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FORENSIC PATHOLOGISTDel Maddox drove up to the barrier across the entrance to the Fort Point Channel Tunnel, where lights had been set up to illuminate the site. Judging by the amount of traffic he’d passed to get there, Boston was going to have more than its usual amount of pissed off motorists—the tunnel connected with the Ted Williams tunnel that headed out to Logan airport. On the other side of the barrier were fire trucks, police vehicles, and two ambulances, and from deeper within the tunnel came the sharp grind of cutting tools and raised voices.
Del sighed.Welcome to Boston PD. His first day, and it seemed he already had customers for his table.
An officer approached his car, armed with a flashlight, and Del wound his window down. He grabbed his badge from where he’d stowed it under the visor and held it open. Not that he needed it—Medical Examiner emblazoned on the car door was a bit of a giveaway.
The cop aimed the flashlight’s beam at Del’s credentials, then at Del’s face, causing him to squint. He frowned as he lowered the flashlight. “Wait a minute. You’re not Mike.”
Del arched his eyebrows. “And who might Mike be?”
“Mike Harrison, the medical examiner.”
“Then there can only be two possible explanations. Either I murdered Mike, stole his car, copied his ID, and added my own details to fool everyone into thinking I was a medical examiner—or I could actually be thenewmedical examiner, because the previous one retired last week.” He smiled. “I’ll leave you to work it out. In the meantime, can you move this barrier, please, and let me do my job?”
Way to go, Del. Ever heard the phrase, ‘You never get a second chance to make a first impression’?
He blamed it on the job. His clients never told him if he was being rude.
The officer scowled but hoisted the barrier out of the way. “Mike was way more of a laugh,” he murmured as Del drove past him.
“Good for him,” Del muttered. He drove as far as he could into the mouth of the tunnel, then switched off the engine. He grabbed his bag from the passenger seat and got out. Then he opened his door again and rooted in the glove box for a flashlight. His safety hat was in the trunk.
The dark mouth of the tunnel sloped downward, and the site of the collapse was maybe fifty feet ahead of him, lit by emergency lamps. Del walked toward the yellow tape that marked off a portion of the road. Huge concrete panels had been moved by mechanical lifters, revealing the crushed form of a Honda Civic, surrounded by rubble. Above, a large hole gaped in the ceiling, the width of two panels. Men in safety hats and reflective jackets stood around talking in low voices, and Del counted about four police officers.
One officer approached him, flashlight in hand. “You the medical examiner?”
Del nodded. “How many casualties?”
The officer grimaced. “Two. One fatality and one guy badly injured. He was driving. He’s on his way to the hospital already. The tiles completely crushed the passenger side of the vehicle. His partner was killed instantly, we think. We haven’t removed her body from the wreckage yet, although the fire fighters have just cut through to take the roof off.”
Del gave a nod of approval. He signaled to the paramedics waiting beside the wreckage, and together they walked solemnly to the crushed car. It didn’t take long to lift and place her in a body bag. Del watched as they carried her away from the wreck to where the ambulance waited.
“Who is in charge of the scene?”
The officer pointed toward the fire truck. “Sergeant Michaels. He’s over there.”
Del glanced at the amount of debris. “How much concrete do they think fell?” He peered at the officer’s badge. “Officer Mitchell.”
“They estimate about twenty-four thousand pounds.” He pointed up. “The tiles are reinforced concrete slabs, suspended from girders bolted to the ceiling roof. It seems the anchor bolts ripped loose.” Officer Mitchell bit his lip. “Except they weren’t the only things that fell.” He crooked his finger. “This is where things get a little weird.”
Del followed him. Officer Mitchell crouched beside another black body bag covering a heap on the ground. Del froze. “I thought you said there were only two casualties.”
Mitchell’s eyes sparkled in the strong emergency lights. “Strictly speaking, there were. But I have no idea what causedthiscasualty—well, apart from the obvious.” He removed the bag, and Del’s breathing hitched.
A skeleton lay on sheets of plastic, partially covered. Mitchell’s remark about the possible cause of death suddenly made sense.
There was no head.
The remains had obviously been there a while, judging by the amount of decomposition. Del guessed at more than a decade. He studied the body, noting the pelvis.
“I don’t suppose it’s possible to tell right away if this person was male or female,” Mitchell murmured. “Unless the Bible is correct and males have one less set of ribs than females.”
“I hate to disillusion you, but we all have twelve pairs—though some people are born with eleven or thirteen. Doesn’t appear to afford them any ill effects, however. But yes, it’s possible to tell.” Del pointed to the subpubic angle where the two bones met. “This was almost certainly male. The female pelvis tends to be wider.” He straightened. “I can see why you’d think this a weird situation. Is the theory that the body had been stowed above us, placed there when the tunnel was constructed?”
“Yes. That was the early nineties. I checked.”
Del hunkered down next to the remains. “The plastic didn’t mummify the body. If anything, it created the ideal environment for bacteria—warm and moist.” He took a closer look. “Interesting, though. Because of the air exchange, the initial decomposition went all the way to skeletonization.”
“Even wrapped in plastic?”
