Live to Tell - Lisa Gardner [17]
“When will he regain consciousness?” D.D. asked.
“Haven’t a clue. I’d have to look at his chart. I’m guessing he’s heavily sedated, which is probably for the best.”
“But we need to ask him some questions,” she persisted impatiently.
Dr. Poor arched a brow. “Half the man’s brain has been turned into the Panama Canal. What do you think he could tell you at the moment?”
D.D. and Phil exchanged glances. It was hardly surprising news, but disappointing.
“Can you describe the entry wound?” Phil asked.
D.D. chewed her bottom lip. She knew what Phil was going for. From a detective’s perspective, it would’ve been better if their suspected shooter had died at the scene. In which case, the ME’s office would’ve bagged the man’s hands and preserved the contact wound on the left temple. Back in the morgue, the ME would then test the shooter’s hands for gunpowder residue while conducting a forensic examination of the entry wound. In twenty-four hours or less, they’d have scientific evidence that Patrick Harrington had died from a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head.
Furthermore, Harrington’s clothes would have been carefully preserved, then analyzed for blood spatter and other evidence related to the homicidal rampage. Bada bing, bada boom, the blood spots on Subject’s A’s clothing tied to the wounds inflicted on Victims B, C, D, and E, meaning Patrick Harrington stabbed his entire family before shooting himself in the head.
Case closed, detectives move on.
Instead, their suspected family annihilator had been rushed to the hospital by the EMTs. Where his bloody clothing had been cut off and tossed aside. Where his hands and wounds had been washed and scrubbed. Where countless opportunities to collect evidence had been sacrificed in an attempt to save the sorry bastard’s life.
Now they were left with an ER doc’s first impressions of the subject and his injuries. D.D. would’ve preferred dealing with the ME.
Dr. Poor pried the lid off his coffee, blew on the sugared brew, seemed to be searching his memory. “I’d have to check the notes, but the entry wound was several centimeters in diameter, burn marks around the edges—”
“Close contact,” Phil interrupted.
The doctor nodded. “I’d say a close contact-entry wound.”
Phil made a note.
But then the doctor shook his head. “You want to know if this guy shot himself? That’s what you’re thinking, right? A self-inflicted gunshot wound?”
“That’s what we’re trying to determine,” Phil stated carefully.
“To judge from the CT scan, I’d say that’s unlikely.”
“What do you mean?” D.D. said.
“It’s a matter of trajectory. Think about it. The entry wound was to the left temple, and the bullet came to rest in the left posterior region. That’s a pretty straight line. If you think about trying to replicate that shot …” The doctor set down his coffee, cocking his right fingers into a makeshift gun and trying to bend his right wrist enough to form a straight shot into his left temple. “It’s not that it can’t be done, but it’s awkward. Especially given that the person is probably on an adrenaline rush, has endorphins dumping everywhere from trauma, stress, anticipation … Most self-inflicted gunshot wounds we see are angled. Maybe the person flinches at the last second in anticipation, jerks the barrel slightly down or sideways. But a clean, direct hit …”
He appeared skeptical, picking back up his coffee cup, taking another sip. “Then again, it’s not the easiest thing to determine the pathway of a bullet through the brain.”
“What do you mean?” D.D. asked.
“I mean, after the initial trauma, the increased intracranial pressure collapses the path the bullet took through the brain. So we can see where the bullet started, the entry wound, and where it ended, the resting place, but it’s possible it