A Caduceus is for Killing

by Diana Kirk

  "A few more questions, then an officer will take you down-town for a formal statement. You'll be home soon. Do you know any reason why Grafton would be here on a Saturday, or Sun-day?"

  "Sergeant, he was a physician. We work every day. He probably made rounds, supervised residents, or did paperwork. I don't know why, exactly, but he always came in for an hour or two every weekend. His being here was nothing unusual. Normally, I'm here on Saturdays and although this was my weekend off, I was on call last night."

  "Did you come over here?"

  "No. I was too busy. I lost three patients."

  "Sorry," he said, but his eyes showed no remorse. Andrea disliked him more and more. "Wouldn't someone else have been in the building--seen something?"

  "No," she said. "It's an outpatient building. We don't have office hours on the weekend. This building is virtually deserted. No one except the physician on call ever comes here."

  "And you were on call--"

  "During call, I only come over if I need to use the depart-mental library."

  "Hmmm." Krastowitcz ran his fingers through his mat of coarse curls and scratched his head. "Okay, Dr. Pearson. That'll do for now. Trent? Take Dr. Pearson downtown, get her statement, and see that she gets home, will you? When you're finished, contact me by radio, buddy."

  "At your service, Sergeant. My pleasure."

  She caught the look that passed between them. Her stomach knotted. Smug, know-it-all cops. What jerks.

  Krastowitcz turned back to Andrea. "Just a few more minutes, Miss, er, doctor. I might have more questions later."

  "My car?"

  "What about your car?"

  "I'll need it."

  "Don't worry. We'll have someone bring it home for you."

  "All right, Sergeant Krasto. . . ." She fumbled, embarrassed. "How do you pronounce your name?"

  "That's Kras-toe-wits, just like it's spelled, but you can call me Gary. That'll eliminate any problems. Okay?"

  The coldness in his eyes belied the friendliness of his words. Was he as kind and understanding as he seemed? Or was he simply patronizing her? She glanced at the other officer who stood by the door smiling. Trent, Krastowitcz had called him. That one liked the ladies. She could tell by his smirk. Cops. The usual variety. She shook her head. She wasn't in the mood for typical cops. Not now. Not ever.

  Chapter III

  . . . EQUALLY DEAR TO ME AS MY PARENTS . . .

  Dr. Pearson hurried off while Trent and Krastowitcz wondered about her. A possible suspect? She seemed so shaken. Could be an act. Gary disliked macho women. He also disliked sniveling crybabies. Jeez, maybe he just disliked women?

  He didn't blame Pearson. How many hours had she sat around waiting? Five? Six? Damned investigations took ages. Even though he was used to it, it was still tedious.

  She must be somewhere in her thirties. Even covered with gore, she was a looker. Her fingers had caught in her hair, trying to remove the matted, dried blood. She carried about twenty extra pounds--waist and hips--not breasts. He noticed two thick, whitened scars on each wrist. He wondered about those scars. Horizontal cuts went the wrong way to have done any real damage. A knife couldn't reach the brachial artery that way. That was something most amateurs did, not physicians. They knew how to do it right. Suicide? Why would a physician slash her wrists the wrong way? If it was an attempt, there'd be a report somewhere.

  "Hey, Gary." Another officer poked his head into the office. "The boys are here."

  "What took you guys so long?" Krastowitcz said, entering the chairman's office.

  George Iverson, the county coroner and medical examiner emerged from the bathroom, his voice booming through the room. "This isn't the only case in town. We had samples to run on that hit and run case you've been harassing me about. Boy, that one's messy. Had to use a shovel to get his head off the high-way."

  Krastowitcz entered the small bathroom behind Iverson. Their figures seemed to fill the claustrophobic space. This time, the smell bothered him. He could almost taste last night's dinner at the back of his throat.

  "What have we got here?" Iverson inquired. "Smells like--"

  "Ruptured intestines?"

  "Astute, Krastowitcz. Maybe you ought to be the coroner, and I'll investigate?"

  "No, George, you do such good work with your hands. I've got to retrieve the murder weapon."

  "Come closer and check out the anus. I think you might find something interesting." George beckoned his friend toward the body.

  "Already seen it, George. There's something there. Looks like some heavy manure." How long would this investigation take? How far behind in paperwork would this put him? "God, George. I'm up to my holster in this shit. I don't need another difficult case, I need a vacation."

  "Wrong, Gary. It's not shit. There's something metallic protruding there. A knife? Won't know for sure until we get him on the table."

  "If the crime lab's taken their pictures, we can get a closer look."

  "They're just about finished," George said. "Hey, get a bag over his head too, boys, might just be something there. Looks like there wasn't much of a struggle." The technician placed a paper bag over the victim's head. "Look at the wire around his wrists. It's only cut in slightly. For the force needed to impale him and cut off his penis, he should have struggled and caused the wire to cut deeply into his wrists, possibly to the brachial artery. That might explain all the blood."

  "Does it?" Krastowitcz hoped.

  "No."

  "What're you getting at, George?" Krastowitcz asked on the edge of impatience. He was too busy for games, today. The Excedrin had worn off, his head throbbed.

  "Look down his legs, Gary. See the streaks?"

  "Yeah."

  They bent closer to Grafton. "I can't tell what the murder weapon was, Gary." George muttered. "We'll have to wait till the autopsy. Right now, though, it looks like some sort of ornate dagger. Maybe a knife or a sword shoved upward, perforating the bowel. If it was long enough, it would've traveled through the subphrenic space into the heart. He either died instantly or, if the instrument missed the heart, bled to death."

  "What else?"

  "From the pooling of the blood and lack of rigor, I'd put the time of death at about 48 hours prior to discovery of his body. He reached full lividity some time ago. Shows he was draped over the stool, buttocks upward. His head is blue and swollen--turned into an even-colored bruise. Yet, he wasn't beaten. He's also blue from his knees downward--rest of his skin blanched. Blood pools in the lowest part of the body, proving he was draped over something prior to death, facilitating insertion of the murder weapon."

  "Someone pretty strong, I'd guess."

  "Yeah, someone like you, maybe."

  "Shit!"

  "From the smell, I'm sure his bowel was perforated. He wasn't castrated. See? The testes are intact, but the penis has been severed, right there at the cura." George leaned in closer to the corpse. "Clean cut, too. Not much blood. Looks like it was sliced off after death. Must've been a scalpel or something as sharp."

  "What does that prove?"

  "Want me to draw you a picture?"

  Krastowitcz shrugged, fumbling the cigarette in his pocket. It'd been six month's since he'd quit, but he still wanted it--bad. "Whatever's easiest."

  "Two reasons he had to be dead prior to insertion of what-ever that is. Look at his mouth. His penis was severed and placed between his teeth."

  "Wait a minute, I think I know what you're getting at."

  "Sure, Gary. If he'd been alive, and someone had thrust an object up through his anus, he'd not only have bitten the penis in half from the pain, he'd have struggled so violently that the wire would've severed his arteries. A paradox."

  "What's the paradox?"

  "If he was alive long enough to bleed out all over the floor, there should've been a struggle. If he died instantly as the condition of his upper extremities suggests, then he wouldn't bleed, be-cause blood flow stops when the heart does."

 
"A paradox, huh? Just what I've always dreamed of," Gary said in disgust.

  "Pretty unusual homicide, especially here in the big `O.' When I was in residency in Detroit, there were some pretty bizarre dismemberment cases, but this one ranks right up there."

  "Some people get off on that kind of stuff. Do you think it might've been some kinky sex that went a little too far?"

  "Don't know. Right now, it sure looks that way. When the boys get through with pictures and dusting, we can get to work."

  Krastowitcz supervised the lab techs' picture-taking, jotting down notes, and remembered their sensitivity about the newly purchased camcorder. "What happened to all that fancy video equipment? I thought you were going to start using it?"

  "Look, big guy. You stick to simple investigations and we'll take care of technology," the technician said. "Besides, we were afraid if you got in the video, it'd be inadmissible in court. They don't allow animals to testify."

  "Oh, yeah?" Krastowitcz retorted. "Isn't that about all you farm-boys know how to record? If you'd ever learn how to use that video camera, maybe we can solve a few crimes around here. Did you put film in that Instamatic?"

  "Sometimes, I hate cops," the technician bantered. "Get out of the way, Krastowitcz. We've got three pictures left to take in the bathroom and I don't want you fucking with the camera."

  "Will you kids cut it out?" George interrupted. "How many pictures have you got, Joe?"

  "Outer and inner offices, three of the bathroom from different angles and three of the body. Anything else, George?"

  "No. You've all been very thorough. For a bunch of hicks, I think we're pretty professional."

  "Except for moving pictures, huh, Joe-Bob?"

  "Aw, shut up, Krastowitcz. You never do know when to quit. Come on, guys, let's pack up and get out of here."

  "Did I hit a sensitive point?" Krastowitcz asked with feigned concern. The technician grabbed his gear and stormed out.

  "Lay off, Gary," George said. "Joe's a little sensitive about the video camera thing. They've had the equipment for about a year, but haven't been able to use it except for a couple of experimental cases. It's not that easy. You can't say anything subjective on the tape, especially on crimes committed out in the open. It's hard to videotape a scene without describing your impression of it, but for admissibility in court, that's a no-no."

  "All right. All right. Wouldn't want any hurt feelings around here. Come on, George, I need some answers. Should I suspect a medical person, or just your everyday pervert?"

  "Both, Gary. I'm just not sure. Maybe we'll know more after the autopsy."

  "Looks like the killer left a calling card, George. We've seen this type of murder before."

  "Yeah, in San Francisco and places like LA and New York."

  "Should be a pretty easy M.O. to follow, don't you think?"

  "I don't know what to think, Gary. I'll do the autopsy first thing tomorrow morning, around eight. Come on over. If you're up to it."

  "Up to it?" Gary replied. "Since when's the investigating officer got a choice? Don't go gettin' all excited. I'll be there."

  "Okay, okay. I still have your hit and run mess today. That'll leave me open for tomorrow's autopsy. All of a sudden, the crime rate in this town is increasing at an alarming rate."

  "No shit."

  "What's this, number five this week?"

  "I'm beginning to lose count."

  George zipped Grafton's body into the dark bag and had it removed from the area. He stripped his rubber gloves off and placed them in a baggie. "See you tomorrow, bright and early, big guy."

  Gary liked the crusty old coroner. George wasn't very old, around forty-nine, but he tried to give the impression he was older. At forty, he was the first physician Medical Examiner in Omaha. To ensure credibility, he maintained he was older, not so much by age, but by attitude. He was good. Top notch in his field. He trained at Henry Ford Hospital in Detroit and was one of a few forensic field experts. He was a sort of Quincy in his day. A star. But a failed marriage and nasty property settlement took all his financial resources. Embittered, he fled the limelight and took up residence in Omaha where there wasn't much pressure or crime, a place he wouldn't be noticed.

  George was also one of Krastowitcz's drinking buddies, one in a group of six men who were damaged in the romance department. They met two or three nights a week for dinner, a few beers, and some shop talk before they went home. Alone. They were loyal friends, all professionals in law enforcement, all sharing the common bond only one officer can offer another.

  Cops had no trouble finding women. They loved enigmatic men with uniforms, badges, and guns, but they couldn't stay in love with men who loved their professions more than them. Civilian women would never understand the thrill of being a cop, the love, the desire officers held for their job. Being a policeman was not a job, it was a calling. Each man in the group had answered the call, sensing they were somehow meant to be alone in life. Iverson, Krastowitcz, and Trenton were loners who chose to be alone together.

  Krastowitcz had a feeling this case wasn't going to be a simple lover's quarrel--there was more to it. A lot more.

  "What a way to go," he said to George. "Who'd kill a prominent physician in Omaha, Nebraska? It's almost like a professional hit."

  "This isn't Chicago or New York, and the way he was done is awfully personal."

  "There's been some mafia goings-on in the Italian section of Omaha, but they're minor." Krastowitcz paused. "Still, the M.O. is similar to two others I'm investigating. Although the causes of death were different, two of the victims had their dicks stuck in their mouths. Do you think there's some sort of connection?"

  "Who knows?" George replied. "This is no ordinary case. Two, no, three, seemingly unrelated murders and yet there is a connection, of sorts. Think about it."

  He walked into the outer office. They'd been there for six hours, already. Three o'clock and no lunch. A long day. His stomach began talking to him, and Krastowitcz was finally able to think about dinner. Tonight would be a good night to go to The Tap. A thick, artery-choking steak, corn on the cob, dripping butter, and lots and lots of beer. That would make him feel better, even if it killed him slowly inside. Trent would be there and he'd fill him in on what happened with the woman doctor downtown. Maybe she'd given him some more information.

  Yes. He needed his friends around him. Needed to laugh. Needed to get the memory of another mutilation out of his mind. Tonight especially--that's what he'd do, go to The Tap.

  Chapter IV

  . . . TO SHARE MY SUBSTANCE WITH HIM AND RELIEVE HIS NECESSITIES IF REQUIRED . . .

  The ride to police headquarters took only fifteen minutes; but to Andrea, it seemed endless. Was she a suspect? Impossible. She had no motive. She loved Milton. No, love was too weak a word. She'd worshipped him, in a professional sense, of course. The man was a genius, his research brilliant.

  Now, here she was, almost to police central. Possibly a suspect. No. It was routine, Krastowitcz had said so. Then why did she feel like a criminal?

  "You all right, Miss Pearson?" Trenton said.

  "That's Doctor, Sergeant. And I'm okay."

  "Sorry, Doctor. We don't usually have physicians involved in a murder."

  Touché', Andrea thought. He was quick. "I'm a total mess. I wish there was more I could do to help."

  "You'll help plenty when you make your statement at the office."

  "All I want to do is hide somewhere, so I can't see his face." She shuddered at the memory of Milton's slitted, glazed eyes, his open mouth filled with--she shook her head to banish the horrid image.

  "I'm sure this has been awful."

  "Every time I close my eyes, he's all I see." Her eyes glistened with tears. One slipped over its dam to slide down her cheek. She clamped down her emotions and allowed neither a sob, nor a sigh.

  "We're almost there," Trenton said. "Just a few more minutes and you'll be on your way."

  Police headquarters, a giant
concrete waffle jutting into the clear Nebraska sky, was a perfect square with vertical and horizontal partitions. She imagined thick syrup sliding down over the sides obscuring the windows. If today's events hadn't been such a tragedy, she might have laughed at the incongruity. Only in Nebraska.

  The Stars and Stripes, royal blue Nebraska State, and Omaha Police Department flags, the only splashes of color around this drab gray building, whipped loudly in the plains-driven wind. Parked black and white cruisers surrounded the edifice as though they waited for attack from some unknown danger.

  An ugly danger. A sadistic, crazed killer was out there. . . somewhere. Waiting. Maybe for her. Andrea shivered. It was July and she was cold. She shivered again, willing the shaking to stop, but it didn't. She longed for the comfort and warmth of her own bed, but it wouldn't help this. The cold was deep within, in a place she tried to keep buried.

  Trenton turned into his parking stall and slanted her a curious glance. "Are you all right?"

  "I think I'm in shock. I'm beginning to realize what's happened." She squeezed her eyes shut and clenched her hands into impotent fists.

  The main entrance revolved into a small, sparsely adorned lobby with a glassed door where only secret codes allowed admittance. A large bronze plaque read: Built in 1970 under Mayor Eugene A. Leahy. A bearded man paced the foyer nervously reaching in and out of his jeans, searching for a coin. Finding one, he placed it in one of the small vending machines and cupped his hand for the nuts that came tumbling out.

  She wondered if he knew about vending machines; home to a multitude of small insects that fed on the stale contents. The man looked up and his angry gaze met hers.

  A sense of his hatred slammed into her and instinctively she shrank back. What secrets did those eyes hold? Suddenly, he broke the connection, turned, and demanded his belongings from the desk sergeant by pounding his fists on the glass.