by Dana Richard Freeman
Lesley Stampridge had never in all her years as the Trachsel County chief medical examiner seen someone in their late 20s looking as young as a teenager, but if she knew anything, she knew her teeth. This John Doe was 28 years old if he was a day, possibly 29, pending further investigation.
Her autopsy revealed a single knife wound, possibly a small, very sharp, kitchen knife inserted just under the left rib cage. The blade traveled just far enough into the thoracic cavity to sever the left lung almost in half and cause a two centimeter wound in the left ventricle of the heart. She found a profuse amount of blood in both lungs.
Rope burns on the wrists and ankles confirmed that he was tied up pretty securely before he died: he couldn’t do anything but squirm before he was dumped onto the front lawn of Trachsel County High School. Teeth impressions on the inside of his lips suggested he was also gagged, but only lightly so. The chest wound was clean with very little shredding around the fringes, another indication the vic wasn’t allowed much movement. Whoever did this was good: they wanted him to suffer before he died.
Stampridge was about to slide the body into one of the refrigerated storage lockers when the door to the lab flew open and Irv Coughlin, homicide detective for the Trachsel Township police, just about exploded into the room, as usual. Not one to be shy, Coughlin usually got right to the point.
“Whaddaya got Lesley? Somebody save us some court time?” Coughlin spat out.
If detective Coughlin had his way, anyone even remotely resembling a druggie sooner or later would end up here. He wasn’t shy about advertising that either: if this John Doe was in the ME’s lab then Coughlin pronounced him a druggie, maybe even a dealer.
“Well, I’m not so sure, Irv,” answered Stampridge as she slid the body back out of storage, “but I will say that whatever this was about, it was done by a pro.”
“Oh great, a turf war,” Coughlin said, his eyes narrowing as he moved closer to the body. The ME knew Coughlin wouldn’t miss much.
“Not necessarily,” Stampridge countered. “When I say a pro I don’t mean a hit-man pro, I mean a human body pro.”
“Well…” Coughlin decided after he glanced briefly at the vic’s head, “no one I know,” he observed while his photographic memory kicked into gear, with computer-like speed. “No marks around the neck for strangulation, but the facial expression looks kind of tight. This guy was pretty scared, wasn’t he?”
“I’d say so. And look here on the lip,” Stampridge replied as she easily rolled back the upper lip with her pen for Coughlin to see. The initial stiffness of the musculature from rigor mortis was beginning to fade and she managed to get the mouth open wide enough so he could see only a very slight indentation on the victim’s upper lip.
“Teeth marks,” observed Coughlin. “Suffocation?” he asked as he stayed bent over the body and merely turned his head to look at her for confirmation.
“Not the normal kind of suffocation I‘m used to seeing,” answered Stampridge, “That would uniformly close the upper and lower lips through an even application of pressure so the victim couldn’t possibly breathe. That would also leave deeper, more symmetrical impressions.” She demonstrated on Coughlin, clamping her hand, as if it were a gag, over his mouth. He started to take a step back, momentarily surprised by her use of his mouth to demonstrate.
I know that cologne, he thought, trying to regain his composure fast enough so she didn’t notice his surprise.
“The small teeth marks on the bottom lip are off to one side only,” she added, returning his attention to the victim’s mouth with a sly smile at his sudden loss of composure. “The impressions on the top lip are deeper. While I was looking at those impressions, I also pulled a few blood-soaked cloth fibers from the right nasal opening. I think he was gagged, but unevenly as if it had been applied quickly.”
“An afterthought?” Coughlin wondered as he briefly looked up at her, his attention turning quickly back to examining the victim’s nose.
“Possibly,” answered Leslie.
Stampridge then peeled back the sheet covering the victim’s body and pointed to the chest wound.
“The knife entered the chest here… and almost severed the left lung completely, thus allowing any liquid in the pulmonary cavity to enter both lungs.”
“I love it when you talk dirty like that,” sneered Coughlin, as he examined the chest wound carefully.
Touché she thought, beginning to blush. She forced herself to ignore the remark and continued, “The wound also punctured the left ventricle. That’s why an enormous amount of blood was allowed to enter the wound through the left lung, and eventually flood the right lung as well.”
“That’s one helluva clean cut. Kitchen knife you say? How about a scalpel?“
“I don’t think people are killing each other with scalpels these days.“
“True,“ Coughlin remarked as he stared more closely at the chest. “So, John Doe drowned to death in his own blood.”
“Exactly.” The ME smiled at his usually observant conclusions, “The gag prevented most of the blood from being spit or coughed out.”
“So, they didn’t gag him to keep air from getting in, they gagged him to keep blood from getting out and this…”
“…ensured he would drown, and very soon,” Stampridge added.
“So he died pretty quickly.” Coughlin observed looking closer at the wound.
“But not before he suffered as much as whoever did this wanted him to suffer. What confuses me is, if he’s going to die anyway, why worry about him suffering?”
“Because whoever did this, did it as a message to others who were forced to watch,” boomed a loud, familiar voice from across the lab. Neither Stampridge nor Coughlin was aware that Tom Savage from Narcotics had entered the room.
“Damn, TJ, you narcs are quiet,” replied a startled Coughlin.
“It’s what we do, Irv,” chuckled Thomas J. Savage at Coughlin’s unusual edginess.
“When did you beam down, Scotty?”
“Just as the lovely Dr. Stampridge was wondering why the vic was made to suffer,” answered Savage, as he slowly drew closer to the body.
“So what brings you here, Sherlock?” asked a slightly confused Coughlin. He respected Tom Savage enormously, but this was clearly a homicide, Coughlin’s turf.
“Damn, “ muttered Savage under his breath, but just loud enough for Stampridge and Coughlin both to hear as he momentarily sidestepped the question: a quick foot-to-head examination of the body finally brought him close to the head.
Stampridge and Coughlin simultaneously looked at each other with the same question on both of their faces. Coughlin turned back to Savage.
“You know this guy?” asked Coughlin.
“He’s undercover at the local high school, Jason Milford” replied Savage with a deep sigh. “At least he was. We’ve had some high-powered activity over there. We flew him in from Las Vegas to try some infiltration. This is probably all over town by now. That blows this operation.”
“Not yet buddy boy,” Coughlin said with a big grin, “One of our blues found your boy on a late-night patrol of the neighborhood. No one around and no media when the meat wagon picked him up and brought him here. So as of right now no…”
Just then both Coughlin’s and Savage’s beepers went off.
They looked at their respective pagers at the same time.
“You first, TJ,” offered Coughlin as they both moved towards the ME’s phone.
Savage dialed Narcotics and, after a series of grunts and groans, he hung up.
“You may not have to call, Irv. Just hop in the car with me. We got another stabbing at the high school,” he said. Turning to Stampridge, he continued, “Get ready Lesley, I think you’re about to have another customer.”
* * *
The next morning, principal Leon Jarvis met with Detectives Savage and Coughlin in the hallway just outside the front office of Trachsel County High School before the buses arrived. Dr. Jarvis glanced briefly at the search warrant they offered him and handed it back to Detective Coughlin.
“Gentlemen, if you’ll follow me,” he said.
The two detectives followed him down an empty hallway to a set of lockers in the science wing of the school. Alternately looking at locker numbers and a piece of paper in his hand, Dr. Jarvis finally stopped and turned to the two officers.
“Here we are gentlemen, locker #331, Jason Aldrich,” he said, stepping aside and handing Coughlin the paper with the locker number and combination on it.
“Thank you, Dr. Jarvis,” offered Coughlin as both he and Savage began putting on surgical gloves.
“Jason is a fine student. He is in honors history and biology. Near the top of the Junior class. Was he involved in some sort of crime gentlemen?” asked the principal.
Coughlin and Savage exchanged glances. Seeing the look on their faces, Jarvis was almost afraid to ask, “Has something happened to him, gentlemen?”
“I’m afraid so, Dr. Jarvis,” Savage hesitated.
“Oh my God,” Jarvis almost crumpled at the news.
“Jason was an undercover agent for the narcotics division. Real name: Jason Milford,” said Savage as Coughlin spun the dial on the front of the locker. “His body was found two nights ago on the front lawn of the high school just before dawn.”
Jarvis was speechless as the news sunk in.
“He was trying to infiltrate what appeared to be a very lucrative drug operation here at Trachsel. Strictly confidential, Dr. Jarvis.”
Jarvis nodded his head vigorously. “Drugs at TCHS,” he replied almost to himself in a barely audible whisper.
“We were closing in,” Savage continued, “and Jason said that he had gotten an offer to join the operation and was about to discover who was running it. We think he might have concealed evidence in his locker.”
Turning to Savage, Coughlin motioned to the now open locker, “TJ, you’re the expert.”
“Five or six textbooks… notebooks… looks like an empty gym bag,” Savage observed, as he carefully removed the contents of the locker. “We will need to confiscate these books, Dr. Jarvis.”
“Of course, gentlemen. Anything you need,” offered Jarvis.
Coughlin took the books from Savage and placed them gingerly on the floor as Savage continued his search. The narcotics detective methodically searched every square inch inside the locker. Suddenly, his hands stopped as they struck a bulky object taped to the top of the locker out of plain view.
“Well, well… what have we here?” asked Savage as he gently undid the tape holding what looked like a sizable dissection kit to the inside top of the locker.
“Why would he tape his dissection kit to the inside of his locker?” Coughlin asked as he slowly opened it and examined the contents.
“That’s not a student’s dissection kit, Detective Coughlin,” Jarvis interjected. “That’s a teacher’s kit. There are only four of them in the science department. After all, they are expensive items. We keep a close eye on them.”
“TJ, look at this,” Coughlin said as he opened the kit. “There’s nothing missing. How could this… wait, if there are others-”
“-maybe this was the clue he couldn’t get out of school,” Savage said. “It’s obvious this kit doesn’t have the scalpel that killed Jason, but maybe he was telling us what the leader threatened his mules with.”
“Is the science department office nearby, Dr. Jarvis?” Asked Coughlin, picking up on Savage’s line of thought.
“We’re standing right outside it, Detective Coughlin,” answered the principal as he gestured toward the door opposite the open locker. Pulling a set of keys out of his pocket, he opened the door and stepped aside allowing the officers access to the room. He pointed the way to the biology department’s supply room door which was standing open. Savage and Coughlin quickly began their search of the room. Dr. Jarvis stood just outside the door where they had asked him to stand: he’d be out of the way, but still able to watch as the officers searched the room.
“TJ, check this out,” Coughlin said.
“Well, well…” observed Savage as he looked at what Coughlin was holding in his hand as if it were a 5-pound, gold nugget, “A dissection kit with a missing scalpel.”
Just then, Neil Swanson, honors biology teacher at Trachsel High, walked in the other door of the supply room that led to his office. Startled by the presence of the three men, he almost dropped the papers he had been carrying.
“Oh, Dr. Jarvis, good morning. May I help you?” asked a visibly shaken Swanson as he looked in the room to see two adults standing by the dissection equipment cabinet.
“Dr. Swanson, these are detectives Coughlin and Savage. You have a Jason Aldrich in one of your classes don’t you?”
“Yes, of course. Fine student. I was just going over his research project.” said Swanson. “So sad about his death.”
Savage and Coughlin both looked at each other. Coughlin spoke first, “Dr. Swanson, would you please turn around.”
Swanson slowly turned, a look of confusion on his face as Coughlin began to place handcuffs on the surprised biology teacher.
“Dr. Swanson, I’m placing you under arrest for the murder of Jason Aldrich and possibly the murder last night of Zach Parson,” continued Coughlin as he read him his rights.
“I don’t understand. Wha-” sputtered Swanson.
“You’re right, Dr Swanson, Jason Aldrich is dead,” replied Savage, “but none of the details were made public.”
“But…“ Swanson stammered over his shoulder as Detective Savage turned him around, “I didn’t say I knew any details.”
“Dr. Swanson, you don’t get it, do you?”
“Get what?” asked Swanson.
“You know one too many details,” explained Coughlin, as he closed the handcuffs around the biology teacher’s wrists. “Y’see, Dr. Swanson, no one even knew he was dead.”
About the Author
A retired science teacher of 39 years, Dana has used his knowledge of the sciences to fashion stories “…with a twist.” The endings take one where they might not have expected to go.
©2010 Dana Richard Freeman
