“One projectile recovered,” I recorded. “Consistent with .22 caliber. Deformed but intact. Preserved for ballistic analysis.”
I dropped it into an evidence container and sealed it. That little piece of lead was the most important thing in the room. If we ever found the weapon that fired it, the rifling marks on that bullet would tie them together like a fingerprint. Every gun left its own signature on the rounds it fired. Unique as a thumbprint, admissible in court, and very, very hard to argue with.
“Bag it and log it,” I told Lily. “That goes to Richmond with the blanket and samples.”
She labeled the container with the case number and set it in the evidence locker while I turned back to the body.
I examined the neck and throat structures as a matter of thoroughness, documenting the bruising I’d noted at the scene, the deep contusions along the anterior neck consistent with being grabbed or held. But while there was soft tissue damage, the hyoid bone was intact and there was no hemorrhaging in the strap muscles that would indicate strangulation as a cause of death. The throat injuries were from rough handling during captivity. Someone had grabbed him by the neck, probably more than once, but they hadn’t killed him that way.
The bullet had done that. Quietly, efficiently, and without ceremony.
I stepped back from the table, pulling down my mask to breathe air that wasn’t filtered through fabric. Andre Tyrell Washington had been beaten, tortured for days, and then executed with a single shot to the back of the head. Twenty-four years old, a Marine, a fighter, a man who’d worked construction and cashed his checks every Friday.
Someone had decided he didn’t get to live anymore. And they’d done it with the cold efficiency of people who’d made that decision before.
“Let me run that tox screen,” I said. “Then we can close him up.”
I collected the urine sample and moved to the testing station, running it through the standard panels I kept on hand for exactly this purpose. Basic toxicology. I could get the results in my own lab without waiting days for Richmond to call back.
Lily began the process of returning the organs to the body cavity while I waited for the results, her movements careful and respectful. Whatever we did to them on the table, we always put them back together as best we could. It was a matter of dignity.
The machine beeped.
I read the results.
“Benzodiazepines,” I said. “Specifically Klonopin. It’s an anti-seizure medication. Someone with his level of head trauma would surely have some effects of brain damage. But the levels are therapeutic, not elevated. Consistent with a prescribed dose, not an overdose.”
Lily looked up from her work. “So he had a prescription.”
“Somebody did. We’ll need to confirm it was his.” I made a note on the chart. “What it does mean is whoever grabbed him was able to take down a two-hundred-twenty-pound Marine who knew how to fight without the advantage of knocking him out chemically.”
“Seems like that would be hard to do,” Lily said.
“You’d think. But maybe they overwhelmed him with sheer numbers. They obviously had weapons.” I pushed off the desk and picked up the suture kit. “Either way, it tells us something. These weren’t amateurs afraid of a fair fight. They had the manpower and the confidence to take him by force.”
I began the careful work of closing the Y-incision. Stitch by stitch, putting him back together, giving him back what small dignity I could.
“The broken fingers were the message,” I said as I worked. “But the bullet was the period at the end of the sentence. They got what they wanted and ended him like a business transaction.”
“That’s cold.”
“That’s professional.” I tied off another stitch. “This wasn’t personal for whoever pulled the trigger. It was just another day.”
The sutures were done. I stripped off my gloves, tossed them in the biohazard bin, and reached for my recorder.
“Autopsy of Andre Tyrell Washington concluded at 4:47 p.m.,” I said. “Cause of death is a single gunshot wound to the head. A .22 caliber projectile entered the posterior cranium at close range, traversed the brain stem, and lodged in the anterior cranial fossa. Manner of death is homicide. Additional findings include perimortem fractures to all phalanges of both hands, extensive antemortem injuries consistent with two to three days of captivity and torture, and toxicology revealing therapeutic levels of benzodiazepines consistent with prescribed anti-seizure medication. Full report to follow.”
I clicked off the recorder and set it on the desk.
“Get him into the cooler,” I told Lily. “I need to clean up and get in touch with Jack.”
She nodded, already moving to prep the transfer.
I climbed the stairs and pushed through the door into the kitchen. My office was just off to the right—a small room with a desk, a couch, and most importantly, a tiny bathroom with a shower. I kept spare clothes in the closet for exactly this reason.
The water was hot, the pressure strong, and I stood under the spray until I felt human again. The tension in my shoulders loosened, the smell of the lab rinsed away, and by the time I shut off the water, my skin was pink and my cheeks had some color back in them.
My stomach growled as I toweled off. A good sign. I was actually hungry for the first time all day—Rosa’s was sounding better by the minute.
