Chat - Archer Mayor [54]
“As well as can be expected,” he told her. “My mom is completely fine. My brother survived, which is saying a lot, but he’s touch-and-go in a coma.”
“I know it will sound trite,” she said. “But if there’s anything at all I can do . . .”
“I know,” he interrupted her. “And I appreciate it. I promise, I will call if I need to.”
She nodded once. “Good.” She then brightened somewhat and changed the subject, moving them both to firmer ground. “A wild guess tells me,” she continued, “that you’re now going to try to upset my apple cart a little. You are here for at least one of your John Does, are you not?”
He laughed, as much at the comment’s phrasing as at its content. Hillstrom was unique among his friends in her use of an almost textbook English. “I am, but I’m hoping it’ll just help things along. We’ve discovered something that might tie in to the first one we sent you—the floater in the stream. Do you still have the clothes he arrived in?”
She nodded and moved toward the door. “We do, although we were about to ship them to the crime lab for safekeeping.” She passed over the threshold and headed toward the lab in the back, speaking as she went. “So you’re not here for the body at all?”
“I may be,” he explained, “but I’ve got to start with the clothing.”
“Ah. A mystery in the unfolding. I like a little intrigue.”
She eventually took him to a wing off the autopsy room, beyond the coolers where, he knew from past experience, the two men he’d shipped her were still stored, and placed a couple of oversize plastic tubs on a nearby examination table.
“Brattleboro John Doe Number One, as we’re calling him—or at least his personal effects,” she announced, standing back.
Joe stepped up to the table and opened the tubs. Unlike when he’d first seen them, the clothes were now dry, though still soiled by some of the debris they’d picked up in the water.
By instinct, he started with the upper torso coverings, reconstructing the layering from skin contact to outermost garment, and then began poring over the fabric’s surface, inch by inch.
Hillstrom finally yielded to curiosity. “What are you looking for?”
Gunther laughed. “Maybe nothing, but it was too interesting to pass up. We’re pretty sure we found out where this guy spent his last night. He checked into a cheap motel with a small overnight bag, no car, paid in cash, and used a phony name—Norman Rockwell, in case you’re tempted to change your John Doe.”
Hillstrom wrinkled her nose. “Not the way this is going, I’m not. Rockwell deserves better.”
“If it helps,” Joe suggested, “my team’s calling him Wet Bald Rocky, versus Dry Hairy Fred.” He resumed his scrutiny. “Anyhow, we’re playing with the idea that he met someone at the motel, which person then immediately rendered him harmless before transporting him to the stream.”
Hillstrom was already nodding in comprehension, following where he was leading. “And it’s the rendering him harmless that you’re looking for? What did you find in that motel room?”
He paused to look over his shoulder at her. “You’re good. It was a single identifying tag belonging to a Taser cartridge.”
“A Taser!” she exclaimed. “But they work with wired barbs. I would have found skin defects on the body.”
“Only if the barbs reached the skin,” Joe explained. “They don’t have to in order to work.” He straightened, holding up the decedent’s leather belt, adding, “They just need to close the circuit. By digging into something like this.”
She came in close to see what he’d found. In the center of the belt’s surface was a small hole with a minuscule jagged edge to it, as where a tiny barb might have left a tear upon being extracted.
“Oh, my Lord,” she murmured. “It is possible, isn’t it?”
He laid the belt back down. “It does connect. It would help if we found evidence of a second impact site.”
She’d already grabbed hold of his upper arm. “Come here. Let’s take a look at him, now that we know what we’re after.”
She led him to the storage cooler, which had two horizontal doors