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“Watch where you’re stepping, Lieutenant.”
Dr. Humphrey Germaniuk had been in charge of the ME’s office for about six hours, and already stacks of his papers lined the walls in neat rows. I used the toe of my shoe to straighten the pile that I’d accidentally dislodged, lined it up just right.
I knew Germaniuk to be a perfectionist, fast with a joke, and great on the witness stand. In fact, he was as qualified to be CME as Claire was, and some said that if Claire ever stepped down, Dr. G. would be a shoo-in for her job.
“How’s it going with Andrea Canello?” I asked, nearing the body on the autopsy table. Dr. G.’s “patient” was nude, lying faceup, the gunshot wound centered between her breasts.
I leaned in for a closer look, and Dr. Germaniuk stepped between me and the dead woman’s body.
“No trespassing, Lieutenant. This is a cop-free zone,” he cracked — but I could see he wasn’t kidding. “I’ve already had a suspected child abuse, a traffic fatality, and a woman whose head was opened up with a steam iron.
“The ferry victims are going to be an all-day sucker, and I’m just getting started. If you have any questions, ask me now. Otherwise, just leave your cell number on my desk. I’ll call you when I’m done.”
Then he turned his back on me and began to measure Andrea Canello’s gunshot wound.
I stepped away, my head throbbing from the angry outburst I was keeping in check. I couldn’t afford to alienate Dr. G., besides which, he was within his rights. Without Claire, the already understaffed ME’s office was in a state of emergency. Germaniuk barely knew me, and he had to protect his department, his job, the rights of his patients, and the overall integrity of the investigation.
And he had to autopsy every one of the ferry victims himself.
If a second pathologist got in on this multiple homicide, a good defense attorney would pit the two pathologists against each other, look for inconsistencies that would undermine their testimonies.
Assuming we would find the psycho who killed these people.
And also assuming we would bring him to trial.
It was almost four in the afternoon. If Andrea Canello was Germaniuk’s first ferry victim, his all-day sucker was going to be an all-night sucker, too.
Still, I had my own problems. Four people were dead.
The more time that passed, the more likely the ferry shooter would get away.
“Dr. G.”
He turned from his diagram and scowled.
“Sorry if I came on too strong, but the shooter killed four people, and we don’t know who he is or where to find him.”
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“Don’t you mean three?” Germaniuk said. “I have only three victims.”
“This woman’s little boy, Tony Canello, died a half hour ago at San Francisco General,” I told him. “He was nine. That’s four dead, and Claire Washburn is sucking air through a chest tube.”
A wave of sympathy swept the indignation from Dr. Germaniuk’s face. The edge was gone from his voice when he said, “Tell me how I can help you.”
Chapter 12
DR. GERMANIUK USED A SOFT PROBE to gently explore the wound that had torn through Andrea Canello’s chest. “It looks like a K-5 right through the heart. I wouldn’t swear to it until the firearms examiner says so, but it looks to me like she was shot with a .38.”
It’s what I’d thought from the video, but I wanted to be certain. Jack Rooney’s camera lens had swung away from Andrea Canello as soon as she was shot. If she’d lived for a moment, if she knew her killer, she might have called out his name.
“Could she have lived after she was shot?”
“Not a chance,” Germaniuk told me. “Slug to the heart like that, she was dead before she hit the deck.”
“That’s some shooting,” I said. “Six slugs, five direct hits. With a revolver.”
“Crowded ferry boat, lots of people. Bound to hit some of them,” said Dr. G. matter-of-factly.
