Culpepper smiled ruefully. “I guess I just proved his point by misquoting him, huh?”
While Art packed up the superglue unit and trundled it away, I dialed the nurses’ station up on the hospital’s seventh floor. “We’re ready for him,” I said.
The wide, windowless door to the autopsy suite swung inward. With the squeak of rubber tires on polished concrete, Eddie Garcia rolled into the morgue.
Unlike most people delivered on wheels, though, Eddie Garcia was very much alive. Actually, “very much alive” was a bit of a stretch. He arrived in a wheelchair, and he still looked weak. Six weeks earlier he was very nearly dead: A searing dose of radiation had destroyed his entire left hand and claimed all but the last two fingers of his right hand, as well as ravaging his bone marrow and immune system. He was still a patient here at UT Medical Center — Miranda had wheeled him down from his room on the seventh floor — but his wounds were healing and his immune system was recovering. When I’d told him about the limbless corpse Miranda and I had exhumed, though, he’d voiced an interest in seeing the body. Eddie — Dr. Edelberto Garcia — was Knox County’s medical examiner, as well as the director of the Regional Forensic Center, so even if he was still on medical leave, he was certainly entitled to be present. He was also likely to be helpful, and I considered it an encouraging sign of his recovery that he was here.
I’d turned up the autopsy suite’s exhaust fan to remove the smell of embalming fluid, but even so the acrid chemicals — a mixture of formaldehyde, methanol, water, and various additives — stung my nostrils and eyes. They seemed to have stung Miranda’s, too, because she rubbed her face with a paper towel. The towel came away damp — her cheeks and the rims of her eyes were red and glistening — and I realized that it wasn’t the harsh chemicals causing her pain, but the far harsher blow that had been dealt to Eddie Garcia.
Before his devastating injury, Garcia had been a handsome and elegant man. Tennessee’s first Hispanic medical examiner, he’d come to the United States from a prominent family in Mexico City. His medical education was first-rate, and his English was polished and precise — better than the English most of my friends and colleagues spoke, probably better than my own, too. His wife, Carmen, was a Colombian beauty; not surprisingly, their two-year-old son was a lovely boy. A few doors down the hall, on the desk in Garcia’s office, stood a family portrait, a black-and-white photo for which the family had posed in elaborate nineteenth-century dress. Carmen’s thick hair was pinned up, with a pair of tight curls framing the sides of her face above a pleated, high-collared white blouse and a fitted black jacket; Eddie’s wavy hair was slicked back, his mustache closely trimmed, a starched shirt buttoned tight; the baby, Tomás, wore a long white christening gown. With their aristocratic bearing and intelligent eyes, the people in the photo could have passed for old-line Spanish nobility, and for all I knew, they were.
Now, though, it was impossible not to focus on the damage he’d suffered. Garcia’s right hand was a thin, scarred paw on which only the last two fingers remained; his left hand was simply not there. Destroyed by the radiation, the hand had been amputated just below the wrist. A pellet of intensely radioactive material, which he’d plucked from the body of a dead man, had seared both of Garcia’s hands and decimated his immune system. It had taken only a moment’s exposure — to a piece of metal the size of a ball bearing — to ravage his body, threaten his life, and jeopardize his career. Yet here he was now, against all odds, taking a first brave step back to the job that had nearly killed him.
Garcia allowed Miranda and me to help him rise from the wheelchair, but otherwise none of us acknowledged that anything was out of the ordinary. When I introduced Culpepper, Garcia bowed slightly in lieu of a handshake. Then he peered at Trey Willoughby’s mutilated body, and we all shifted our focus to the corpse as well.
Willoughby’s body looked freakish, a horror-movie version of a disassembled mannequin. I’d taught anatomy for two years during graduate school, and I’d worked several dismemberment cases during the past twenty years. This one seemed different, though, more thoroughly and precisely stripped of its limbs than the others.
The face and head had been injected with embalming fluid, and so had the abdomen; the efforts to preserve the head and torso were evident not only from the smell of the chemicals but also from the trocar, the large injection port in the stomach. But these steps at preservation seemed incongruous and absurdly irrelevant given the violence inflicted on the corpse.
Garcia leaned down and peered at the left shoulder, where the collarbone and the shoulder blade had once been connected to the humeral head, the ball at the upper end of the arm. The tissue there had softened and decayed, but not so badly as to erase the original contours of the cut. “Bill,” he said to me, “could you take a probe and some pickups and expose more of that joint, please?” It pained me that he needed to ask someone to do a simple maneuver that would normally have been an automatic, five-second move for him. “The arms have been severed quite cleanly,” Garcia observed. He looked at the hip joints — more difficult to cut cleanly, because of the tendon that anchored the ball of the hip into the socket. “This amputation was the work of a professional,” he said. “It could have been done by a physician or a medical student. Or maybe,” he added, his eyes looking at me with a sparkle I hadn’t seen since his injury, “an anthropology professor who has a hidden dark side.”
“Ha,” said Miranda. “Who says it’s hidden?”
After we’d poked and prodded at Willoughby’s torso to the satisfaction of Garcia, I turned to Culpepper. “Okay if I pull a couple of teeth now for DeVriess’s DNA test?”
Culpepper shrugged. “Dr. Garcia, do you see any reason why not?” Garcia shook his head. “Go ahead,” said the detective. “I’d hate to stand between a plaintiff’s attorney and his money — it’s like standing between a dog and a steak bone.”
Willoughby’s lips had been glued together and his jaw sewn shut. Using a scalpel, I slit the lips open and cut the sutures. It took some digging to reach the stitches, as the embalmer had plumped the corpse’s cheeks with mortuary putty, which by now had hardened to the consistency of plaster. Once I’d managed to wrestle the mandible open, I pulled two molars, using a pair of slip-joint pliers whose ridged jaws I cushioned with a bit of paper toweling. Then, with a Stryker autopsy saw, I notched a chunk of bone from the hip. I swabbed the teeth and bone samples with disinfectant and sealed them in a padded FedEx envelope, which I tucked inside a FedEx mailer addressed to GeneTrax, a Dallas DNA lab.
By the time I’d packed the samples and dropped the package at the forensic center’s front desk, Culpepper was antsy to head back to KPD. I walked with him to the loading-dock door, where he’d parked, then detoured to the front desk, where I left the Fed Ex envelope with Amy, the receptionist. I met Garcia and Miranda in the hallway; Miranda was pushing the wheelchair, but it was empty, and Garcia was walking.
He seemed reluctant to leave the forensic center and head back upstairs to his hospital room, and I couldn’t blame him for that. Down here in the basement, he was an authoritative professional; up there, despite the deference he received from the hospital staff, he was just a patient. Either place, his injuries were the same, but down here the trauma was incidental to his identity; up there the trauma was his identity. He was a patient, defined as — and reduced to—“the hand-trauma case in 718.”