Wounds (10 page)

Her cell phone sounded and she answered. The caller ID revealed the caller. “Dr. Shuffler, did you call to ask me out for a Friday night dinner?”

His chuckle was drenched in weariness. “You know, I would except for two things.”

“Uh oh, here it comes.”

“I'm having trouble getting away from work these days. It seems a certain homicide detective keeps sending dead bodies over.”

She leaned back in her chair and rubbed her eyes with her free hand. “You prefer flowers maybe?”

“A man of my sensitivity can appreciate flowers. They're certainly better than this mess.” The hollowness of his tone told her he was calling from the autopsy area.

“What's the second reason for not treating your favorite detective to a steak?”

“If I start dating again, my wife would put me on one of these slabs.”

“That would be awkward. At least it would be an easy case to solve.” She paused to be polite, then, “You got something for me?”

“Pretty straightforward. Mr. Cohen died from a severe beating. Obvious, I know, but I'm making it official . . . well, official in a preliminary way. There's still toxicology, but that will take some time and I doubt it will change my opinion about COD.”

Carmen straightened and grabbed a notepad and pen. “Let me have it.”

“First the ugly part. The beating was protracted. Judging by the amount of bleeding into tissue, and the extent of bruising, the guy's heart kept beating long after the attack began. All but two of his ribs were broken. Both arms were pulled out of joint and both sides of his pelvis—the iliac crests—were broken. I can see evidence of a boot print—and before you ask, I can't get a great image of it. I've taken photos. Maybe you can run down the brand, but I doubt it. That'll be your call. Both patellas have been crushed.”

“His kneecaps?”

“Yep, just like in those old gangster movies. Three fractures in the left leg, consistent with kicking; two in the right. When I opened him up, I found severe damage to both kidneys.”

“And he was alive through all this?”

“Yes, I haven't got to the COD yet. Markings on his wrist and underlying tissue damage indicate his wrists were bound. The skin damage at the site indicates that the victim was strung up by his wrists. Probably explains the dislocated shoulders. It is logical to assume that he was beaten while hanging there.”

“Someone used the guy as a punching bag?” The mental image made Carmen's stomach constrict.

“There might be more than one offender. My early examination doesn't reveal that, and I doubt anything I do will tell us if you're dealing with one nut job or several.” He exhaled. The man wasn't young anymore, not that a younger man would have endured any better. “I do have a little something for you: the size of the killer's fist. It's big. Heavyweight-boxer big. Knock-a-train-off-the-tracks big. I don't know who the guy is, but you may want to shoot him a few times before you question him.”

“Gladly. So what do you think the cause of death is?”

“Crushed larynx. I could be wrong, but I'm pretty sure. The last blow was a wicked punch to the throat, hard enough to crush the laryngeal prominence.”

“The Adam's Apple.”

“Yes, ma'am. The blow was hard enough to crush the larynx.”

Carmen searched for words but none came. Apparently, Shuffler ran low too. The image of a man hanging by his wrists while at least one person pounded on him before delivering a blow that would cause the man to suffocate unnerved her, and it took a lot to do that.

“Bud there with you?” Bud was the first detective on the scene so he got to observe the autopsy.

“Yes, he's still here. Do you want to talk to him?”

“Not unless he has something to add.” She heard Shuffler relay the question. “He says no. Frankly, he looks a little off his feed.”

“I told him not to have the beans.” A second later: “Let me ask something, Doc. Do you think Cohen and Lindsey could have been killed by the same guy?”

“Detective Tock said you were thinking along those lines. At first, I said the idea was ridiculous. Now, I'm not so sure. I have nothing to link them. Lindsey was killed by an anaphylactic response to latex, and an instrument of torture was used on him. I have no trace evidence to suggest that anything other than fists and booted feet were used on this guy.”

“But certainly Cohen's death involved torture.”

“No arguing that. Still, I can't link them. That being said, it doesn't mean they're not related.”

“Okay, thanks, Doc. I look forward to your report and the photos.”

“Detective, when you find who ever did this to Cohen, promise me . . . promise you'll arrest him real hard.”

“I'll do it, Doc.” She hung up. The last time she had heard Shuffler say anything like that was about a brutal murder of a child, and Carmen solved the case and arrested the murderer hard—hospital hard.

11

D
r. Adam Bridger brought a simple but powerful message. He always did. He was the students' favorite chapel speaker. Although it would be considered unprofessional to say so, Ellis knew the faculty felt the same way.

Bridger, a man of average looks and height, and above-average intelligence, spoke in even tones, more teacher than preacher. He also spoke from personal conviction. He believed what he said; he lived what he taught. His text was drawn from Genesis. Those not familiar with the Bible might think it odd that the seminary president would preach from an Old Testament book instead of the New Testament. The record of Christ's crucifixion was found in the Gospels, but prophecies and allusions to it could be found in several places in the thirty-nine books of the Old Testament.

“Genesis 22 holds an account that makes me furious.” Bridger had let the statement land with force. “I cannot read it without a sense of outrage boiling in my gut. God asks for a human sacrifice. Not only that, He demands that His chosen man—Abraham—cut the throat of his only son, the son of divine promise. When I think of Abraham and Isaac crossing the distance from their home to Mount Moriah, the future site of Solomon's temple, I ache for them. What thoughts ran through Abraham's mind? What fears? Imagine the heartbreak. And what of the young man Isaac, who makes the journey with only one question: ‘Where is the sacrifice we are to make to the Lord?' My anger grows when Abraham states that God will provide the sacrifice.”

Bridger took hold of the pulpit as if he needed to be steadied. “There the scene unfolds. The kindling and wood are laid for the fire to burn the sacrifice. Who set up that altar? Isaac, the one who would be asked to crawl on the wood arranged to burn his flesh to ashes. My fury mounts. At some point Isaac realizes what is being asked of him and based on his father's requests, lays himself on the mound of kindling.”

Bridger took a step back, and the emotion in his voice moved Ellis. When Bridger stepped forward again, he leaned closer to the microphone. “Then it comes. The moment when the elderly Abraham lays the sharp edge of his knife to his own son's throat. Did he let it linger? Did his hand shake? Did he close his eyes?

“The muscles in his back and shoulders and arm tense, ready to draw the blade and split Isaac's throat. Isaac, the son he longed for, prayed for, hoped for.” He straightened. “Isaac didn't protest. We have no record of him begging for his life or making any attempt to escape. He could have gotten away. He was young; Abraham was old. If Isaac had chosen to fight, Abraham would not have had a chance. Isaac didn't fight back. His father was a man who spoke to God and if this was what God demanded, then he would not resist.”

Bridger inhaled deeply. “Then the knife began to move. Only then did God stop Abraham.” He nodded. “Furious. Angry. No other passage makes me want to shake my fist in God's face. ‘How could you?' I want to cry. `What kind of God does that?'”

He let the questions float in the air. Ellis knew the answer, but the account never failed to move him.

“I'll tell you what kind of God does that: the kind of God who would ask the same thing of Himself. Except for Him, there was no one to stop His hand. Jesus is God the Father's Isaac.

“Do I have a right to feel angry over the passage?” He shrugged. “I think so, but I also have a responsibility to remember that it was God who made that kind of sacrifice for us. We are supposed to be angry about this injustice. We are supposed to be furious about the sacrifice Abraham was called on to make. It is the sacrifice of Good Friday. Jesus went to the cross willingly. He did so for us, and it was no easier for God to see than it was for Abraham. Our life came from Jesus' death. We celebrate Easter—Resurrection Day—but we grieve on Good Friday. The cartoon character Charlie Brown used to say, ‘Good grief.' There is a good grief if that grief achieves an eternal difference. We do not have Easter without Good Friday. Out of death came life . . .”

The last phrase echoed in Ellis's mind. Would any good come out of the murder of one of their students? Could anything good come out of the brutal killing of Shelly Rainmondi?

If so, Ellis couldn't see it.

Carmen's late lunch had worn off several hours before. Her head was beginning to ache and her stomach grumbled. She snagged a granola bar from the goody machine and a cup of black fluid she hoped was coffee. She had just taken a bite of the bar when Bud walked into the open detective's area. He carried a polystyrene food container and placed it on her desk. He also set down a folder of material he had retrieved from the ME.

“What's this?”

“A deli sandwich and some chips.”

“What kinda sandwich?”

Bud lifted an eyebrow. “What? Now you're getting picky?”

“No, but how do you know I haven't gone out and had dinner?” She opened the container. Ham and turkey on rye. It looked wonderful.

“Because I know you.” He pulled a chair close to her desk, a metal contraption that could double for a bomb shelter. “You are a creature of inertia.”

“Inertia. You know I love it when you talk all sciency and stuff.” She batted her eyes.

“I'm serious. Can't get you out of the house, can't get you to leave a crime scene, can't pry you out of the office. You're a difficult woman to move.”

She bit into the sandwich. Perfect. Much better than a six-month old granola bar. “Took you longer to get back from the ME than I thought it would.”

“He's a little upset about the nature of the crime. You'd think a man who has seen what he has wouldn't let such things bother him.”

“It was especially brutal.” Carmen spoke around the food in her mouth.

“That's a fact. You just saw the outsides. His innards were a mess. Blood in the lungs, liver perforated, spleen damaged, broken bones . . . well, you heard that part.”

Carmen opened the file and was greeted by a photo of the deceased with his chest cut open. More disturbing was the damage done to the face. Had the man lived, he would have had to endure a number of reconstructive surgeries. She hoped Jews believed in closed-casket funerals. She chewed her food and glanced at the other material in the folder.

“I got copies of the X-rays because I wanted you to see this. I've been thinking about it on the drive back. This is a crime of passion. This man wasn't killed in anger. Doc thinks it was a protracted beating. It was torture. Look.” He picked up a print of the digital X-ray.

Carmen saw a rib cage that looked as if someone had taken a baseball bat to the man's chest. “Any trace?”

“Not on the body. We looked for wood fragments . . . we looked for everything. Doc is a thorough man. I was in the room when he called you, so I know he mentioned the fist imprint. A monster fist. We're looking for a brute. King Kong's little brother. Look at the ribs. See how they're busted up? Doc thinks the perp strung the guy up and went all heavy weight on him.”

“He told me that.”

“What he didn't tell you was the thought that went into the beating. You may want to put your sandwich down for this.”

“I can take it.”

“Suit yourself. Here's what we think happened. Black Hat abducts the vic, subdues him, maybe knocks him out with a blow or maybe sedates him somehow. Tox will tell us that. Anyway, the guy is hanging by his wrists, arms over head, exposing the rib cage. Our guy starts his workout, first punching the torso in such a way that the ribs snap. There's no indication that he used any blunt instrument other than his fist. But he's not done, see. He then starts aiming at what are now free-floating ribs.”

“Why would . . . oh.” Carmen set her sandwich down. “You're telling me this guy was trying to drive rib fragments into the vic's lungs?”

“And liver. The guy flailed the chest. He pounded on the sternum so it cut into the liver. So the vic begins to hemorrhage.”

“That's sick.”

“There's more. Look at this.” Bud pulled another X-ray from the folder. This one showed two busted up legs. He then pulled photos of the victim's bare legs. He pointed at several spots on the photo. “See these bruises?”