Page 29 of A Gathering of Secrets

I go through the swinging doors that take me to the medical side of the facility. The autopsy room is ahead, at the end of the hall. Right, there’s an alcove where the biohazard supplies are stored. Doc Coblentz’s windowed office is to my left. The door and blinds are open and I see that Sheriff Rasmussen and Tomasetti have already arrived.

“Hi, Doc.” I step into the doorway of his office and extend my hand.

Doc Coblentz is clad in blue scrubs covered with a transparent green gown that resembles a low-budget raincoat. A surgeon’s cap covers his head. A mask dangles at his neck. He’s a portly man and when he’s suited up like this he sort of resembles a glazed doughnut.

We shake and I turn my attention to the other two men. “Mike.” I extend my hand first to the sheriff and then to Tomasetti. “Agent Tomasetti.”

Tomasetti gives me his stone face, but I don’t miss the slight twitch of his mouth. “Chief Burkholder.”

Sheriff Rasmussen knows we’re involved, though I don’t believe he’s aware that we’re living together. Such a relationship would be frowned upon not only by the Ohio Bureau of Criminal Investigation but my own department as well. I’m pretty sure we’ll be officially discovered at some point. When that happens, chances are Tomasetti will be reassigned and working with him will come to an end.

Doc Coblentz is focused on the much grimmer cerebrations at hand. “There’s not much left of this poor kid, Kate.” Sighing, he motions toward the door. “Let’s suit up and we’ll get started.”

The coroner leads us to the alcove off the main hall. There’s a bench against the wall and a dozen or so shelves jammed with individually packaged gowns, masks, hair caps, latex gloves, and shoe covers. The three of us set to work tearing open packages and slipping into protective gear, and then Doc Coblentz ushers us toward the autopsy room.

The space is large and brightly lit, with gleaming gray subway tiles from floor to ceiling. The temperature is maintained at a chilly sixty-two degrees. The odors of formalin and other equally unpleasant aromas hover in the air. I see stainless-steel counters cluttered with plastic buckets, trays filled with tools of the trade, and two deep sinks with tall, arcing faucets. A scale that’s far too similar to the kind you might find at the grocery for weighing produce hangs benignly above the counter to my left.

Stark fluorescent lighting rains down on a single stainless-steel gurney. I force my eyes to the vaguely human shape laid out atop it. The flesh is charred and black; the skin has cracked in places, exposing the red muscle beneath. The victim is in the typical pugilistic pose, with the arms and legs sharply angled. This occurs when intense heat triggers contractions of the tendons. The arms are bent. The hands have burned away, exposing the red and black jut of the ulna and radial bones. The legs are spread and bent at the knee. The feet are still intact. Doc Coblentz is right; there’s not much left of Daniel Gingerich. Nothing recognizable, anyway.

“Poor son of a bitch.” Mike Rasmussen removes a tube of Blistex from his pants pocket and smears a generous dollop under his nose. He offers it to Tomasetti, but he shakes his head. My stomach is already quivering uneasily at the smell of burned meat that’s gone slightly bad, so I take the proffered tube and do the same.

“Daniel Gingerich. Eighteen years old.” After double-checking the identifying toe tag, the coroner pulls up his face mask and lowers the protective glasses from atop his head. “As you can see, this victim is in the typical pugilistic attitude, a result of heat-related joint contractures. Total-body radiographs have been taken and the victim has been extensively photographed for all requisite documentation.

“One of the initial points of interest I noticed in the course of an X-ray of the skull is a fracture of the temporal bones here.” Using a laser, he indicates the temple area of the skull.

“Skull fracture?” Looking a little too excited by the news, Rasmussen glances at Tomasetti, then back at the coroner. “Blunt-force trauma?”

Doc shakes his head. “Postmortem heat-related artifact.”

Rasmussen raises his brows. “Come again?”

“An antemortem fracture—one that occurs when the individual is still alive—will most often terminate at the suture lines. This fracture crossed a suture line and also displays ragged edges. Both of those events indicate the fracture occurred postmortem.”

“So the heat fractured his skull,” the sheriff says.

The doctor looks at Rasmussen over the tops of his glasses. “If you’d like to see the film I’m happy to show you.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” the sheriff says dryly.

“Were there any other injuries?” I ask. “Any signs he was in a struggle or fight? Anything like that?”

“There’s no gunshot wound, sharp-force trauma, or blunt-force trauma indicated.” He gives me his full attention. “Preliminarily speaking—and toxicology aside—in my opinion, this fire death was not the concealment of a homicide.”

“He was alive when he was locked in the tack room?” I ask.

“There’s soot deposition on tracheal mucosa and the dorsum of the tongue,” the doctor replies, “which means he was breathing and alive at the time of the fire.”

“Conscious?” Rasmussen asks.

“There’s no way to know that for certain.” The doctor sighs. “But there’s no doubt this young man died a horrific death.”

“Cause of death?” Tomasetti asks.

“I’ve more work to do here, of course. But preliminarily speaking, the decedent died of thermal injuries as well as smoke inhalation. Chances are, he fell unconscious due to the smoke and then he burned to death.”

“Manner of death?” I ask the big-daddy question, the one all of us want and need to know.

“I’m still waiting for results on some of the tests I’ve run. More than likely I’m going to rule this one a homicide.”