“Jesus, which one of you faggots lost his lunch?” Butch called to three crime-scene cops who stood in a loose knot around Jed Benson’s blackened corpse.
The corpse sat, contorted yet upright, in a chair pulled into the middle of the room, in front of an imposing wooden desk covered with the sticky ash of burned papers. Melanie didn’t understand how he, it, was staying vertical. Jed Benson’s face was a death’s-head, blackened skin singed off in places, the skull a bloody unrecognizable pulp with a gaping hole in the forehead, crowned by pathetic patches of burned hair. The jaw hung open, as if in midscream. She found herself staring into his mouth, numb and nauseous, fixating on his dental work. His teeth were capped. So not all of Jed Benson’s glamour came naturally. What he’d been wearing when he was killed, you couldn’t tell. Shreds of fabric hung off the shiny mass of his flesh, scorched and bubbling wherever it wasn’t obscured by sticky, dark blood.
One of the cops threw a cautionary glance at Butch, then jerked his head toward Rommie Ramirez, hunched over, just finished retching in the corner of the room. Melanie felt like throwing up, too, but she fought the urge. She didn’t want them to think she couldn’t handle this.
“Oh.” Butch raised an eyebrow. “Been a while since you did a murder scene, huh, Lieutenant?”
Rommie straightened up, his swarthy skin now green, sweat standing out on his brow, and wordlessly marched out of the room. Everyone stared after him in surprise.
“What the fuck!” Butch exclaimed. “I heard that guy was in a tailspin. Now I see what they’re talking about.”
Melanie knew the gossip. At one time Rommie had been on the way up, getting named to high-profile commissions, even being mentioned as a possibility for deputy chief. Now he ran a respectable but run-of-the-mill drug squad. A decent position, but a demotion. She’d never really heard the reason. She liked him well enough to be concerned, but it wasn’t really any of her business.
“That was plain unprofessional, if you ask me,” Butch said, turning to her. “Him leaving makes you the lead investigator in the room, Melanie. My money says you got more balls than him anyway. Let me run through how we usually handle stuff. You let me know if it suits you, or if there’s anything else you need.”
Crime Scene cops are technical experts. They provide a crucial service to the investigators running a case, but they expect to be given a certain amount of direction. In Rommie’s absence, that direction would have to come from Melanie. The need to focus saved her. She mustered her courage, walked right up to the body. A real prosecutor was hardened like a cop. Blood and gore were part of the job description.
“Jesus,” she said, looking at it.
“Yeah,” Butch said. “What kind of animal does this to another person?”
“Whoever he is, we’ll get him,” she replied, her voice calm and resolute even as her legs trembled. “Introduce me to your troops, Butch, and let’s get to work.”
“Castro and Jefferson here work for me. Dr. Joel Kramer is from the ME. We start with the body and work our way outward. Make, like, a grid of the room, then go over the floor real careful for hairs, fibers, blood spatters, what have you. Make notes of what’s located where in the grid, photograph everything. Sound good?”
“Makes sense. You’re the supervisor?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Butch said.
“Then you’re the one I’ll call to testify in court, so you should take the photos of the body. Castro and Jefferson can do the rest of the room and the house.”
“Sure thing.” Brennan knelt down and unzipped a duffel bag sitting on the floor, removing cameras and notebooks and handing them around. He doled out assignments to Castro and Jefferson, who went off to fulfill them.
“What can you tell from the body about how the murder happened?” Melanie asked Kramer.
“Quite a lot, actually,” Kramer replied. “The Fire Department responded quickly. The fire was out in time to save most of the flesh, so there’s plenty left to work with. I’ve done a preliminary examination. Here, I’ll show you.”
Kramer walked up to the chair, extracted a collapsible metal pointer from his pocket, and opened it. He waved it over Benson’s corpse like a magic wand. “First of all, you see the way the body has contorted. That’s what we call pugilistic positioning. A natural contraction of the muscles that occurs when the body is burned. The fact that we see it indicates that rigor mortis hadn’t set in at the time of fire. That’s important, because we also see clear evidence of a gunshot wound to the head. Given lack of rigor, we can assume that the shooting and the burning of the body occurred within a relatively narrow time frame.”
“Can you tell which happened first?” Melanie asked.
“Not without completing the actual autopsy. Now, take a look right here,” Kramer said, directing his pointer at the large hole in Benson’s forehead. “A gunshot entry wound. We know it’s entry based on beveling we observe to the skull and the remaining flesh. The beveling points inward, indicating the bullet going in. The entry wound matches up to an exit wound right here.” He walked around and pointed to a hole in the back of Benson’s head, at about the point where the skull met the neck. “Again, we know it’s exit because of the direction of the beveling, which points outward, thus the bullet going out. And from the relative positions of the entry and exit wounds, we can conclude that the shooter stood above the victim and fired downward, at relatively close range. The handcuffs the victims is wearing also suggest he was shot while sitting right here in this chair.”
“Handcuffs? So that’s what’s holding him upright,” Melanie said, studying the plastic twist-tie handcuffs that slashed deep ligatures into Benson’s wrists. Chunks of flesh appeared to be missing from his hands. What remained was gouged in a familiar-looking way. “His hands. Are those-teeth marks?” she asked, gulping.
“Yes, not human, though,” Kramer replied. “Animal, probably dog bites. They’re all over the legs, too, and look. There’s a similar-looking deep puncture wound in the remaining flesh on the neck. See, right here,” he said, pointing to a deep gash in the charred skin of the corpse’s neck.
Melanie nursed her growing rage, using it to fight back a wave of nausea that threatened to overwhelm her.
“On the gunshot, Melanie, we bagged the spent round,” Butch said. “Nine-millimeter.”
“Wouldn’t common sense say the dog attack came first?” Melanie asked. “The gunshot to the head, at close range, finished him off? Then the fire was set to destroy evidence?”
“Makes sense,” Brennan agreed. Kramer nodded.
“Okay, so let’s talk motive,” she continued. “Why sic a dog on him?”
“So many bites,” Brennan said. “It’s almost like he was tortured.”
“Just what I was thinking. Lieutenant Ramirez said Benson’s daughter was maimed. Tell me about that.”
“Perp cut off some of her fingers. Fucking savage,” Butch said bitterly.
“Was she shot?” Melanie asked.
“No, thankfully. She’s in serious but stable condition,” Butch said.
“So Benson was tortured,” Melanie said, thinking aloud. “His daughter was tortured. Why do that? A grudge, maybe? The perp hated Benson so bad that he tortured his daughter in front of him, then tortured him before killing him?”
“The viciousness of the attack supports that,” Kramer said.
“Or maybe the perp wanted something,” she continued. “Money, information-who knows? Benson wouldn’t give it up.”
“Would you hold out if somebody was doing that kind of shit to you?” Butch said.
“Maybe Benson didn’t hold out in the end. When Castro finishes dusting for latents, he should look for evidence of robbery. Open safes, jewelry boxes, drawers that are normally kept locked-that sort of thing,” she said.
“You really think the motive could have been robbery?” Butch asked.