by Diana Kirk
"Yeah. Who won?"
"Obviously not me, chum."
George pulled the sheet off the mutilated cadaver. "Hope you enjoy this as much as that steak last night."
The shell that had been Milton Grafton a few days before, stretched the length of the metal table. Deep grooves on either side of the solid stainless-steel slab ran toward a drain at the lower end that waited for body fluids. Steel trays used to weigh various organs hung from scales over George's head.
"Death is the great equalizer. There's a whole history hidden in this guy's blood and bones; unfortunately, because the dead can't speak, we'll never know what it is--only the way he died and the way he lived. Every time is always a surprise. God, I love pathology."
"Only a ghoul could get a thrill out of this."
Placing his foot on the recorder pedal, George pressed downward. "I'm ready to begin." He spoke into the hanging microphone. "The body is that of a well-nourished white male, reported age of 55, measuring 6 feet, 1 inch and weighing 185 pounds. Body identified as Milton Grafton. Eyes are blue-gray; right pupil measures 0.5 cm in diameter and left 0.5 cm. Gray-brown hair with slight frontal receding. The oral cavity is blocked by the presence of a severed penis, apparently belonging to the victim." He removed the organ. "Outwardly, the thorax and abdomen seem in their normal anatomic positions. I am now making a standard "Y" incision from each shoulder to the pit of the stomach and ending at the pubic bone."
Krastowitcz watched as the scalpel slid effortlessly from the sternum toward the barren pubic triangle leaving a wake of severed sinew and tissue oozing from the newly exposed cavity. In a brief moment of time, a living breathing human was reduced to so much gore. Someday, he'd take his place on the slab--inevitably.
He pointed toward the rib cage. "What's that?"
George leaned in closer and studied his handiwork. "The left pleural cavity's been ruptured, causing multi-focal bilateral adhesions from the visceral pleura to the parietal pleura. The small and large bowel mucosa has been ruptured by the passage of a narrow blunt instrument, yet to be determined, inserted into the anus and forced upward. Exact etiology of the cause of death at this time has yet to be determined. I'm now separating the subphrenic area." George reached in through the ribs toward the pericardium.
"I feel the tip of something narrow and rounded. Slender like a sword, but not sharp. Whew! Death was not instantaneous; the object didn't puncture the heart."
Krastowticz took two steps back and rubbed his forehead. "Jesus."
"See, Gary, the abdomen hasn't been punctured, either. But, look here. The pancreas has been torn. See that tan-gray area within the coarse surface?" George slowly lifted the torn pancreas and shoved it toward Gary's face.
Instinctively, Krastowitcz swiped his hand away. "Cut it out, George. I'm not in the mood."
"No tumors, but an area of hemorrhage is noted. Death couldn't have occurred for several minutes after initial onset of penetration, unless he died of shock, which is unlikely from the amount of blood at the scene." Taking his foot off the pedal he added, "pretty gruesome, huh, Gary-boy?"
"Look, George, you're not going to get to me. Do you know how many autopsies I've attended in the last ten years? About as many as you've performed, so save the melodrama for someone who gives a shit. Get to the murder weapon." The pain in his head had dulled to a slow, even throb--not a good day for kidding.
"Okay, okay. Don't get excited. I've dissected all the intestines around the instrument. See that area of tearing? There must have been a great force involved, because look. What the. . . For Christ's sake! Gary, look."
George looked as surprised as Gary felt. The pathologist tugged on an eighteen-inch, slender staff intertwined with snakes. Covered with blood, it appeared red. "Why it's a caduceus!"
"What the hell is that, George?"
"Shit. It's brass. Come here, closer, while I wash it off." He walked to a large stainless steel basin. "It's the staff of Aesculapius, the Greek god of medicine. It's a. . . a caduceus; the symbol of the medical profession. Boy, somebody must've really been pissed about their bill!" George chuckled.
"What a way to go." Krastowitcz shuddered. "`Mr. Jones, that'll be forty-thousand for the operation. There was one small problem though. Oops, the knife slipped and we cut your pecker off, Mr. Jones.' And Mr. Jones says, `Maybe you need your pecker realigned, Dr. Grafton?' Well thanks, George. Case closed! Let's get some lunch."
"Real funny, big-boy. Don't you wish all your cases were this easy? I've still got to complete the gross description and finger through the other organs, weigh, measure, and sew him back up and you, the lucky investigating officer get to stand right here and watch me do it, so I don't miss anything. Why is it all you cops ever think about is eating?"
"Don't forget sex, George. That comes before eating in my book."
The coroner narrowed his gaze. "You'd be awfully thin if you waited for sex before eating, Gary, my boy."
George replaced his foot back on the recorder pedal and continued his narrative. "Urogenital system: The epididymis contains mature spermatozoa within the lumens. Testes show unremarkable seminiferous tubules present with maturation of spermatogonia to mature spermatozoa. Unremarkable except for the absence of the penis severed at the cura. The cutting instrument appears to have been a very sharp knife, probably similar to a scalpel." George stopped and looked quizzically at Krastowitcz.
"This sure has the ingredients of a serial murder. An organized one. Same kind of M.O. Three so far. What do you think, Gary?"
"I don't know. You might be right. Maybe the killer only goes for men? Or, homosexual men? Grafton seems to have been pretty strange. Do you usually test for AIDS?"
"Standard procedure in all cases; that's one of the first things I'm going to run. There's something odd about this one and I can't put my finger on it. And, then, I wouldn't touch it unless I were double gloved. The wrists--they've been lacerated from thin wire bindings embedded into the skin, yet if he'd struggled. . ."
"Any ideas as to what kind of wire?"
"Looks to me like picture-wire. I don't know. The wire's so sharp, if he did struggle, he'd probably have cut clean through his wrists--to the bone."
"Why picture wire? Where do you think he got it?"
"See that caduceus? Check the loop on the end. There's a fragment of wire still on it. I'll have the crime lab run a comparison on the fragment and the wire around his wrists. I'll bet they're the same."
"Convenient."
"I'd say so. Murder weapon and binder, all in one."
"This changes things," Krastowitcz said. "At first, I thought it might be premeditated. But the killer used an ornament. He must've grabbed it. Probably, off a wall somewhere. If the wire's the same, it'll tell us why the killer used wire to bind the wrists. He didn't have time to find anything else. Elementary, Dr. Iverson. A crime of impulse, passion. We need to find out whose wall it came from."
George worked diligently, weighing and measuring, examining each piece of flesh closely, until the last suture was stitched and the cadaver once again resembled Milton Grafton. It took about six hours to complete the autopsy from head to toe. Too many times autopsies were bungled because the M.E. hadn't spent the time needed to examine the body thoroughly--the reason why many murders remained unsolved.
Finally, the caduceus was cleaned and tagged. Blood samples were stacked neatly in vials waiting to be centrifuged and tested for whatever secrets they could divulge: diseases, drugs, toxins.
The next item of business for Krastowitcz would be to talk to Pearson, again, and try to figure out why someone would want to murder Grafton. After all, there had to be a motive. Was he a homosexual? Was he being blackmailed, or was he blackmailing someone? What type of person was he?
Krastowitcz's massive shoulders drooped as he thought of the investigative process. This was going to be a long and complicated one. He knew it in his bones. This seemed to be a crime of passion--almost too passionate. Maybe it was, but what kind of p
assion?
ANDREA SAT UP abruptly and placed her hand on her throbbing forehead; another nightmare. This time, she stood and watched Sarah fall over the retaining wall. Andrea tried to catch her, but was stopped at the edge by unseen hands.
Screams had awakened her, pulling her back from the wall. Her screams. Her breath came in short waves but it wasn't asthma this time.
Just fear.
She looked at the clock. It was ten o'clock and she was late for rounds. Still groggy, for a moment she didn't remember what had happened only twenty-four hours earlier and then it hit her like a fist in her solar plexus.
Slowly, she groped her way into the bathroom and turned on her shower. It wasn't a dream. Milton really was dead. She sat on the stool and buried her throbbing head in her hands. What was she going to do? She had to go in to the hospital today, just to straighten up the mess in her part of the office. She couldn't stay home. How could this have happened? She forced herself up and got under the hot stream.
The shower had helped her head to clear. So did the drive to Dorlynd with the window open. The air was still cool and the humidity was low. If her asthma stayed quiet, the day might prove to be livable.
Approaching the door to her office, she felt like an intruder. Suddenly, she didn't belong anymore. Not here. Not anywhere.
The door to Dr. Grafton's office was closed and there was a CRIME SCENE, DO NOT CROSS ribbon secured to the door. Don't worry, she thought. I won't cross for a million bucks!
It had only been two days, but the pile of mail on her desk was about a foot high. Better get started. This will take a couple of hours just to go through.
Andrea wondered if she was pathetic--the mail had become a source of enjoyment. Even at home, she eagerly ran to the mail-box and hungrily waded through stacks of junk-mail for that special envelope. The one with Ed McMahon's picture on it. "Andrea Pearson, you have just won TEN-MILLION DOLLARS!" But that was all a daydream because the mail never carried anything exciting in it, just the usual stuff: bills, mailers, catalogs, and a few letters from old school chums.
Now, it was all different.
She ran her finger along an envelope and felt the familiar stinging pain of a deep paper cut. She knew better than to use her fingers for a volume of mail, but fingers were so much more efficient. Instinctively, she placed the injured finger in her mouth, at once uttering, "Fuck!"
"I beg your pardon," Sergeant Krastowitcz said, entering her office.
Andrea's felt her cheeks burning as her capillaries filled with blood. "Excuse me, Sergeant Kra. . . Kraso. . ."
"That's Gary, remember? I thought we got those formalities out of the way yesterday?" he said with a laugh. "Paper cuts can be murder. Oops, sorry about that, it just slipped out."
Andrea glared at him for a moment. How could he make a joke, especially to her?
"Please, sit down," she said in her most professional tone. "What can I do for you? Have you found anything? Finger-prints? The murder weapon? A motive? A suspect?"
"Hold on a minute," he said, putting his hands up in mock protest. "We've found a lot of things; but, I've got a lot of questions to ask you. I've talked to a lot of people, but I haven't found anything concrete or feasible as far as motive; that's a real mystery. You'll have to fill me in on what type of person Dr. Grafton really was, in detail. In order for me to investigate this thing, I've got to know much more than I do. It's a real puzzler. About all we've found, so far, is the murder weapon."
"You did? What was it? Was he stabbed? There was so much blood." Andrea's eyes watered.
"I'm not able to say just yet, but I'd like you to go back into Grafton's office and look around the room to see if anything is missing. Would you mind doing that?" he said as he removed the ribbon blocking the connecting door. It was still sealed after print-dusting, photography, and sampling. The room would remain so until Krastowitcz made his final investigation.
"I sure hope this won't take too long. I've got patients to see," she said, the frost in her voice froze the room.
"It shouldn't," he said, equally cold, turning the knob.
"You won't have to look in the bathroom, it's been cleaned up. I want you to check out this room and go through the stuff on his desk. Maybe there's a clue there somewhere. Something missing only you might know about."
"All right," she said. "I don't know if I'll be much help, but I'm willing to try."
Krastowitcz opened the door. Andrea took a deep breath and entered slowly. The curtains had been drawn and the filtered sunlight glistened on each microscopic dust particle giving the room a smoky appearance. There was still a strong odor of decomposition. Bile rose thickly in the back of her throat. She was a physician. Physicians did not get sick from smells. She circled the room looking for anything that seemed odd or out of place.
"Do you see anything?"
"I don't know. I'm not the greatest observer," she said, be-ginning to thaw. "I do better looking under a microscope. I wish I'd paid more attention to this office, but it was always such a clutter."
"Keep looking. Maybe there's something."
Again, as hard as she tried, she didn't see one thing out of place. Grafton's desk was still the mess it had always been. There had been something wrong in this room, but what? Where? Her head started to ache again.
"Do you mind if I sit down at the desk, Gary? I won't disturb anything."
"Be my guest. I'd like you to go through that stuff, anyway. Feel free to start at the top and work down. This'll probably take some time. While you get started, I'm going to make a call and order some food. It's past lunch time. Would you like a sandwich or something?
The thought of eating in that room made her gag.
"I, ah, uh, n-no thanks. I'm not very hungry."
While Krastowitcz made his call, Andrea rummaged through the papers. There were requests for letters of recommendation--never answered. Twenty or more half-read medical journals spread over the desk. His NIH quarterly grant review, for a twenty-five million dollar research grant, half-finished with a note to call the Dean in the margin. Many small notes from Andrea to Grafton were strewn over the desk and as she picked up several of them, she remembered something. The recent urgent calls from Paris. The document in French.
She knew it all had something to do with his research, but what? She was only the chief resident. In charge of all the administrative bullshit that went along with the residency program: rotation schedules, call schedules, lecture series, grand rounds, student rounds; and all this bullshit kept her busy. So busy she didn't have time to notice what Grafton did with his research. Dean Hardwyn was listed as the co-investigator on the grant, maybe he'd know? She'd ask him.
At the bottom of the pile was a wrinkled clipping from an Ann Lander's column.
"What's this?" Gary asked.
MIDWEST MISANTHROPE HOPES AIDS GOES UN-CHECKED.
"Milton collected these types of letters and articles. He loved hate mail. He used to always say `If only they knew--I'm saving mankind!' He would laugh and tell me he was going to be the one to find the cure for AIDS, because he was very close."
Krastowitcz picked up a handful of papers and thumbed through them.
"There are hundreds of them here. Was he?"
"What?"
"Close to finding a cure for AIDS, or whatever it was he was doing?"
She pulled a couple of letters from him and studied them. "I don't know. Sometimes Milton could be a little on the eccentric side."
"Look at this one," Gary chuckled. "It says AIDS is the end of the world; a cure for overpopulation. God's revenge for the sinful ways of the world. Sounds plausible to me. They ought to take them all out to a deserted island and then strafe it."
She balled the letter into a wad and tossed it into the trash. "Really, Sergeant. That's ludicrous. These types of statements are brought on by hysteria and ignorance. If it weren't so pathetic, it would be hysterical--in the funny sense of course. Milton thought all of this was funny."
"Doesn't sound like a guy someone would want to murder," he said, deliberately ignoring the remark about ignorance.
"One problem. Although he thought of himself as witty, he was often misunderstood. Even I was shocked by some of the things he said, and I worked with him closely. His insensitive manner often caused his credibility to suffer. But he was a typical scientist. If he wanted something badly enough, he'd drive people nuts until he got it. When he wasn't being witty, he was ruthless."
"How's that?"
"He followed a strict code of medical ethics and if that code was broken, he showed no mercy. It didn't matter if it was a student, resident, or another faculty member. To him, everything was either black or white; there was no in between. Many people disliked him fiercely."
"That's interesting. All we have to do is find someone who broke his code of ethics."
"Then almost everyone at Dorlynd Medical Center will be suspect. You can't live a totally blameless life. We're human beings. That's what Milton couldn't understand. Everyone makes mistakes."
"Including you?"
"Yes, Gary, especially me."
"Do you want to tell me about it?"
"No. I don't. It's not relevant to this investigation and I don't wish to discuss my mistakes." The air turned cold and crisp around them.
"Tell me more about Grafton."
"He hated the direction medicine was going. He constantly complained that physicians were turning into a bunch of businessmen. Always trying to make a fast buck--not caring for humanity. He talked about greed--greed of physicians, the insurance companies, and also the patients. Everyone wanted something for nothing. Just last week, he placed a resident, Tom McNaughton, on suspension for drug use."
"He did?"
"There wasn't any actual proof. Milton suspected cocaine use, so he suspended him. McNaughton became verbally abusive and threatened to sue Milton for slander, or worse."
"Sounds like a strong suspect."
"Perhaps, I don't know. It was no secret that McNaughton hated Milton. But to commit murder? No. McNaughton wasn't like that."