Two days later, in the autopsy suite of M.E. Harry Donlan’s office, the four bodies discovered at the site were laid out on individual tables. A fifth victim, found in her home near downtown Santa Fe, lay nearby. Since she had been murdered at a different crime scene, Donlan was going to compare her wounds to see if there was a connection to the other bodies. Lieutenant Romero stood next to the first table, joined by crime scene head Detective Chacon.
Although his title of Medical Examiner had recently been changed to Chief Autopsy Technician, for obvious reasons Donlan preferred to be called an M.E., rather than a C.A.T. A fifty-something Anglo, his acne-scarred face was framed with a salt-and-pepper Beatles-inspired haircut. He was a large man who carried himself with surprising ease. Donlan had a morose sense of humor that usually irritated Romero. His comments and behavior bordered on disrespect. The last time Romero had attended an autopsy, Donlan handled the child’s body like it was a rag doll. Romero couldn’t forget that.
The year-old Santa Fe County forensic facility was a high-tech morgue, designed for ease of movement. Every precaution was taken to eliminate the possibility of evidence contamination during preparation of the body. Cases brought to the morgue were received in this central area, processed and assigned ID tags. Harry Donlan took it all in stride but preferred the old methods. Slit them open, empty them out, and examine them part by part.
The assistant technician looked to be about seventeen years old. Donlan never introduced him and treated him the same way he treated everyone, as if he were a dunce. If he spoke to the tech, he called him “Hey, you.”
“Pretty nice digs, Doc,” Detective Chacon said.
“Modern and up-to-date,” Donlan bragged. “Makes my life a lot easier. Like the big paycheck, too.”
“So what do you think we have here?” Romero asked, preparing to hear a long lecture.
“Preliminary take on these ladies,” Donlan said. “Throats slit from behind in a left to right direction. I doubt if they knew what was coming—or maybe they weren’t even conscious.” He leaned forward to take a closer look. “Pressure applied by the knife is even, as though the killer held them upright with his or her arm. No sign of a struggle. Quick and clean cut, one swift move.”
“Cold winter weather kept the first two bodies from rapid decomposition,” he continued. “Other two—one died in early spring and the other maybe a few weeks later. Could be as much as six weeks later. The one over there that we’re calling the fifth victim—stabbed in the back first. Evidently she turned to face her perpetrator and then got it in the throat with one quick movement. We’re running tests to determine if the same knife used on the first four victims was used on her, but it’s doubtful. Five wasn’t found in the tunnel with the others and even though the manner of death was similar, I don’t think they’re connected. Once we’ve examined the wounds, we can tell if an identical weapon was used on the other four.”
“You may be right,” Romero said. “That fifth one has nothing to do with the others. Nothing to connect them. Stabbed, yes, but that’s not enough to tie her in to the others. That’s my guess.”
“You don’t get paid to guess, Romero. That’s my job. And it’s a more scientific process than just guessing.”
“Just thought that there’s a big difference between a stab and a slit,” Romero said.
Donlan shot him an exasperated look above the bifocals balanced on the tip of his nose.
“You see that sign over there, Romero? The one that says ‘Quiet.’ Right now that means you.” Romero fumbled for his cigarettes in his chest pocket. “That ‘No Smoking’ sign means you, too,” Donlan said. “You guys want to smoke, do it outside. Smoke can fuck up some of the tests. Now, let me do my work.”
Donlan continued his painstaking examination of the bodies. The autopsy technician took down every word he uttered and filled a form for each victim as he went along. Each body was assigned a case number and file. Hey You took photographs and gathered biological samples. He was efficient and fastidious, making sure each drop of body fluid was wiped away.
“Did you know that scientists have developed a new DNA test that can identify a killer’s ethnicity through some sort of genetic typing?” Donlan asked nobody in particular.
“That would certainly narrow the field in an investigation,” Chacon said.
“Yep,” Donlan said. “The test will even be able to identify eye color. There’s been some real advancements. Can even pick up DNA on a cigarette butt. Amazing stuff.”
The detectives continued to stand while Donlan forged on. Romero’s discomfort was obvious. Donlan turned to the tech. “Hey You, finish cleaning up this place.” Then he looked over to Romero and Chacon. “All right. Class dismissed. You two aren’t going to learn anything more around here. Don’t you have shoplifters to chase or bank robbers to arrest?”
Romero gave him a forced smile. “Yeah, come to think of it, we do. As always, Harry, it’s been a real pleasure.”
Romero and Chacon excused themselves and left the room through a side door. Chacon lit the cigarette he’d been holding in his hand. Like a kid, he was relieved Donlan hadn’t taken him to task about smoking. He passed the light to Romero.
“Damn,” said Chacon. “That’s really tough shit to sit through.”
“Yes,” said Romero. “It doesn’t get any easier, either. Just wait until it’s somebody you know.”