, too much to swallow. Shit! Shit! She slapped one hand over her mouth and held up her index finger on the other hand. She hustled to the nearest sink and let it out. As she rinsed the basin and saw the last of her vomit go down the drain, any relief she felt physically was overridden by absolute embarrassment.

She turned slowly. Both men were watching her.

“Go ahead.” She gestured toward Richards.

Richards didn’t question her, didn’t pry with his gaze. If only Terry worked that way; he was staring at her.

The ME pressed a finger next to wound one. “This is the cleaner cut as you can see. No hesitation marks.” He paused and waited for Madison to nod in acknowledgment. He continued. “I collected this from the wound track.” He grabbed a vial from a side table and held it up for Madison and Terry to see. A small silver object was inside.

“Looks like it could be the tip of the knife,” Terry said.

“I’d say that it is. Stainless steel. And it’s because it broke off in the first stab that the other two appear to have hesitation marks, but that was an error in judgment.”

“So her attacker didn’t hesitate?” Madison asked.

Richards shook his head. “Not that I see, and they also made the stabs in quick succession.”

“Well, then, we just need to find a kitchen knife missing the tip,” she tossed out and glanced at Terry.

“Yeah, that’s all.” Terry rubbed the back of his neck as he often did when he felt overwhelmed.

“Is there any way to tell from that what brand the knife was?”

“Not sure we could go that far with it, but the grade of stainless could be determined. Might even be able to narrow it down to type of knife, once we have something to compare it to anyway.”

“The needle in the haystack,” Terry lamented.

Madison ignored the cliché and continued. “The grade of stainless could tell us if it was a high-end knife, though?”

“Should.”

“Then we’d have an idea of the wealth of our killer…to have that certain knife on hand,” Madison concluded.

“Not really.” Richards pressed his lips together. “Someone without much money could have been gifted an expensive knife set.”

She nodded, and said, “Fine, I get that.”

“And that’s also making the assumption it’s not your run-of-the-mill stainless steel, which it very well might be.”

“Again, the needle in—” Terry clamped his mouth shut when she leveled her gaze on him.

“Were there any defensive wounds?” she asked.

“None.”

“Her attacker could have surprised her,” she suggested.

“Or she didn’t have a chance to protect herself—with a waving knife coming at her and all,” Terry countered with raised eyebrows.

“Or that,” she conceded. “As for time of death, do you believe that—”

Richards nodded and set the vial back down. “I stand behind my original summation that she died between nine Friday night and two Saturday morning. Cause of death was a nicked artery.” He pointed to wound three and continued. “The other two wounds, if they had been treated in time, are in nonlethal areas. If she had gotten help…”

“Except number three would have killed her anyway?” Madison wagered.

“It’s possible if she got immediate help, surgery could have stayed the bleeding.”

“Now we’ll never know,” Madison mumbled and licked her lips, feeling all pasty-mouthed. Gum would have been nice. “What does the angle of the wounds tell us about the height of the attacker?”

“Angled slightly upward, and I’d estimate her attacker would be no more than six feet.”

Lana Barrett had described Saul Abbott as six foot. “It would seem she knew her attacker. It could explain her lack of defensive wounds. Maybe she never viewed them as a threat.” Madison paused, mentally piecing together Carson’s final moments. If Carson knew him or her, that meant the letters GB really could have been intended to identify her killer. If so, that seemed to eliminate Saul Abbot, but they didn’t really know if that was his real name. Madison added, “And being stabbed by someone she trusted really would have put her into a state of shock.” She glanced at Richards, who nodded in agreement. “The shock could have been what enabled her to walk to the Bernsteins’.”

“She would have been in delusional state, pumped with adrenaline. Though I don’t hypothesize.” Richards flashed her one of his toothy smiles, his pearly whites whiter than most people could hope for, even with a treatment.

She turned to her partner. “I think it’s more important than ever to find out what GB stands for, and if it is a person, we might very well have our killer.”