“I suppose you’ll be looking forward to this,” Pinker said in the elevator on the way down to the morgue. He straightened his tie and shot his cuffs. “What with being into voodoo and all that shit.”
The tall, heavily built black man beside him shook his head slowly. “I’m not into voodoo.” He ran an eye over his partner’s diminutive figure. “At least not in the way you’re into rich men’s suits, Versace.”
Pinker grinned and slotted a piece of gum between his thin lips. “Right, Clem. So I was just imagining the goat’s head and the little dolls you got in your den.”
“Not the doll with your name on it,” Simmons said as the doors opened. “Shit, man, you know my grandmother was from Haiti. I’m interested in my family’s culture, that’s all.”
Pinker stepped into the morgue and was immediately swamped by the smell of chemicals cut with flesh and blood. “Well, I’m glad my family hasn’t got that kind of culture.”
The big man followed him down the corridor. “Your family hasn’t got any culture, man. You’re nothing but West Virginia white trash.”
Pinker met the grin with a raised middle finger. They went through the swing doors and found the medical examiner looking at a clipboard. She was above medium height and he liked the way she was built-slim, but stacked in the right places.
“Gentlemen,” she said, raising her eyes briefly.
The detectives’ demeanor was suddenly much more formal.
“Dr. Gilbert,” Simmons said, shooting Pinker a warning glance. His partner had come on like too much of a pussy hound the last time they’d encountered the striking red-haired woman. Not that she couldn’t look after herself, as she’d proved by dropping a scalpel less than an inch from Versace’s new oxblood wing tips.
“Morning, Doctor,” Pinker said. “I’m betting you never had one done through the ears before.”
The medical examiner finished what she was doing and looked at him, her blue eyes icier than a mountain lake. “You lose, Detective. I had a drug dealer three months ago, shot with a. 45 bullet through the external acoustic meatus, destroying the tympanic membrane, as well as the malleus, incus and stapes.” She smiled briefly. “The brain was pretty messed up, too.” She inclined her head toward the autopsy room. “Shall we?” She stepped away, her head held high.
“What, dance?” Pinker said under his breath. “Yeah, baby, yeah.”
As the detectives approached the table, a technician moved back and they got a full view of the body. The man’s naked form-overweight and heavily tattooed-was striking, as were the skewers protruding from his ears. His waist-length hair was hanging over the end of the table like a black flag. His long beard had been parted to allow access to the chest.
“No problem identifying this one, I imagine,” Dr. Gilbert said, taking in the tattoos. “There can’t be many Nazis in Washington.”
“You reckon?” Pinker said, with a laugh.
“I mean, real Nazis, Detective,” the doctor said, coolly.
Pinker wasn’t retreating. “We don’t have much idea how real he was. Far as we know, he was a thrash-metal singer. Those assholes play at being tough guys-Nazis, satanists, Charlie Manson fans, whatever. Doesn’t mean they actually believe in that crap.”
“Is that so?” The M.E. didn’t sound overly convinced. “We’ve already photographed, measured, weighed, x-rayed and fingerprinted the body. I’ve also searched for trace evidence and done the external examination.” She glanced at them. “You were late. I have four more autopsies scheduled today.”
“That’s all right, Doc,” Simmons said. He knew how tedious those procedures could be. “What did you find?”
“Without too many long words,” Pinker added. He remembered floundering in a tidal wave of technical verbiage the last time.
Marion Gilbert raised a perfectly plucked eyebrow and glanced at the report handed to her by a technician. “Male Caucasian, aged around forty to forty-five, height six feet four inches, weight 267 pounds. Hair black, dyed. Eyes brown.” She indicated the dead man’s chest and arms. “Obviously the main identifying features are the tattoos.”
Pinker took them in. “Swastika, Iron Cross, Mein Kampf and an arrow pointing to his crotch. Nice.”
“You should see his back,” the M.E. said, shaking her head. “It says ‘I Am the Final Solution.’” She glanced at Pinker. “That makes him a real Nazi in my book.”
The detective shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not. You gotta keep an open mind in our business.”
Marion Gilbert rolled her eyes. “Moving on. His clothing has been sent for further analysis. I found hairs on his T-shirt that weren’t his. They’re black, but not so long-probably from the woman he assaulted. Or from-”
“The assholes in the band,” Pinker said. “They’re all as hairy as-”
“You’ve located them?” the doctor asked.
Simmons nodded. “They were the ones who called the MPDC.”
“They’re all crying like little kids,” Pinker added.
The doctor gave him a frozen look. “There were skin and fiber traces under his nails. Analysis is being undertaken. The victim had knee surgery in the not too distant past. There’s also an appendix scar, from prelaparoscopy days.”
“I’m presuming the time of death squares with the parameters we’ve got,” Simmons said. “The band members said he got into the van around eight-fifteen and they found him around eight-fifty.”
“The gig was due to start at nine and the first patrolmen were on the scene at nine-oh-two,” Pinker said.
“The M.E. noted the body and ambient temperatures, plus the fact that rigor mortis hadn’t begun, suggest that death occurred no earlier than eight o’clock anyway.”
“Any sign that the body had been moved?” Simmons asked.
“No abrasions or bruising to suggest that. I take it you’re investigating the band members.”
“Oh, yes,” Pinker said. “As well as the bar owner, his son and a scumbag dope dealer who lives upstairs. Also some fans who were waiting in the bar.”
“Speaking of drugs,” Dr. Gilbert said, “there were traces of cocaine on the victim’s nostrils. Though the condition of his nose made examination difficult.”
Simmons looked down at Loki’s flattened and bloodied nose. “The way I see it, the killer hit him in the face-”
“Twice,” the M.E. said, pointing at the broken and swollen skin on the left cheek. “There are two contusions on the back of the head that I would say came from impact with a hard surface.”
Simmons nodded. “And then he stuck the skewers into his ears.”
“Correct.”
“Do you think the vic was conscious when that happened?” Pinker asked.
“He might have been,” the doctor replied.
“Real nice,” Pinker said.
Simmons gave him an irritated glance. “So cause of death was…”
“Penetrating trauma to the brain.”
“In stereo,” Pinker added.
The other two stared at him.
He shrugged. “Am I wrong? And obviously the wounds weren’t self-inflicted.”
The M.E. looked at the skewers that were protruding from the victim’s ears. “It’s theoretically possible that he could have done it himself.”
“But unlikely,” Simmons said. “Given that he doesn’t have any knuckle injuries to suggest he punched himself in the face twice, and we didn’t find any blunt instrument in the van with his blood on it. How about the number of assailants? Could there have been more than one?”
“I’ll remove the skewers shortly so they can be checked for prints and traces,” the doctor said. “One person could have done it. But it would have needed a lot of nerve. I would think the back of the van would have been too confined a place for two killers, especially with the woman in there, as well. Is she all right?”
“She’s been sedated,” Pinker replied. “But before that she told us she hadn’t seen anything. The vic knocked her out before he got his.” He sighed. “So, capital murder it is, by person or persons unknown.”
“I take it there were no witnesses?” Marion Gilbert asked. “Before, during or after the murder?”
“We haven’t found any yet,” Simmons said. “We’re still looking, of course.”