The Sisterhood - Michael Palmer [143]
“Nikki, how are you doing?”
Dr. Josef Keller had entered the autopsy suite and now stood beside the bloated corpse of Roger Belanger. Nikki had covered the open thoracic and abdominal cavities with moist towels. Keller, a German Jew whose family had fled the Holocaust, was a year or two from retirement but still vibrant, curious, and energetic. Still, the strain of overseeing a department responsible for the evaluation of more than 50,000 deaths statewide each year was taking its toll. He limped from arthritis in his hip and had a back condition that made it painful to bend over the cadavers for long.
“I’m glad you’re here,” Nikki said. “This is an interesting case.”
“I thought this man had a coronary,” Keller replied, with still the hint of an accent.
“Well, I think he was murdered.”
“Murdered? Have you been watching reruns of that pathologist show—um, what was his name?”
“Quincy. Nope. I may be wrong, but here, look at this.”
First Nikki showed him the bizarre abrasion beneath Belanger’s chin.
“A ring?” Keller asked, immediately on top of things as usual.
“I think so.”
“With diamond studs forming the initial.”
“Exactly. There’s more.”
Nikki handed over the otoscope—the tool used by physicians to examine the ear canal and drum. More often than not, she had found residents and even board-certified pathologists omitting this part of the postmortem exam. Process.
Keller took his time, murmuring to himself as he examined Belanger’s ears by turning the large, violet head from one side to the other and back and inserting the otoscope into the external ear canal.
“Ruptured, with flakes of dried blood,” he said finally. “Both eardrums were ruptured shortly before his death.”
“I haven’t been to see his Jacuzzi,” Nikki said, “but I would bet it isn’t at least five feet deep.”
Five feet—the minimum depth where the pressure on the drums, if not equalized, could cause rupture.
“You are postulating that this man did not drown in his tub?”
“I am. I think he drowned all right, but I think someone he was swimming with—someone with the initial H on his ring in diamond studs—dragged him underwater by the throat, maybe to the bottom of a pool, and then brought him home and put him in the tub.”
“An argument?”
“Perhaps.”
“And the water in his lungs and stomach?”
“I’m waiting for—”
“Home is the hunter, home from the kill. Oh, hi, Joe.”
“It’s home from the hill, Brad,” Nikki said. “Did you pick up the package?”
“I did. What do you need chlorine test strips for?”
“I think your ‘tubber,’ as you so quaintly put it, actually drowned in a pool.”
“But then, how did … murdered?”
“You are exceedingly sharp,” Nikki said. “No wonder they named you Brad.”
She dipped one of the strips into the water in Belanger’s stomach. In seconds the tiny indicator square had turned faint purple.
“I am most impressed,” Keller said. “I shall call our friends at the stationhouse and let them know. This is quite fascinating … quite fascinating indeed.”
He limped back to his office.
“Good thing I insisted you do a full autopsy on this guy,” Brad said.
Nikki glared at the man but honestly couldn’t tell if he was being serious. The overhead speaker kept her from finding out.
“Dr. Solari, are you still in there?”
“Yes, Ruth, I’m here.”
“There’s an outside call for you. I’m going to transfer it.”
Seconds later the wall phone rang. Brad held his ground as she passed, forcing her to squeeze between him and Belanger’s autopsy table.
“Grow up,” she said as she passed.
“She digs me,” Brad said.
This time Nikki ignored him.
“Pathology, this is Dr. Solari.”
“Nikki?”
Nikki felt her heart stop.
“Kath, where are you, honey? Are you all right?”
Kathy Wilson’s voice was that of a small child.
“Nikki, I’m so cold.… They’re after me and I’m so cold.”
There were traffic noises in the