“Hi, Agent Anderson. It’s been a while.” Forensic pathologist Lloyd Grove holds his hand out. I’ve worked with Grove on a couple of homicides since I’ve been at the L.A. field office.
“Yes, almost two months.” Unfortunately it hasn’t been two months since I worked a homicide case, just since I sat in on an autopsy conducted by Grove.
“And Detective Ramos. It hasn’t been so long for you.”
“No.” Ramos looks at me. “Drive-by shooting last week.”
I nod, remembering the news reports from last Wednesday, when a young male was caught in the crossfire between the Crips and MS-13.
“Well, let’s get started.” Grove flicks on some surgical gloves. “I got my assistant to take blood yesterday, so I’ll get those results from my office before you go.”
Grove moves toward the body and we follow. The autopsy procedure is always the same. The vic’s clothes are removed, then the body is searched for any trace evidence before being washed. Finger, hand and footprints are also taken and sometimes initial blood is completed first, too, depending on when a forensic pathologist is available to do the full autopsy. While the procedure is usually conducted within twenty-four hours, law enforcement working the case can push for blood sooner, to kick things off while their vic’s waiting in the autopsy queue.
In the case of our vic, his head and pubic area have also already been shaved. The hair will be examined by forensic scientists looking for foreign matter, including hairs that do not belong to the victim. It’s a technique that often reaps rewards in sexual homicide cases, where the victim has usually been raped pre- or postmortem. However, we can find traces of the killer on a victim’s body from almost any crime.
I lean into the throat region to take a closer look. The flap of skin and tissue has been placed back in its normal position and I can make out two indentations on either side of the wound. These are the only “tool marks” from the weapon that was used to inflict the injury.
Grove flicks on the room’s recording equipment and says the time, date and case number before leaning down with me. “Yes, it is an unusual wound, Anderson. We might not be able to narrow down a murder weapon.”
“I was hoping it would be more obvious once it was cleaned.”
“You and me both. Can’t say I’ve seen anything like this before.”
Just what you don’t want a forensic pathologist to say, especially when you’ve already got unknown identity in the mix.
After taking a swab for DNA from the inside of the victim’s cheek, Grove methodically moves over the victim’s body, looking for anything unusual. As always, he pays particular attention to the victim’s hands, looking for defensive wounds.
“Anything?” Ramos peers over the body to the hand that Grove is examining.
“Slight discoloration of the knuckles, but it’s an older bruise, not from the night he died.”
“A punch?” I ask.
“Probably. See how it spreads down from the top knuckles onto the fingers, like the fist was clenched?” Grove clenches his own fist to demonstrate.
I lean over to get a closer look. “Uh-huh.”
“So a punch seems likely. But no broken skin, and it doesn’t feel like there are any broken bones, either.”
“So not a hard punch?”
“It depends where the punch was delivered. If our vic punched someone in the stomach or kidneys, for example, he would have had to hit them extremely hard to produce this bruising. But if the punch was to the face, it wouldn’t take much to bruise the knuckles.”
Of course…striking soft tissue isn’t going to cause as much damage as striking someone on the head or any other bony area.
“It’s on our victim’s right hand, so it seems likely he’s a right-hander.”
Just then Grove’s assistant enters. “Here are the X-rays.”
Grove takes his gloves off and inserts the X-rays into the light box. “Wow,” he says.
Ramos and I move closer.
Grove keeps his eyes on the film. “We’ve got one fresh break, the lower left rib.” He points to the floating ribs. The very bottom left rib is not just cracked, it’s broken clean through.
“That’s some break,” I say.
“Yes, but it’s one of the floating ribs, so less force required than with the upper ribs.”
I nod. The bottom two ribs aren’t attached to the sternum, hence the term floating. The upper ribs need a massive force to break clean through; even in a car accident, cracked ribs are more likely than a full break. Even so, you’re still talking about significant force to break clean through a rib.
“My wow is about the old breaks…there’s lots of them,” Grove continues. “This guy saw a lot of action, or maybe he was involved in a car accident or something.” He pauses. “No, the breaks aren’t right. His fingers aren’t broken at the moment, but they have been in the past. He’s also had his nose altered—” Grove glances back at the cadaver “—and the surgery was masterfully performed. Visually, I wouldn’t have guessed his nose had been altered. And he’s even had hairline fractures to his lower jaw. His left little finger has also been broken, but it’s the kind of break you’d see if the finger was bent back.” He demonstrates on himself. “Maybe sporting, trying to catch a ball…or maybe purposefully inflicted.”
“Like torture?” Ramos asks.
“Yes.”
“Any other signs of his past?”
“Not in the bones, no. From the hips and cranium it looks like he’s in his forties. I’d say somewhere between forty-two and forty-eight.”
Again, it’s nothing concrete for ID, but it gives us a better understanding of the victim.
“Obviously Asian descent, but I’ll have to plug his facial dimensions into the computer to give you an exact location.”
I nod, knowing that this technique is often done when a body has fully decomposed, leaving us only bones. The skull is measured and when these measurements are entered into a computer program, the software comes back with the most likely racial genotype.
“What about the scars on his face?” I ask.
Grove moves back to the body. “They’re both well healed.” He pulls across a magnifying glass to take a closer look at the skin. “The one along the underside of the jaw has actually been stitched—again, extremely well. The stitch marks are hardly visible to the naked eye. I don’t think they’re childhood scars, but they’re probably about fifteen to twenty years old.” He removes the magnifying glass. “See how this scar’s jagged?” Both Ramos and I move in closer and nod. Grove holds a clenched fist under the victim’s chin “Could be from a broken bottle held under the chin.”
“That’s street fighting,” Ramos says. “Maybe this is gang related.”
I stand upright again. “Gangs would tie in with the drugs theory, too.”
“Yeah, and we have a lot of Asian gangs in L.A., plus the more organized crime structures like the many Chinese tongs and the Japanese Yakuza.”
“So this guy could be Chinese or Japanese?” I ask no one in particular.
“Leave it with me,” Grove answers. “But it might not be an easy question to answer. Particularly given I don’t think he’s full-blood anything.”
“You’re thinking Eurasian?”
“I’m no expert, but maybe. Or maybe mixed Asian races.”
It can be hard to tell mixed racial features. Even full-blood siblings of a mixed race couple can look totally different, with one looking nearly completely Caucasian and the other completely Asian.
“You’ve got someone who’s an expert?”
“Doctor Ramira over at California State University has been involved in a research project that looks at racial identification in melting-pot areas like L.A. You know, in two thousand years will we all look the same, as interracial marriages become the norm and our cultures blend into one?”
“Sounds interesting,” Ramos says. “But I know my mother would have disowned me if I brought home a woman who didn’t have Latin blood running through her veins.”
Grove smiles. “Yeah, but what would you say to your children?”
“Point taken.” He pauses. “Mind you, I think my wife would prefer if both our sons married Latinas.”
“Your mum would have disowned you and your sons’ mum would prefer Latino. That’s a big leap in one generation. Imagine what it will be like in twenty generations’ time.”
Again, Grove’s got a good point. It’s the same story in Melbourne, my home town and one of the most multicultural cities in the world. The mix is different to L.A.—mostly Asian, Greek and Italian—and although racial boundaries still exist they’re fading with each generation. I’d say it’ll only be a few generations’ time before most people have some Asian, Greek or Italian heritage.
I look back at the body. “But this is no smashed bottle.” I point to the mushed throat.
“No. This wasn’t caused by anything sharp.” Grove uses his gloved finger to point to the two indentations on either side of the throat. “Whatever caused this was blunt. The skin’s perforated, but it’s been torn using a forward force, rather than being punctured by a point or sharp implement. But the force…”
“So the killer’s strong?” Ramos jumps to the logical conclusion.
Grove nods. “Whatever was used to damage the throat like this was wielded with great force.”
I instantly picture a big, thuglike attacker.
“The marks are cylindrical,” he continues, “but they don’t match any weapon I know of.”
“Forceps?” I offer.
Grove shrugs. “It’s possible, although I suspect forceps would leave a more elongated impression.” Grove pulls the large chunk of skin back, exposing the throat. “The force totally crushed the hyoid bone and damaged the trachea, as you can see.” He points to the windpipe and the once-horseshoe-shaped bone.
“So that’s what killed him?”
“Not exactly. His airway was compromised, but he still would have been able to get some air. And if paramedics had arrived on scene within a few minutes of the attack, they could have eased his breathing further. No, blood loss is the primary cause of death. The weapon, whatever it was, ruptured the carotid artery.”
“So he bled out?”
“Looks like it. Pending anything else out of the ordinary. Let me finish the external examination and then I’ll open him up. That will give us a closer look at the throat.”
Grove finishes the external sweep of the body, checking the victim’s nose, mouth, ears and sexual organs as part of the exam. Twenty minutes later he pulls his surgical instruments toward the table and looks up at the microphone. “Okay.”
Once Grove has finished with the surgical examination of the head and brain, he moves on to the chest, cutting through the skin and muscle structures. But unlike surgery, no blood seeps from the wounds—what was left of the victim’s blood is drawn by gravity to his back. Once both incisions are finished, Grove peels back the whole area, revealing the organs and other internal workings of the body. The corpse is fresh, so fresh that rigor mortis is still in play, although it is beginning to wane. It begins in the eyelids a few hours after death and first spreads to the face and neck, then the limbs. After about thirty-six hours it starts to dissipate until the body is completely supple once more, about forty-eight to seventy-two hours after death. In another day our victim’s body will be limp and pliable again.
Pulling the front section of skin forward doesn’t shed any more light on the cause of death. We could already see the exposed windpipe and hyoid bone. However, congealed blood around the other layers of skin in the throat and neck confirm the force of the blow. If his throat hadn’t been literally torn from his neck, the guy would have had a mighty bruise. But he died before the bruise could show up.
As Grove’s examining the neck area, he uses one of his instruments to part the tissue around the vic’s neck and points to a thin, ropelike structure. “See here…the vagus nerve is inflamed. Probably from the force applied to the throat before the weapon perforated the skin.”
Again, I picture a big strong man as our attacker.
“The vagus nerve runs in between the carotid artery and the jugular.” Grove uses one of his instruments to point to the carotid and jugular on either side. “And while the carotid has been totally perforated and the vagus shows signs of trauma, the jugular is intact.”
The three structures—artery, nerve and vein—are all very close to one another, but the weapon has managed to only affect two of them.
We hang around while Grove checks all the organs and takes samples as necessary, before putting them back in and closing our guy up.
“Let’s go check the blood work,” he says, snapping off the gloves and taking off his medical gown before washing his hands and turning off the recording gear.
We follow Grove up to his office, and wait while he checks his e-mail. “Okay, here we go. Blood analysis indicated no alcohol whatsoever and no other drugs in his system, prescription, nonprescription or illegal.”
“Mmm…” Ramos rests his chin on his thumb and runs his forefinger across his lips. “Doesn’t rule out the drug theory. But it makes him more likely to be the seller than the buyer.”
“He could have still been the buyer if the stash was empty, so empty it was out of his system,” I say. “He needed supplies.”
Ramos nods. “You’re right, could be either if the drug theory holds.” He sighs. “Or maybe we’re just looking at old-fashioned premeditated murder.” He slips his hands into his pockets. “With the usual motives…If it’s not money, could be jealousy or revenge.”
“But without an ID we don’t know who’d benefit financially from his death, or who could be jealous of him, or who might have wanted revenge. Plus we’ve got those old injuries—a rough past like that ties in with drugs or some sort of criminal activity.”
Grove nods. “And they’re not injuries from boxing or anything like that. I’ll send the dental records out, see if we get any takers.”
“Thanks, Doc.” Ramos takes his hands out of his pockets. “After you, Anderson.”
I thank Grove with a handshake.
“I’ll make sure I include you on my e-mail list for this case,” Grove says.
“Appreciate it.” I give him a nod before turning to the door.
Ramos says goodbye and is by my side within a few seconds. “Damn.” He lets out a long sigh as we move down the corridor. “Let’s hope we get a hit on a missing person.”
The L.A. coroner’s office is always busy, always full, and today is no exception, with gurneys lining the corridor—the dead waiting for their turn. I squeeze between the body bags. “Anything from Forensics yet?”
“No, not yet. But it’s probably time I touched base with them.”
“County lab?”
“Uh-huh.” He pulls his phone out.
I go through the forensic evidence in my head. We’ve got the light, which is probably being meticulously examined and then glued back together as we speak, then the cigarette butt, from which DNA will be extracted. DNA will also be isolated from remnants of the witnessing student’s urine and cross-referenced with the sample he gave police. I’m sure it’ll be a match, but it’s always good to check out the account of anyone who discovers a homicide victim. Then the fence and building debris were dusted for prints which need to be processed, and some lucky bugger’s got the job of going through all the nearby building-site remnants that were removed for further examination. Leave no stone unturned.
“Did you get many prints?” I ask.
“Yeah, they lifted quite a few from the bricks and they’re still looking at the fence and some wood that was lying near the vic, too. I’ll check with Prints first.” Ramos finds a number in his phone and dials.
I think he’s dreaming—it’s early days yet—but I keep my mouth shut. The crime scene would have been dusted for prints, and these would be awaiting processing at the county lab, with the head of the fingerprint area, Maggie Court. She’s great—very professional and a lovely woman—but like any lab servicing such a large area, it’s hard to keep up with the caseload.
I listen in to Ramos’s side of the conversation and gather the current status—the fence has been examined and some prints from it are being run at the moment. That’s pretty fast. Looks like we hit the lab on a slow day. Next he asks to be transferred to Sam Gould, the head of DNA at the lab. Again, I glean the gist of things—the DNA’s still being processed. Finally Ramos asks to be transferred to Sally Hart and I soon realize from the conversation that she’s the lab tech working on the parking-lot light. Based on my vision, I’m sure the light wasn’t a coincidence. When the killer turned away from his dying victim, he looked at the light and it was already broken. There’s no doubt in my mind. But I can’t give Ramos or Sally Hart a heads-up. What would I say?
Ramos hangs up. “Sally Hart will have the light reconstruction finished in about two hours. She suggested we come over at five so she can take us through it in person.”
“Fine by me.” A visual’s always good and I don’t know how our killer took it out.
“I’m going back to the station for a couple of hours to check in with my people. You want to come?”
I consider it for a moment, but then decide my time is best used elsewhere. “Thanks, but I might head back to the Bureau. I’ll see you at the lab.”
In the coroner office’s parking lot we part ways in our government cars. But instead of going back to the field office, I wait until I see Ramos drive past and give him a wave while pretending to be on the phone. Once I’m sure he’s out of the parking lot I head back to our vic.
My ID is enough to get me back into the morgue and buy me some time alone with the unidentified male. My aim is to induce another vision, something more than a flash of our vic in pain and shock. I stare into the face of the man and wonder what he was like in life. What was his occupation? I look at his hands and notice they’re smooth, indicating he didn’t earn a living from manual labor. In fact, his hands are so well maintained they look manicured. His cuticles are neat and trimmed, his nails rounded with perhaps a millimeter of overhang between the end of the nail and the fingertip. I decide to check his toenails, too, curious as to whether his impeccable grooming extends to his feet. Sure enough, his feet are smooth and his toenails also look manicured. So we’ve got an expensively dressed male who has regular manicures and pedicures, someone meticulous about his appearance and who can probably afford to keep himself well-groomed—unless he was living beyond his means and was so in debt that someone took payment in the form of his life.
I shake my head, it doesn’t add up…the grooming seems to be in opposition with his healed wounds. Not many highly paid professionals get into bar fights or confrontations with gangs on the weekend. But then there’s the age of those injuries.
I nod my head as I come to the only logical conclusion. This man spent at least part of his life, maybe his late teens and early twenties, involved in violence but then turned his life around. It would explain the well-healed wounds and bones, and his current state of maintenance. Maybe his past came up to bite him on the ass. I’m jumping to conclusions, but all the pieces fit…extremely well.
I take a deep breath in and clear my mind of all thoughts, including my preconceptions. I need to see something about this man’s life…or death. As each thought pops into my head, I force it out. I need my mind to be still. In this state of near meditation, I am the most receptive to visions. Eventually I’m rewarded.
He gets into a car and starts the engine. He’s alone. His cell phone rings and he’s talking. He’s upset…annoyed. He raises his voice. The caller hangs up and the man’s left with a dial tone. He yells into the silent phone and then throws it across the car. It ricochets off the passenger door and lands on the seat.
His anger turns to grief, and tears trickle down his face.
I open my eyes and I’m staring at the lifeless face of the victim lying on the hard metal in front of me. I replay the vision. Both his voice and the caller’s were barely audible, but it sounded as if they were talking in another language. I try to replay a word or two in my head, something I could repeat or spell to try to find out the language, but it’s spoken too softly and too quickly. Okay, what else was there? Whatever he and the caller were talking about, it was heated and I felt many emotions pulsing through the victim. He was initially shocked but that soon turned to concern…maybe even fear. That was quickly replaced by anger, but once he’d thrown his phone, a sense of sorrow or loss was the only remaining sensation.
I sigh, trying to piece it together. I don’t think it fits with a drug deal gone wrong. So how does it fit with other motivations for premeditated murder? It could be blackmail of some sort. Shock and horror over what the caller knows or has, then anger that he’s being blackmailed, and finally sadness as he realizes he has to submit to the blackmailer’s demands? That would fit. What about jealousy? Could the caller have been the jealous partner of some woman, accusing our victim of impropriety? That might fit with the victim’s emotions, too—he’s concerned, then angry that the caller’s discovered the affair, but also sad because it will have to end. I shake my head. The emotions align with many motivations behind murder, and wild speculation won’t get me anywhere.
I try to induce another vision, but after twenty minutes and nothing, I sign out of the morgue and head back to my car. A glance at my watch tells me it’s 4:00 p.m. Not enough time to go back to the office and work on another case. Even without factoring in the travel time, an hour’s not long enough to get inside the mind of a killer or victim. You need to immerse yourself in the case, live it and breathe it. Working on something else now will be useless and it will take my mind away from our Little Tokyo victim.
I drive to the lab at California State University and spend thirty minutes in my car flicking through the case file again…live and breathe it.