“That’s consistent with the catecholamines—the free histamine results, yes.”

“There’s a lot of fiber in the wounds.”

“Yep. He used a kind of hemp rope—pretty raw stuff. Here, I’ve got a sample.” He gives her the entire photo file to hold, stretches to his desk, and comes back with a short coil of hairy, twisted cord. “Twelve millimeters. We tested the petroleum content to figure out the brand. It’s common as dirt, I’m afraid. They sell it in every Ace Hardware in the country.”

Emma takes the sample, tests the rough texture, hands it to Bell. She looks between the cord and the photo in her lap. “Would the abrasions be enough to conceal a needle mark?”

Neilsen grimaces. “Maybe. It depends a little on the gauge of the needle—usually you’d look for a bruise. But you can see what a mess the area is. Be damn hard to pinpoint a puncture. I’d have thought at least one of the MEs would have taken a closer look.”

Westfall speaks up from the doorway. “Some of those county MEs…” He makes a face that casts aspersions on the average county medical examiner’s level of professionalism and training.

“I don’t know,” Neilsen says, more forgiving. “Clay Simmons, from Central, is no slouch.” He retrieves the photo. “But these abrasion sites are really eroded. Ger, what do you think?”

Westfall shambles closer, accepts the photos for a look. There commences a short collegial discussion punctuated with terms like hypostasis, tissue disruption, extravasation. Neilsen argues briefly for the use of spectrophotometry. Westfall rebuts with figures on excised postmortem samples and large variables.

Cooper checks his watch. Emma and Bell exchange glances. Westfall finally scratches his chin stubble and turns their way.

“Miss Lewis, you’ve presented us with a tough problem. It’s hard to distinguish between bruising patterns and tissue damage after death, so while it’s possible there might have been a puncture, I wouldn’t call this conclusive.” He gives her a sympathetic look. “Maybe you thought you could come in and check the bodies and you’d just find the answer, am I right? I’m afraid it doesn’t work like that. Even for us old-timers it doesn’t work like that.”

“I think she’s onto something, though,” Neilsen says. “I mean, when I saw the cubital fossa abrasions, I thought they were extreme.”

Westfall takes a considering drag on his cigarette. “You think the perp might have debrided the area? Maybe postmortem?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never seen that before. Have you seen that before?”

“No, but there are more things in heaven and earth, et cetera.”

“Did you ask Carlos?”

“He’s been in court all day.” Westfall shuffles back past Cooper, leans through the doorway into the hall to call out. “Carlos. Carlos, get in here, we’ve got a question for your files.”

The man who arrives in response to this summons is about midforties, short and squat. He’s wearing a dapper suit with a wide tie; the pale collar of his shirt contrasts with his dark skin and hair. He has a mustache and a matching short beard, and his thick brows meet in the middle. His eyes are expressive, as bright and alert as a falcon’s.