He'd asked the question earnestly and Frank had to admit she didn't know. He hung his head again and she said, "Look. Go home. Play with the kids. Pat Trace on the ass. Have a couple drinks. Okay?" she asked, catching his eye.
He nodded and she squeezed his neck.
"There you go. You all right?"
He nodded again and she said, "Call me if you want. I'll be up late."
"Yeah."
"Bobby. Take No back to the station. I'll finish this."
"Want me to come back and get you?"
"No. I'll grab a cab."
The men left and Frank resumed her stand at the steel table.
"Sorry about that."
"Not at all," Gail spoke wryly. "That was exciting. We don't get many fistfights in here."
After the sudden outbreak the room seemed overly calm. The big air conditioner hummed efficiently and MEs dictated into their recorders and talked quietly to their techs. The whispering of paper gowns and click of metal on metal was almost soothing. Gail was slicing the diaphragm from the body wall and said without looking up, "She must have been pretty special to you guys."
Frank sighed like she'd trained herself to, slowly, so that no one could see.
"She was a good kid," she said, dispassionately.
Gail glanced at Frank and they continued the autopsy without conversation. When the ME finished, she had a tech replace the organs and stitch the Y She peeled her gloves off and bunched her fists into her kidneys.
"I don't know about you," she said to Frank, "but I'm calling it a day. If you could wait around a bit, I'll give you a ride back to your car. Maybe we could stop for a drink somewhere. You can hang out in my office while I finish up these notes and grab a shower. What do you think?"
It had been a long couple of days. Frank was beat and not much in the mood for company, but a drink sounded good and a ride was better than popping for a taxi, especially in commuter traffic.
"Okay. I've got some notes I can work on too." Pulling off her mask, Gail beamed, "Great! Give me half an hour."
Chapter Twelve
The man who'd created the building that housed the Los Angeles County Coroner's Office had been a flamboyant character and the Chiefs office reflected his style much more than Gail's. Frank took in the big furniture, piled high with papers and folders and jars of she didn't want to know what. Clean bones, misshapen bullets, and excisions in plastic were scattered around like the toys of a very disturbed child.
Frank settled into a plush sofa, pushing the coroner's clutter to one end. She quickly jotted the highlights from the autopsy into her notebook. The most tantalizing clues were the evidence of recent intercourse and the name tattooed on Placa's thigh. Pulling the latest leads together gave Frank an interesting story with a beginning, middle, and end. Placa was doing it with Ocho's girl, which both Placa and La Reina kept on the QT. Dating rivals demanded an instantaneous beat-on-sight at the very least, not to mention the fall from grace that would ensue. But suppose Itsy figured it out. She snitched to Ocho for revenge. Ocho found Placa alone, got her in the back of his T-Bird and took her .25 away, then showed Placa what La Reina really liked. Knowing Placa she probably hurt him pretty bad and jumped out of the car. To save face, Ocho grabs the .25 and caps her as she's trying to run for cover. End of story.
That explained Placa, but did nothing to clear the rest of the deaths in her family. Frank allowed that maybe Placa had a boyfriend. With a bad-girl rep to protect, she'd probably kept that a secret too. Or if the dude was an off-brand, she wouldn't want that getting out. Placa was pretty hard-core King and Frank couldn't see her balling a rival vato. But Ocho's girlfriend, that would be the ultimate insult.
She made a note to ask Placa's home girls, some of the Kings, and the Playboys closest to Ocho, about a boyfriend. The Toluidine had stained Placa, indicating ripping and abrasion during the intercourse. Frank had asked if she was a virgin but Gail said no. The sex had been rough, consistent with a rape, which also offered a convenient explanation for why she wasn't strapped. That led back to the bullets.
They'd recovered three slugs at the scene and had found the other two lodged in Placa's thoracic cavity. Her chest was so smashed up it was impossible for Gail to follow their complete trajectory. Three of the five shots were immediately fatal and Frank thought again that the shooter knew what he was doing. Not only that, the trajectory of the bullet to her head indicated the shooter had fired from directly behind Placa once she was down. It was clear the shooter wanted Placa dead — not scared, or frightened, but stone dead. Just like whoever shot Julio Estrella's family. As with them, the shooter had done the job thoroughly and accurately. And just like whoever shot her uncle's family, the person who shot Placa had taken the time to pick up the spent .25 casings. The trajectory of four of the five bullets was consistent with the shooter standing in the spot where Nook had found the lone casing. But the other four casings were missing. Frank had seen a lot of drive-bys but never one where they'd stopped to clean up ejected shells.
Apart from the wound traumas, Placa's internal exam had revealed nothing unusual. Her organs were pale from hemorrhaging but unremarkable. The stomach was empty except for what looked like antacid residue. Frank didn't think it was common for kids to chew Rolaids, and wondered about the cause of Placa's upset stomach.
Because no one was around, Frank blew out a huge horse breath. She laid her head back against the comfortable couch, wishing they'd seen Placa's bruises in the dark. The chances were slim they'd have pulled anything useful, but still she would have liked to dust them for latents. Frank hated working scenes at night just for that reason. There was so much to miss and by the time they returned in the morning scenes had changed and were contaminated, sometimes even cleaned up.
"Sorry to keep you waiting," Gail breathed, bursting through the door. "A couple of the residents cornered me. They lie in wait for me outside the locker room."
"No problem. I was just going over what we found."
"Or didn't," Gail said apologetically.
Frank stood by the door, waiting for the doc to finish up. A fruity shampoo scented the office and Gail's dark bob concealed her face as she stood over the desk. She'd changed into jeans and a faded UA sweatshirt. The scrubs fleshed her out a little and Frank noticed when she was in regular clothes that she was very angular. Watching her leave the Alibi one Friday night, Noah had called her rawboned. Bobby had added that she looked like one of Modigliani's blue women, then Johnnie had chimed in that the doc gave him blue balls.
"Okay," she said straightening, swinging the damp hair from her face. "Ready?"
"Whenever you are."
Gail covered the room in long strides and was just about to turn the light off when she said, "Hey, turn your face this way."
Frank did as told. Gail put a fingertip below her temple and said, "Looks like you've got a bruise there."
Frank felt it gingerly.
"Must've intercepted a round meant for Johnnie."
"Ouch."
They walked to the elevator and Gail said, "That surprised the hell out of me. Noah seems so easy-going."
"He is. That's not like him to blow up."
"Was he close to Placa?"
"Kinda."
"You seem to have a pretty good rapport with those guys."
"We get along."
Gail took a sidelong glance at Frank and grinned, "Why do I get the feeling that if they had awards for understatement you'd bring home the trophy every year?"
"Don't know. Tell you what. Instead of driving me all the way back into town, why don't you just give me a lift home. You're in San Marino, right?"
Gail nodded and Frank said, "I'm on the way. I'll just catch a cab into work in the morning."