“Real hoot,” said Milo.

The pathologist’s office at the crypt could have been anywhere.

No specimens swimming in formaldehyde, no morbid humor. Potted Peruvian lilies and cactus sat atop a low, white bookshelf, along with cheerful family photos. Jernigan and five healthy-looking kids and a husband who looked like a banker.

She said, “I mean fun from an intellectual puzzle perspective. Your Mr. Scoppio had twenty-eight bullets in him from five different firearms, with at least four wounds theoretically fatal. I don’t need to pinpoint which one did him in, because frankly, who gives a damn, he’s a sieve. But if I was writing this up for Journal of Forensic Science, I’d tag the frontal head wound. Big-caliber bullet, went straight through the cortex and dipped down into the brain stem.”

“Three five-seven?”

Nod. “Yours?”

“Mine’s nine-millimeter.”

“Like two other shooters. No rifle fire. How come? Fugitive guys always bring assault rifles.”

“The officer didn’t have a clear shot.”

“Shootout at the O.K. Mall … well, if your nine-millimeter impacted anywhere above the rib cage, you can award yourself honorable mention. If you got him in the legs?” Shrug.

Milo didn’t fill in the blank.

Jernigan said, “In terms of why he faced off against such heavy firepower, that’s Dr. Delaware’s bailiwick.” To me: “I’m comfortable with suicide by cop. How about you?”

I said, “Works for me.”

“I’m going to write that his inherent psychiatric issues were helped along by amphetamine intoxication, ’cause we want to lay everything at this bastard’s feet, make sure no ACLU types start bitching and moaning.”

Milo said, “He was tweaking big-time?”

“I’m surprised he didn’t jump out of his skin, Lieutenant. Anyway, I don’t see a problem, hopefully the pencil-pushers won’t, either.”

“I’ll find out soon enough. Meeting with the chief in an hour.”

“That should be fun.” She walked us to the door. Milo said, “Thanks, Doc.”

“Thank you. For what you did on Bobby. Bobby was a great kid. I know I’m supposed to be objective but when I found out the bastard ambushed him, I allowed myself a little pleasure when I peeled his damn face off his damn skull. And by the way, I remember my pledge about autopsies. Long as you don’t push it.”

CHAPTER

45

Milo drove to the chief’s office and I returned home.

Detouring, I drove past the lot on Borodi. All the embers gone, bulldozed clean and level, surrounded by a new, substantial fence. Doyle Bryczinski sat in his car by the curb. He seemed to be snoozing, but as I drove by, he waved.

I backed up. “Back on the job, huh?”

“Company finally got their act together,” he said. “Realized they better have me every day, all day. Sometimes they give me a double. When Mom doesn’t need me, I’m here.”

“Keep up the good work.”