His feet were bare and filthy, caked with a grayish substance that didn’t look like ordinary dirt.
Chen finished her shots and climbed down. “All yours, Doc. Fair warning, it’s tight in there, and it smells like death warmed over. Which I guess it literally is. I’m going to have to shower for days.”
I sighed. “Noted.”
I shifted my weight on the ladder, gripping the edge of the dumpster, and was about to swing my leg over when I felt Jack’s hand close around my elbow.
“Jaye.”
I didn’t turn around. I didn’t need to. I could hear everything he wanted to say in those two syllables, the concern, the restraint, the very careful effort not to make it an order.
“Don’t start,” I said.
“I’m not starting anything. I’m pointing out that there’s no reason for you to be standing in rotting garbage when Jackson and Plank can extract him and you can do your exam on solid ground.” A beat. “It’s not a commentary on your abilities. It’s common sense.”
“It’s you being overprotective.”
“It’s me being practical. And maybe a little overprotective.” I could hear the half smile in his voice even though I still wasn’t looking at him. “Those two things aren’t mutually exclusive.”
The annoying part was that he wasn’t wrong. There was no practical reason for me to climb into a dumpster full of decomposing garbage when I had two perfectly capable officers who could handle the extraction while I directed from up here. I’d done it before, plenty of times. Long before I was pregnant. It wasn’t weakness. It was efficient use of resources.
But it still irked me that he’d said it.
“Fine,” I said, finally turning to look at him. “But for the record, I was already thinking the same thing before you opened your mouth.”
“Of course you were.” His expression was perfectly innocent. Completely unconvincing.
“I need two people in the dumpster,” I called down. “Tyvek suits, full gear. Backboard ready. He’s a big guy. Probably two-twenty or more.”
Cole nodded and turned to issue orders. Within minutes, Deputies Jackson and Plank were suiting up in white Tyvek coveralls.
I climbed back up the stepladder, positioning myself where I could see into the dumpster clearly. The smell rose up to greet me, that thick, complex perfume of death and garbage, and I breathed through my mouth and let my eyes do the work.
It took nearly fifteen minutes to maneuver him into position. Dead weight was unforgiving, and rigor mortis had stiffened him into an awkward shape that didn’t want to cooperate. But finally they had him on the backboard, and Cole and Riley were there to receive him on the outside, Riley’s tall, lanky frame braced against the weight as they lowered two hundred plus pounds to the ground.
Plank walked a few feet away and bent over with his hands on his knees, gagging. Nobody said anything. We’d all been there.
I climbed down from the ladder, pulled fresh gloves from my kit, and approached the body.
Now I could work.
On the ground, in the full light of morning, he looked even younger than I’d thought. Mid-twenties, maybe less. His features were African American, strong jaw, broad nose, the kind of face that had probably been handsome before someone had destroyed it. His skin was the color of burnished oak, dark and smooth where it wasn’t covered in blood and bruising. His head was shaved clean, and I could see a tattoo on the back of his neck, though the design was obscured by dried blood and a bullet hole.
I started with his head, and Jack crouched across from me, close enough to see what I was seeing without contaminating anything. We’d done this enough times that we had our own rhythm. I documented, he listened, and we built the story together.
“Single entry wound,” I said, tilting the head gently to give Jack a better angle. “Base of the skull. Small caliber, a .22 or .25, based on the size. See the stippling?” I pointed to the faint halo of powder burns around the wound. “Close range. Not quite contact, but near enough.”
“Angle?”
“Slightly downward.” I traced the trajectory with my gloved finger without touching the wound. “Either the shooter was taller, or?—”
“He was on his knees,” Jack finished.
Our eyes met over the body. We were both thinking the same thing.
“No exit wound,” I said. “Small caliber round enters the skull and doesn’t have enough velocity to punch back out. It bounces around inside instead. Maximum damage, minimum mess.”
“That’s not a Saturday night special,” Jack said quietly. “That’s a choice.”
