Beneath the glare of the work lights, Dale Michaels’s face is swollen and purple. His tongue is twice its normal size and protrudes from his mouth like some overripe fruit. The flesh around his eyes is like crepe paper, fluid filled and nearly black in color. The eyeballs within are milky-looking and bloodred with petechiae. Though I’ve backed six feet away, I’m repelled by the odors of urine and feces.

Death is always an ugly sight to behold, whether it’s homicide, suicide, accidental, or from natural causes. But from all indications, Dale Michaels’s demise was particularly brutal. The doc has removed the rope from around the victim’s neck. It left a two-inch-deep trench in the flesh and severely abraded the skin. The yellow nylon rope is about three-eighths of an inch in diameter, and there’s about thirty feet of it. I watch as the technician coils it and then places it in an evidence bag. From where I’m standing, I see blood and abraded flesh embedded in the fibers.

Suicides don’t require the same level of scrutiny from law enforcement as a homicide, but the scene must still be documented. In the state of Ohio, all unattended deaths require that an autopsy be conducted, and this case will be no different. Unless it is determined that foul play was involved, there will be little in terms of actual police investigation.

My mind drifts as the doctor goes about his work. I’m wondering if I can wrap this up in a couple of hours and get home in time to help Tomasetti with that bottle of cabernet when the coroner gives me a sharp look over his shoulder.

“Chief, I’ve got an irregularity here.”

I walk over and kneel beside him. With gloved hands, he opens the jacket to reveal a partially tucked shirt. A hole in the fabric the size of my pinkie is surrounded by a wide bloodstain that spreads downward to soak into the waistband of his trousers and underwear.

“There’s the source of that blood,” he tells me. “I’m pretty sure that’s a gunshot wound.”

“Self-inflicted?” I ask.

“Hard to tell.” He looks at me over his bifocals. “The only thing I can tell you with relative certainty at this point is that he was alive when he was shot. There’s not much blood, but enough so that I feel the heart was beating when he sustained that gunshot wound.”

“So he was shot and then hanged?” I ask.

“Correct,” the doc confirms.

I look at Glock and Maloney. “Anyone find a handgun on scene?”

“Nope,” Glock mutters. “But I’ve only done a cursory search.”

“Might’ve shot himself in the house and then walked out here and finished it,” Maloney offers.

“Doubtful scenario,” the doc tells him. “Judging by the location of the wound, I would venture to say it was debilitating.”

“Have a look around,” I tell Glock and Maloney. “Check for casings, too.”

The men are already on their feet, their eyes seeking.

I stare at the blood, the pattern of the spread. “Looks like he was upright when he was shot.”