One by One (Роберт Хантер 5 Поодиночке)

As Hunter and Garcia left the FBI building, they received a phone call from Doctor Hove. She was done with Christina Stevenson’s autopsy.
In bumper-to-bumper traffic, it took them just over an hour to reach the Department of Coroner in North Mission Road. Doctor Hove was waiting for them in Autopsy Theater One, the same autopsy theater used for Kevin Lee Parker’s postmortem.
The room felt even colder than before. The stale, intrusive, sweet disinfectant smell seemed stronger, chokingly so. Hunter pinched his nose a couple of times before folding his arms over his chest. Goosebumps pricked the skin around his triceps.
Doctor Hove led them deep into the room toward the last of the three autopsy tables that sprang from the east wall.
Since they’d missed it at the parking lot in Santa Monica yesterday morning, this was the first time either of the two detectives had seen Christina Stevenson’s body live and up close. Her disfigurement was even more disturbing than what the pictures had shown. Her skin, which had once been silky smooth, judging by the photographs they’d found in her house, now looked rubbery and porous. The lumps that covered most of her body came in all different sizes, but all of them grotesque, nonetheless. The unimaginable pain she’d been through was still there, etched on her distorted face like a horror mask.
‘A different approach,’ Doctor Hove said, slipping a brand-new pair of latex gloves on. ‘But just as sadistic as the first murder, if you ask me.’ She had already watched the recorded footage.
Hunter and Garcia positioned themselves on the left side of the stainless-steel examination table.
‘Because wasps do not leave their stinger behind,’ Doctor Hove began, ‘allowing them to sting multiple times, it’s impossible to tell how many times she was actually stung. As an educated guess, I’d say close to a thousand times.’
Garcia’s throat knotted as beads of cold sweat broke out on his forehead. Only four stings had sent him into hospital when he was a kid. He could still remember the pain, and how sick he felt. His brain couldn’t even begin to contemplate what a thousand stings would’ve been like.
‘As she was lying on her back during the attack,’ Doctor Hove continued, ‘the wasps concentrated their efforts on the front and sides of her body. The least-stung areas are these small sections of her breasts.’ She indicated with her index finger. ‘And this area around her groin and hips. As you know, the reason for that is because she was wearing a bra and panties. The lab is already analyzing them. Any findings, you’ll be the first to know.’ She paused to clear her throat. ‘Safe of those areas, as you can see, she was stung pretty much everywhere else, including the inside of her mouth, the back of her throat, her tongue, her eyes and the inside of her nostrils.’ Doctor Hove glanced at the chart on the west wall that itemized the weights of the deceased’s internal organs. ‘I retrieved dead wasps from deep inside her aural cavity, her esophagus and her stomach.’
Garcia closed his eyes and swallowed dry. He was starting to feel unwell.
‘Stomach analysis showed that it was practically empty,’ Doctor Hove said.
Hunter knew that that wasn’t unusual in a kidnap/murder case where the murder was committed only a day or two after the kidnapping. Even if the perpetrator had tried to feed his victim, the sheer fear, anxiety and uncertainty that come with being held in captivity would’ve undoubtedly acted as a very powerful appetite suppressant, even for the most steady of individuals.
‘She died from cardiac arrest, probably caused by anaphylactic shock.’
From what Hunter and Garcia had witnessed with the broadcast, they were sure the victim hadn’t been allergic to wasps’ venom. If she had, her body would’ve started shutting itself down immediately after the first sting. Without help, death would’ve come too fast. A lot faster than the almost eighteen minutes it took her to die.
The doctor looked up and noticed that Garcia had taken a step back. He didn’t look too good. ‘You OK, Carlos?’
He nodded, avoiding eye contact. ‘Yep. Fine. Just carry on, please.’
‘You probably already know this,’ she continued. ‘But for an anaphylactic reaction to occur, one must have been exposed, in the past, to the substance that causes the reaction, called the antigen. In this case, the wasps’ venom. This process is called sensitization. The problem is, even if she wasn’t already allergic to the antigen, in the case of a prolonged attack, like the one she suffered, the sheer volume of venom injected directly into her bloodstream could’ve easily caused one of two extreme reactions – either force an exceptionally quick sensitization or skip the process all together, forcing the body straight into anaphylaxis – extreme allergic reaction.’
Garcia used the sleeve of his white coverall to wipe the sweat from his forehead.
‘But I did say that the cardiac arrest was probably caused by anaphylactic shock.’ Doctor Hove opened a red folder that was resting on the stainless-steel counter to her right. ‘But there’s another possibility. The main characteristic of the tarantula hawk’s venom is that it paralyzes its prey. Now you have to remember that its main prey is the tarantula spider, which can be twice, maybe three times larger than the wasp itself.’
‘Very strong venom,’ Hunter said.
‘For its natural prey, fatal,’ Doctor Hove agreed. ‘But its paralyzing ability shouldn’t affect humans, unless a very high quantity of it is injected into the bloodstream. In that case, there’s a very high possibility that the venom could induce a human heart into paralysis.’
Everyone’s gaze came back to the body on the table for a long, silent moment.
‘I read Mike Brindle’s report,’ Doctor Hove said, grabbing their attention again. ‘And I also looked through his inventory list from the abduction scene . . . her own home, right?’
Hunter nodded.
‘The broken nails he found . . . they match.’ She indicated the body’s hands.
Hunter and Garcia moved a little closer to examine them. The nails of the index and middle fingers on the right hand had been torn. The same had happened to the nail of the index finger on the left hand.
‘Anything under the remaining nails?’ Hunter asked.
Doctor Hove pulled a face. ‘Well, there should have been, right? Brindle’s report describes a typical struggle scene.’
‘That’s right,’ Hunter confirmed.
‘So if she fought her aggressor, chances are that something would’ve lodged itself under a nail – fabric fiber, skin, hair, dust . . . something.’
‘There was nothing?’ Garcia this time.
‘She was cleaned up,’ the doctor said. ‘Her nails have been scrubbed with bleach. They’re as clean as a newborn baby’s. This killer is taking no chances.’
Doctor Hove allowed them to study the body’s hands for a few more seconds before she spoke again.
‘Now, here’s a surprising fact,’ she said. ‘The killer preserved the body after she died, by cooling it down.’
Hunter wasn’t so surprised. He had had his suspicions.
‘We all know that she died five days ago, on Friday evening,’ the doctor explained, ‘but her body was only discovered on Monday morning, that’s almost seventy-two hours later. The average temperature in Los Angeles in the past week was around eighty-three degrees. After three days, the body should’ve been bloated and discharging fluids from just about everywhere. The inflamed lumps from the wasps’ stings should’ve subsided considerably, large blisters substituting them, caused by body gases. Rigor mortis should’ve come and gone two days ago. The body was still in the late stages of it by last night. The perp preserved the body.’
Refrigeration slowed decomposition in the same way it delayed cold cuts from spoiling, and preserved fruits and vegetables from going bad too quickly.