I reach for the boy’s wrist, cut through the speaker wire, and drop the wire into a second evidence bag. “Quite a bit of bruising at the wrist,” I comment.

The doctor grimaces. “This poor boy struggled.”

“I need to bag his hands so the CSU can check beneath his nails for DNA.” When I glance down at the victim’s hands, I see that the fingers are claw-like and rigid. “He’s in rigor?” I ask.

“Not yet. Rigor usually starts with the face, the jaw, the neck.”

“But his hands . . .”

“Cadaveric spasm more than likely. That happens when the victim experiences extreme agitation or tension in the moments before death.”

I don’t want to think about the horrors this boy endured before his death. I’ve been a victim of violent crime; I’ve seen my share of violence. But I cannot imagine the terror and helplessness of being bound, watching every member of your family systematically shot and knowing you’re next.

The doc moves to Amos Plank. I know it’s an emotional response, but I feel inordinately repulsed by the elder Plank’s body. Not because of the condition of his corpse, but because of what he may have done to his family. There’s a part of me that feels as if the man doesn’t deserve the reverence with which we handled the dead boy.

“Did you move him, Kate?”

I nod.

“Is he your shooter?”

“I don’t know. Looks that way.”

“Since we’ve some question as to whether or not this man is the perpetrator of these crimes and time is of the essence, I’ll go ahead and get a core temp for you now. It’s much more accurate this way and you’ll be able to get to work on a time line.” The doctor tugs up the man’s shirt and exposes his abdomen.

Though entering middle age, Amos Plank is a lean man. I can see the outline of his ribs from where I stand. Minimal body hair. White skin that has seen little sun.

“You might want to note that there are no visible lacerations or bruises about the abdomen.”

“Duly noted.”

“I’m going to make a small incision.” The doc places his hand flat against the abdomen, pulls the skin taut. Using a scalpel, he quickly makes the incision just below the lowest rib, about half an inch long. A line of blood appears as the skin opens, but the wound does not bleed. Next, he inserts the stem of a long digital meat thermometer, guiding it upward to just under the rib cage.

“Going to take a minute or so,” he says. “I’ll continue with the exam.”

Setting his hands on the head of the corpse, he gently moves it from side to side. “Rigor has set in about the face and neck. Eyes are cloudy.”