Total pages in book: 117
Estimated words: 108342 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 542(@200wpm)___ 433(@250wpm)___ 361(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108342 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 542(@200wpm)___ 433(@250wpm)___ 361(@300wpm)
“Dad, I gotta go. I’m gonna take care of some of this mess in the kitchen beforehand, but I’ll call ya tomorrow.”
Dad nodded and raised his hand, offering a feeble wave. Nikolai approached the man and tucked a plaid printed blanket over his body, from the waist down. He could smell the coffee and cigarettes seeping out of the man’s pores—an unpleasant smell, but not exactly unhygienic.
He cleared the coffee table, collecting empty paper cups, an ashtray filled with cigarette butts, and the remains of a microwaved meal he’d picked at earlier in the day for lunch. While in the kitchen, he pet Dorsie, then washed the dishes before heading out.
He got in his truck and started up down the road then, at which time he began to pick up his phone to call his brother and let him know how Dad was doing. After a moment’s hesitation, he put the phone back down. It didn’t matter. The old man was the same as he’d been last week, and the week before that. Nothing ever changed. One brother didn’t care. Another brother cared too much. And there he was, smack dab in the middle. Just like his birthright. Left alone, to pick up the whiskey and dog-piss-soaked pieces…
It was cold in the Medical Examiner’s office. Porsche was accustomed to being around the dead. She’d seen her share of deceased people while being a homicide detective. She was also accustomed to the chill. Boston was no stranger to harsh winters, but this was a different type of cold—the kind that gnawed at bones and had a life of its own.
Dr. Carmine sat at his desk, a thermos at his side. He was a middle-aged man with thinning light brown wavy hair, and a thick mustache that covered most of his upper lip. His eyes narrowed behind silver-framed glasses as he produced various reports, explaining his findings in depth. He stretched out his hand to offer her a file, his gold wedding band glinting, and cleared his throat.
“So as you’ll see in Clark Johnson’s report, water was found in his lungs. He was the only one of the cases sent to me that had been drowned.”
“I suspect the killer may have been spotted, or feared being spotted, and needed to get rid of the body more quickly, versus displaying it on the beach as he did with the others. The way he had them displayed was rather ritualistic. Clark was an anomaly. May I see the toxicology report, too? Anything worth noting?” She opened the folder and quickly scanned the first page of his autopsy results.
“The toxicologist looked at all of the cadavers on your list, and with the samples I supplied, such as hair, urine extracted from the bladder if present, blood, and any other bodily matrices, she concluded that in varying percentages, the following four illicit and permissible chemicals were present in the majority of the bodies: cannabis, methamphetamine, alcohol, and nicotine. Some of the victims had different doses of heroin and fentanyl in them, but not all.”
Porsche flipped through the rest of Clark’s autopsy report, then did the same with the other victims.
“Yes… it looks as if the majority had marijuana and meth in their system. All of them had high amounts of alcohol in their blood, pointing to the possibility that they attended the nearby bars first, possibly going barhopping as some were noted to do on the weekends. Many were on surveillance video in the areas with cameras, enjoying the nightlife on the evenings of their disappearances, but what’s this?” She pointed to a photo of one of the other victims. Julian Appleton.
“It’s bruising from the strangulation. The coroner noted it as well.”
“But there are indentations.”
“I surmised those marks were from fingers.”
“Gouging? Strangulation marks are usually horizontal, not perpendicular. Looks too small to be fingers. At least, not the fingers of a grown man.”
“That’s true, but if there was a violent struggle, despite the victim’s intoxication, the killer may have been at an awkward angle trying to subdue him.”
“Okay… that’s possible, but this looks more like… like, I don’t know,” she turned the photo of the dead man lying on a metal slate sideways, “maybe a bite mark.” She grabbed her phone and accessed the magnifying app, then peered closely at the grainy photo. “May I see all the photos you have of Roberto Manuel, and Julian Appleton? Roberto had a strange mark around his neck, too. I want to compare their injuries.”
“I don’t believe that’s a bite mark. It’s not deep enough. But yes, I can give you the other photos. That one you’re looking at is zoomed up, obviously, but I have clearer ones.” Dr. Carmine got up from his seat and walked slowly over to a large metal gray file cabinet amongst a wall of several just like it. She sat with her now cold cup of coffee, watching as his fingers moved through alphabetically filed manila folders.