XII

Reading Her Insides

“Bettinger!” The name rebounded throughout the white pillbox and landed inside of an uncommonly dark ear.

Breathing steam and wearing a parka over his blazer, the detective from Arizona rose from his desk, traversed the precinct, and carried a steel chair across the dais to the inspector’s desk.

Zwolinski pointed a thick finger at Dominic, who sat on the far side of the enclosure. “Corporal Williams doesn’t look delighted.”

“He isn’t.” Bettinger winced when his buttocks struck cold metal.

“Keep him that way.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“Is the Elaine James case worth a big chunk of police time?”

“It is.”

“Where are you?”

“We’ve got an autopsy at eleven, and we’re talking to hookers, since she was one.”

Thick hands rubbed a purple bruise that the inspector had earned earlier that morning in a boxing match. “The file said she was a parasite.”

“She collected checks, but that was just gravy. The woman has a condominium.”

“Any ideas on the necrophile?”

“No. But he manufactures his own evidence.”

Zwolinski’s eyebrows climbed toward his silver pelt. “How so?”

“There was a camera at the scene.”

“I like what’s fallin’ out of your mouth.”

The boss dismissed the detective, gesturing with a hand that had knocked two teeth out of another man’s face earlier that morning.

*   *   *

Light glared on the stainless-steel blades of the enterotome that cut across the corpse’s esophagus and duodenum. A moment later, Meredith Wong extracted a purplish-red sack from between the severed pipes, placed it in a kidney-shaped pan, and claimed a scalpel.

Bettinger monitored the autopsy, flanked by Dominic, who typed text messages with thumbs that seemed too large for grammar.

Meredith Wong punctured the stomach wall, inserted the bottom blade of the enterotome into the incision, and cut across tissue that squeaked like rubber. A terrible smell like cheese and excrement spilled from the opening, and the detective pulled on a doctor’s mask. Grimacing, the big fellow withdrew to the far wall.

The coroner slowly exposed the inside of the stomach, which looked like a dirty diaper.

“What’s that?” inquired Bettinger, pointing at something that resembled an embryo.

Employing toothed forceps, Meredith Wong secured the item and raised it from the mire. Close inspection revealed it to be a dark brown cashew.

“Are there more?” inquired the detective.

The coroner searched the inside of the stomach. “There’s this,” she said as she pulled out another object. Gripped by the teeth of the forceps was a crinkled chili pepper.

“Looks like Szechuan.”

The Asian woman eyed the black man.

“My wife’s favorite.”

“Wife?” Dominic looked up from his phone. “There’s a woman who didn’t laugh or shoot when you proposed?”

Bettinger inspected the cashew and the chili pepper. “How long would these stay in her stomach before descending? Two hours?”

“Peppers and nuts are hard to digest,” Meredith Wong said, “especially when they’re not chewed enough, so it’s—”

“She was a swallower,” remarked Dominic.

“Muzzle that.” The detective returned his attention to the coroner. “What’s the longest it might’ve been—between her last meal and the time of death? Three hours?”

“Could be that long. Probably less.”

Bettinger faced his partner. “Pull up a list of every Chinese restaurant that’s three miles or less from the subject’s apartment. And put the Szechuan places on top.”

Big thumbs clicked tiny keys, and a moment later, Dominic lifted his gaze. “There a difference between Szechuan with a z and Sichuan with a i?”

“It’s like Hanukkah and Chanukah.” The detective enunciated the latter word with a guttural inflection.

“Don’t get Jewish.” The big fellow saw something on his cell phone. “There’s only one Sichuan near her apartment—Sichuan Dragon.”

“That’s where we’re having lunch.”

“I prefer sushi.”

The remainder of the autopsy was fruitless, and shortly after twelve, both policemen exited the hospital and returned to the silver car. Ten minutes later, they were on Summer Drive, driving toward the Chinese restaurant.

The two-way console on the dashboard squawked, garnering Bettinger’s attention.

Dominic flicked his hand dismissively. “Don’t pick it up.”

“It’s a police radio.”

“Those calls ain’t for guys like us.”

Bettinger plucked the receiver from the two-way unit and thumbed the talk bar. “Detective Bettinger and Corporal Williams. Copy.”

The device emitted a series of hisses and crackles.

“Where are you?” asked a sexless voice. “Over.”

“We’re busy,” replied Dominic.

Bettinger thumbed the talk bar. “We’re on Summer and Twentieth. Over.”

“Proceed to five forty-three Point Street, apartment sixteen ten. There’s a civil disturbance. Do you copy?”

“We copy. What’s the nature of the disturbance? Over.”

“Domestic violence. Over.”

“Who lives at this address? Over.”

“It’s unclear who lives there. Over.”

“We’re on our way. Over and out.”

Bettinger clipped the receiver to the console.

Dominic seized the two-way unit, tore it from the dashboard, and tossed it into the rear of the car.

“Five forty-three Point Street,” said the detective.

“I fuckin’ heard.”

“Apartment sixteen ten.”

Unable to look at his passenger, the bandaged, bull-nosed corporal tightened his fists upon the wheel. “You tryin’ to get me to take a swing at you? Turn my demotion into a suspension?”

“Who knows why I do anything?”

“Well I ain’t gonna throw no fists at you.”

Bettinger was not sure if the man was implying some subtler form of retaliation, but he let the comment sail.