By His Own Hand

by Neal Griffin

  “You were just coming from Taft Street? That’s, like, ten minutes from the crime scene. What took so long?”

  “I’m done here.” Livy stripped off her latex gloves, picked up the shotgun by its stock, and offered it to Tia. “All yours. You can take it back to the evidence locker.”

  Rich stepped in. “I can take care of that, Livy.”

  “Thanks, Rich,” Livy said, handing him the weapon. “I’m finished with it. No need to glove up.”

  Taking the weapon, Rich looked it up and down. “Nice gun, but I think I like the one at the range better.”

  Tia stopped reading and exchanged a look with Livy. They both smiled at Rich’s comment. Tia turned to Rich.

  “Is that right? Pretty particular about your eight-seventies, huh?”

  He held the gun higher. “Just doesn’t feel like it would be as easy to handle.”

  Tia looked down her nose at the rookie. “It’s the same gun, Rich. It’s a Remington eight-seventy.”

  “No, this one’s different.” Both women looked at him. He went on, sounding matter of fact. “Definitely heavier.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Tia jumped off the table.

  “I don’t know, I can just tell. It doesn’t have the same balance.” Rich held the gun out in front of his body and looked at it lengthwise. “Longer barrel, I think.”

  Tia turned to Livy and saw a quizzical look on her face.

  “Give me that,” Tia said, taking the weapon.

  She brought the butt to her shoulder and pointed the muzzle at the wall. With her cheek against the breech, she sighted in on one of the cement blocks. She bounced it a bit in her hands to judge the weight. Rich was right. She turned back to Livy and saw they were both coming to the same conclusion. “I’ll be damned.”

  The MEI quickly threw her brushes and powders into the tackle box she used to carry her gear and latched it shut. “The funeral home is coming by this morning for pickup. The mother authorized cremation.”

  Both women hustled past Rich to get out the door, Livy leading the way. Tia, still carrying the shotgun, yelled ahead, “Well then, we’d better haul ass. Can you drive?”

  Livy held up her keys, already in the hallway and headed for the exit.

  “Where are you guys going?” Rich sounded confused.

  Tia stopped long enough to give instructions. “The morgue, but don’t worry about that. Go find Sergeant Jackson. Tell him to stick around. I’ll be back to brief him. Tell him it looks like we’re back to homicide.”

  It came to her, and Tia stopped abruptly. She turned back to Rich, shaking her head.

  “What?” he asked, still in the dark. “What is it?”

  Tia smiled. “She is never going to let me live this down.”

  SIXTEEN

  The three miles to the medical examiner’s office was all farmland, so Livy took advantage of the near-empty street and drove the county pickup truck like she’d stolen it. Strapped into the passenger seat, Tia pulled out her phone and banged out a quick Google search, amazed how easily she found what she was looking for.

  “Bone thing, huh?”

  “What?” Livy glanced at her, still speeding up. “What are you talking about?”

  “Something Carla Hayes said during her interview. About Henry.” Tia held the unloaded 870 between her knees, with the stock resting on the floor. Even at a seventy-degree angle, the barrel almost touched the roof. She couldn’t believe her oversight.

  “I’m just so used to the police model,” Tia went on, thinking out loud. “If it hadn’t been for the rain … if we hadn’t had to scramble to preserve the scene … I think I would’ve picked up on the difference.”

  She shook her head, defeated. “Anyway. I got it coming. Go ahead.”

  “Forget it,” Livy said, staring straight ahead. “I should’ve noticed.”

  A wooden-sided delivery truck, piled high with produce, lumbered out from a dirt road, pulling in front of Livy’s truck. Livy swerved and blasted the horn. Tia braced for impact and turned to look out her passenger window at the other terrified driver, who also swerved to avoid a collision. What seemed like a dozen ears of corn launched out of the delivery truck and smacked against Tia’s window. Livy cut back into her lane and didn’t even slow down.

  “Damn, Livy.” Tia pushed back in her seat. “If you want, I can drive.”

  “I’m mad at myself, too.” Livy didn’t even acknowledge the near crash. “Mort’s always blowing through autopsies. Ignoring protocol and procedures. He does that all the time and now—” Her voice tightened. “Oh, shit. They’re here. Hang on.”

  Livy had nearly reached highway speed as she came up the narrow straightaway that led to the parking lot of the ME’s office. They hit a dip in the road and Tia felt a brief sensation of flight, followed by the two front tires slamming into the pavement. The undercarriage dug into the road and Tia grabbed the shotgun by the barrel to keep it from smacking against her face. She made a mental note to go back later, curious to see just how big a divot they had taken out of the blacktop.

  A cream-colored hearse was parked at the loading dock, and two men in dark suits were wheeling a gurney and body bag down the ramp. Dr. Kowalski, the usual cigarette burning in his hand, stood nearby with an older, dignified-looking man also dressed in a dark suit. He was tall and thin with a full head of gray hair combed back. Even from a distance, Tia could see the man’s suit was of fine quality and tailored to perfection. Kowalski and the dapper dresser looked to be talking between themselves while the grunts did the heavy lifting.

  Pulling into the lot, Livy finally let up on the gas, but waited until the last second to hit the brakes. The tires locked up and the truck skidded to a stop. Kowalski stepped back with alarm, and Tia whipped open the door and jumped from the truck before it even stopped moving. Livy was right behind her. The acrid smell of burned rubber and hot oil floated through the air. Tia saw Kowalski’s expression go from alarm to annoyance at the sight of them.

  “Ms. Sorensen, what is this all about? You nearly ran me over.”

  Livy ignored the gross exaggeration. “Doctor, there’s been a development with the evidence. We need to reexamine the body. Can we please take him back inside? I’ll explain everything.”

  Kowalski looked over his shoulder at the tall gentleman and smiled, his voice dismissive, if not a bit embarrassed. “Go on, Jacob. I’ll take care of this.”

  Jacob, who Tia figured had to be the mortician, nodded at his two lackeys, who resumed pushing the gurney toward the hearse. Livy stepped in front of them. “Dr. Kowalski, really, we need to—”

  “Ms. Sorensen.” Kowalski pointed his cigarette at the trio of men and put the other hand on his hip. “Mr. Taschner is from the funeral home. He has taken custody of the body. There is no need for any further exam. I have all the information I need to make my determination.”

  “No, sir, you don’t,” Tia said. Kowalski could fire Livy, but he couldn’t fire her. “Livy’s right. You need to do a more thorough exam of the body.”

  “More thorough?” Sounding offended, Kowalski wheeled around to face Tia directly. “What exactly are you implying, Detective?”

  Tia turned to the man she assumed to be Mr. Taschner: probably pushing seventy, his hair actually more silver than gray and accented by an ashen complexion. He held his hands at chest level in front of him, his fingers tented together. The man had a horse-like face, long enough that Tia was pretty certain he could turn on a look of grief whenever necessary.

  “Sir, I’m Detective Suarez, Newberg PD. If you could have these men return the body to the exam room, we’ll explain inside.”

  “Don’t bother, Jacob,” Kowalski retorted, sounding entirely exasperated. “Detective, I’ll say it again. My exam is complete and the body is now the property of Taschner Funeral Home, per the family’s request. I’ll speak to both you and Ms. Sorensen in my office. Go there and wait for me.”

  “Sorry, Doctor, but I can’t do th
at.” Tia reached inside Livy’s truck and came out holding the shotgun. Other than Livy, everyone had what struck Tia as a comical reaction. The two men at the stretcher instinctively put their hands in the air and their jaws on the pavement. The gurney began to roll away and only Livy’s quick reaction saved it. Taschner gave out a squeal that could’ve come from a teenage girl.

  “Good God, Detective,” Kowalski said. “Have you lost your mind? What—”

  “We’ll just do it here. Unzip him, fellas.” Tia walked over to the gurney, shotgun in hand. The two men looked at each other, arms still raised, and did some sort of mental drawing of straws. Eventually one of them reached out with a shaking hand and pulled on the zipper. When it didn’t move, Tia pushed his hand aside. “Let me help you.”

  Setting the shotgun across the bottom half of the body bag, Tia yanked hard on the zipper, pulling it down the whole length of the corpse. When she pulled back the sides of the bag, a blast of refrigerated air hit her in the face. Before her lay the headless, naked remains of Henry Hayes. The mortal head wound had the look of an empty bowl, stained with brown and black paint. The ears had begun to wrinkle, and much of the hair had fallen out and was scattered in the bag. The only smell coming off the body was clean and antiseptic.

  “Mother Mary.” The attendant standing next to her staggered and Tia felt a pang of guilt. The man probably hadn’t realized what he had been pushing down the ramp.

  “Sorry,” Tia said, reaching out to keep him from falling. “Hey, Livy, can you give me a hand?”

  Livy took the man by the arm and led him to the open hatch of the hearse. “Sit for a minute.”

  “Detective Suarez.” Kowalski looked around the parking lot and then down to the open body bag. His voice shook with anger when he spoke. “This is an abomination. I have no idea what’s gotten into you. But you will zip up that bag and step away or I swear I’ll have your badge.”

  Tia grabbed Henry’s cold right hand. The rigor mortis had run its course, so the arm was limp, pliable, and easy to manipulate. The mottled skin had the feel of heavy rubber, and the fingernails had turned gray and become almost concave. Feeling a little uneasy, part of her wanted to glove up, but she had momentum and knew she just needed to tough it out. She pulled on the arm so it was at full length.

  “Livy, you want to go ahead and line it up?”

  Stepping up to the other side of the gurney, Livy picked up the shotgun. Grasping the dead boy’s forefinger, she inserted it into the trigger assembly. Tia laid the barrel along the area of the missing face.

  “Can’t be certain,” Tia said, looking at the placement of the tip of the barrel, “but I’d say that’s about where Henry’s nose would’ve been.”

  Holding the finger in place, Livy shifted the rifle about, trying different angles, but the muzzle never came close to falling under the area that would have been the chin.

  Kowalski couldn’t help himself and leaned in. “What are you getting at?”

  Tia let go of the arm and took the shotgun from Livy. “The barrel length of this shotgun is too long, Doctor. Henry could not have placed the barrel under his chin and still been able to pull the trigger.”

  The ME stared at the body, then at the shotgun. His lips moved but no sound emerged. Tia continued to explain while Livy tucked the arm back inside the body bag and zipped the bag shut.

  “Henry’s mom, Carla, told me he’d been diagnosed with some sort of bone disorder. I’m willing to bet if you get a hold of his medical records you’ll find out the condition was something called hypochondroplasia.”

  Kowalski shot her a blank look and Tia laughed. “Yeah, I’m with you. Believe me. All I know is on the way over here, on a hunch, I Googled ‘short arm disease’ and there it was.”

  Tia held up her phone, showing the ME the Web page she’d called up. She repeated the name of the condition, emphasizing each syllable. “Hypo-chon-dro-plasia.”

  Dr. Kowalski took the phone and started reading while Tia kept talking. “No offense, sir, but we didn’t actually record Henry’s overall size or proportions. I think if we measure his arm span, we’re going to see he couldn’t have used this gun to kill himself.”

  Tia shrugged and shook her head as if they’d all fallen for some sort of low-brow magic trick. “His arms are just too short.”

  Tia turned to Mr. Taschner. “Sir, could you ask your men to wheel the body back inside? We’re not quite ready to give up custody.”

  Looking up from Tia’s phone, Kowalski interjected, “Hold on, Detective. I haven’t authorized any—”

  “Fine. Break him out again. I’ll get a tape measure.”

  “Oh, for—” Kowalski gave in. “Jacob, please take the body back inside. I’ll be sure to move things along.”

  Taschner huddled with his two men for a moment. The one that had gotten a good look at the remains not only appeared reluctant to approach the gurney, Tia was pretty sure he was giving some thought to just quitting on the spot. Taschner talked to him quietly, at one point laying his hand gently on the man’s shoulder. His partner patted him on the back, and within a minute they were pushing the gurney back up the loading ramp, followed by Taschner and Kowalski.

  Tia watched the men with the gurney disappear inside. Kowalski followed along, the last in line. He looked back over his shoulder at both women, his face practically contorted with disgust. Tia gave him a wave.

  “I don’t say this very often, Livy,” Tia said, standing beside her friend, “but I’ll be damned. That was a first.”

  “Yep,” the tall woman said. “Postmortem exam in a public parking lot? That’s one for the ages.”

  Tia went all business. “I think we should be able to get good enough measurements to rule out self-inflicted. I need to get TJ and Chief Sawyer up to speed. Obviously, this changes everything. Let’s get inside.”

  Tia only took a single step before Livy grabbed her lightly by the arm and pulled her back.

  “Tia Suarez.” Livy’s voice was nothing short of giddy and Tia knew what was coming. She didn’t blame her a bit. “I damn sure told you so.”

  SEVENTEEN

  Ben stared out his office window and Tia could see the muscle in his jaw working in time with the clenching of his fist. At the other end of the couch, Travis gave her a tight shake of his head and put his finger to his lips, signaling her to let the man stew. The day had heated up but not to the point where the city budget allowed for the air-conditioning to kick in. The cramped office was uncomfortably warm.

  “What did you call it again?” Ben asked. She could see beads of sweat just beneath his close-clipped sideburns.

  “Hypochondroplasia,” Tia said, the pronunciation coming easier each time she said it. “It’s a bone disorder, a mild form of dwarfism. People who have it generally stay pretty small and they have short arms and legs. Henry was diagnosed when he was eleven. The medical records in Bemidji confirm it.”

  “You got that already?” Ben sounded impressed.

  “Just over the phone, on the down low. A records clerk helped me out. To get them formally, I’ll need to write a warrant or get Carla to sign a release. But yeah. He had short arm disease.”

  “Nice work.” Ben looked at her, his face earnest with respect.

  Tia shrugged.

  “Give me the figures again.” He was back to staring out the window, which, Tia knew from past experience, meant she had his undivided attention. He was concentrating. “Overall length and such.”

  “It’s not the police tactical model we’re all used to. It’s a Remington 870 American Classic with a twenty-eight-inch barrel.” Tia was reading from her notebook. “This model has an overall length of forty-eight and a half inches, with a length of pull of fourteen inches. That means that with the barrel touching his chin, Henry had to deal with a distance of thirty-four inches to the trigger. Based on his wingspan, he wouldn’t have been able to reach more than twenty-nine. And even then we’d be talking the very tip of his finger.”

&n
bsp; “Length of pull?” Ben asked, but then answered his own question. “That’s from butt stock to trigger, right?”

  “Exactly. And like I said, that leaves Henry with damn near three feet of gun to get up under his chin. Just no way he could do that.”

  “What does Kowalski say?”

  “I imagine you’ll be hearing from him.” Tia didn’t want to say any more than necessary but she didn’t want her boss getting caught flatfooted either. “I guess you could say Livy and I took matters into our own hands. Kowalski’s being kind of a dick about it.”

  “How’s that?”

  “He says he can’t go with suicide because he can’t get an exact measurement from chin to tip of extended finger. I mean, with the victim’s face being blown off and all, but it’s not even close. I’m telling you, Chief, this boy did not shoot himself with that gun.”

  “I don’t know, maybe Kowalski’s got a point,” Ben said, doubt in his voice. “I had a guy in Oakland, put a flintlock rifle in his mouth. You know, like a Daniel Boone sort of thing. Long-ass gun. Used his toe to pull the trigger. I don’t know if he had this hypo-chon-whatever you call it. But, yeah. Used his toe.”

  “Hypo-chon-dro-plasia,” Tia beat back the counterargument, saying, “And forget about it. Henry had his shoes on.”

  “Okay then, what about a stick?” Ben swiveled his chair around to face both Tia and Travis. “I mean, he was in the woods. What if he used a twig or something to reach the trigger?”

  “Wha—? ‘A twig or something’?” Tia grew exasperated. “Look, Chief, the barrel length and Henry’s medical condition prove Henry couldn’t have shot himself with the gun recovered from the scene. And that’s supported by the lack of blood spatter that Livy documented. All that adds up to homicide. In my opinion, conclusively.”

  “The rain, remember?” Ben said. “That could have washed away the blood on the hands—”

  Tia cut him off. “I saw the hands, Chief. I got pictures. There’s no blood.”