She gently lifted the boy’s head to look at the back of his neck. He felt so light, so weightless. “Yes, the marks are all the way around the neck. This would indicate that the victim was strangled, then his throat slashed. The throat wound is deep and long, extending just below the ear to the other ear. Bruises on the wrists and ankles are similar to the neck. The same rope may have been used.”
His hands were so small in hers. Maggie held them carefully, reverently, as she examined the palms. “There are deep fingernail marks on the inside of his palms. This would indicate that the victim was alive while some of the wounds were inflicted. The fingernails themselves appear to be clean … very clean.”
She rested the small hands at the boy’s sides and began examining the wounds. “The victim has eight—no, nine—puncture marks in the chest cavity.” She carefully poked the wounds, watching her gloved index finger disappear into several. “They appear to have been made by a single-edged knife. Three are shallow. At least six are very deep, possibly hitting bone. One may have gone through the heart. Yet, there is very little … actually, there is no blood. Sheriff Morrelli, did it rain while the body was in the open?”
She looked up at him when he didn’t answer. He was leaning against the wall, hypnotized by the small body on the table. “Sheriff Morrelli?”
This time he realized she was talking to him. He pushed off the wall and stood straight, almost at attention. “I’m sorry, what did you say?” His voice was hushed. He whispered as if not to wake the boy.
“Do you remember if it rained while the body was out in the open?”
“No, not at all. We had plenty of rain the week before.”
“Did the coroner clean the body?”
“We asked George to hold off doing anything until you got here. Why?”
Maggie looked over the body again. She stripped off a glove and pushed her hair back out of her face, tucking it behind her ear. There was something very wrong. “Some of these wounds are deep. Even if they were made after the victim was dead, there would still be blood. If I remember correctly, there was plenty of blood at the crime scene in the grass and dirt.”
“Lots of it. It took forever to get it off my clothes.”
She lifted the small hand again. The nails were clean, no dirt, no blood or skin, even though he had dug them into the palm of his hand at one point. The feet, also, showed no sign of dirt, not a trace of the river mud. Though he couldn’t have struggled much with his wrists and ankles bound, there still should have been enough movement to warrant some dirt.
“It’s almost as if his body has been cleaned,” she said to herself. When she looked up, Morrelli was standing beside her.
“Are you saying the killer washed the body after he was finished?”
“Look at the carving in the chest.” She pulled the glove back on and gently poked her finger under the edge of the skin. “He used a different knife for this—one with a serrated edge. It ripped and tore the skin in some places. See here?” She ran her fingertip over the jagged skin.
“There would be blood. There should be blood, at least initially. And these puncture wounds are deep.” She stuck her finger into one to show him. “When you make a hole this size, this deep, it’s going to bleed profusely until you plug it up. This one, I’m almost certain, went into the heart. We’re talking major artery, major gusher. And the throat … Sheriff Morrelli?”
Morrelli was leaning against the table, his weight jerking the stainless steel and sending out a high-pitched screech of metal against tile. Maggie looked up at him. His face was white. Before she realized it, he slumped against her. She caught him by the waist, but he was too heavy, and she slipped to the floor with him, her knees crumpling under her. The weight of him crushed against her chest.
“Morrelli, hey, are you okay?”
She squeezed out from under him and propped him against a table leg. He was conscious, but his eyes were glazed over. She climbed to her feet and looked for a towel to wet. Despite the well-equipped lab, there were no linens—no gowns or towels to be found. She remembered seeing a pop machine next to the elevators. Fumbling for the correct change, she was there and back before Morrelli moved.
His legs were twisted underneath him. His head rested against the table. Now, at least, his eyes were more focused when she knelt next to him with the Pepsi can.
“Here,” she said, handing it to him.
“Thanks, but I’m not thirsty.”
“No, for your neck. Here …” She reached over and put a hand at the back of his neck, gently pushing his head forward and down. Then she laid the cold Pepsi can against the back of his neck. He leaned into her. A few more inches, and his head would rest between her breasts. But now, dealing with his own vulnerability, he seemed completely unaware. Perhaps the macho ego did come with a sensitive side. She started to pull her hand away just as Morrelli reached up and caught it, gently encircling it with his large, strong fingers. He looked into her eyes, the crystal blue finally focused.
“Thanks.” He sounded embarrassed, but his steady gaze held hers. A bit shook up and yet, if she wasn’t mistaken, he was still flirting with her.
In response, she jerked her hand away, too quickly and much more abruptly than necessary. Just as abruptly, she handed him the Pepsi, then sat back on her knees, putting more distance between them.
“I can’t believe I did that,” he said. “I’m a little embarrassed.”
“Don’t be. I spent a lot of time on the floor before I got used to this stuff.”
“How do you get used to it?” He looked back into her eyes, as if searching for the answer.
“I’m not sure. You just sort of disconnect, try not to think about it.” She looked away and quickly got to her feet. She hated how his eyes seemed to look deep inside her. She realized it as a simple device, a cunning tool of his charm. Still, she was afraid he might actually see some weakness she had carefully hidden. Months ago there wouldn’t have been anything to hide. Albert Stucky had supplied her with her own vulnerability, and she hated that it stayed so close to the surface where others might see it.
Before she could offer him a hand, Morrelli slowly stretched his long legs from the twisted knot and got to his feet without staggering or assistance. Other than his almost fainting, Maggie noticed that Sheriff Morrelli moved very smoothly, very confidently.
He smiled at her and rubbed the cold condensation of the can against his forehead, leaving a wet streak. Several strands of hair slipped across his forehead and stuck to the wetness. “Do you mind meeting me up in the cafeteria when you’re finished?”
“No, of course not. I won’t be much longer.”
“I think I’ll take a Pepsi break.” He lifted the can to her as if in a toast. He started to leave, glanced back at the boy’s body, then walked out.
Maggie’s stomach churned, and she regretted not eating the breakfast offered during her roller-coaster flight. The room was cool, but her shuffle with Morrelli had left her hot and perspiring. She pulled off a glove and wiped her hand across her forehead, not surprised to find it damp. As she did so, she glanced at the boy’s forehead. From this angle she could see something smeared on his brow.
She bent over the table, looking closely at the transparent smudge in the middle of his forehead. She wiped a finger across the area and rubbed her fingers together under her nose. If the body had been washed clean, that meant the oily liquid had been applied after. Instinctively, Maggie checked the boy’s blue lips and found a smear of the oil. Before she even looked, she knew she’d find more of the oil on the boy’s chest, just above his heart. Perhaps all those years of catechism had finally paid off. Otherwise, she may have never recognized that someone, perhaps the killer, had given this boy last rites.
CHAPTER