![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
jackofknavesTitle: 'Tis the Season for Murder: A Christmas Caper
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
tripatch
Rating: PG
Pairing: Gen
Summary: A mall Santa is murdered and Nick is on the case. The problem? Monroe seems to think it might be a real Santa.
Notes: Thanks tobe_merry for the quick beta and my brother for indulging me when I ask about police procedure for my fics. ♥!
There was a crowd of people standing at their scene, a modest-sized outdoor display in a park with over-sized presents wrapped in green foil packaging, plastic lollipops lining the path, and a truly garish display of lights on a small house that proudly proclaimed itself to be the home of Mr. And Mrs. Clause. Nick wondered if the real santas ever got tired of the merchandising or if they really were good-natured enough to enjoy it. He and Hank wound their way through the crowd to a wooden sleigh painted bright red with boughs of pine attached to the ends. Two bored-looking reindeer, plump from grain and hay, milled nearby in a small paddock, still wearing their harnesses adorned with silver bells.
The patrolman looked up, his expression changing from stressed to relief when they flashed their badges at him.
“Thank God,” he said. “I can’t handle this. It’s your baby now, detectives.”
“Thanks, Pinshaw,” Nick said, allowing the man to slip past. Two EMTs stood nearby, uneasily shifting from foot to foot. Nick recognized one of them and gave the woman a smile. “Hey, Sheryl.”
“Hey, Nick,” she replied. She was a short, slightly overweight woman, with red cheeks and usually had a pretty smile that was absent now. Her face was white and drawn, bags under her eyes. She nodded to the sleigh. “He’s in there. We didn’t touch the body—it was obvious he’s been dead for a while.”
He nodded and glanced over to where she was gesturing. Draped along the sleigh, his limbs contorted in an unnatural pose brought on by rigor mortis and the awkward position, was the second victim. He was dressed in the traditional Santa outfit, a plush red costume trimmed in white fur, shiny black leather boots complete with silver buckle, and a bag of presents spilling onto the ground below. His hat was lying discarded next to the sleigh; the red against the frozen ground seemed inappropriate somehow, and Nick pushed aside a sudden wave of sadness to examine the scene.
The CSU guys were still busily snapping photographs from all angles of the scene, capturing every nuance from fifty yards away to the minutiae of the sleigh. Nick sighed and scrubbed his face with his hand.
“What have we got?” he asked the coroner.
The man shrugged. “Harper can tell you more, but all I can say is that the guy’s been dead for a while.”
Nick looked up at Hank. “What time did you say you picked up Mr. Spicer?”
“Around 5:30 this morning,” Hank said, following his logic quickly. They both looked at the coroner, who shook his head.
“Negative, detectives. I’d say this guy was killed around 8:00 this morning.”
“We got an ID?”
“Kirk Lingers,” a man standing nearby piped up. He was tall and skeletal, almost bony in aspect, and his cheeks were sunken in his too-thin face. He had on a pair of black slacks, too baggy for his frame, and a white button-up shirt underneath a thick parka. His scrawny neck was entirely covered with a long blue and white scarf whose ends trailed to somewhere around his waist. He shoved his hands deep into his pockets to fend off the cold seeping in and chilling everyone’s bones.
“And you are?” Hank asked.
“I’m the one who found the body. I’m also Mr. Lingers’s boss. Harold Hu,” the man held out a gloved hand. The detectives shook it dutifully. “I came by to open the display this afternoon and found him like that, just lying there.” He stared at the body in shock for a moment before turning away, a pained expression written on his face. “Is there any way that you could cover him up? There are children present.”
Nick glanced over his shoulder, where there was another crowd of onlookers, some of whom were parents with their children, hugging them and reassuring them as they cried pitifully. He sighed. “We’ll work as quickly as we can, Mr. Hu. Can you tell us about Mr. Lingers?”
“He’s been working with us for eight years now,” Mr. Hu told them. “He was such a nice man, loved the kids… I just don’t understand how anyone could do this. And so close to Christmas!”
“Neither do we,” Hank said grimly, “but we’re working to find out.”
“Are you the only one who has access to this area?” Nick asked him.
“No, of course not. This is an open display. There are chain link fences around the area, of course, but honestly they don’t do much to deter people. Just last week we had to clean off graffiti left by teenagers on the house.” The man smiled sadly. “Mr. Lingers actually volunteered to help us with the work, free of charge.”
“Thank you for your help, Mr. Hu. We’re going to need to take you to the station to get your statement and ask a few more questions. The officers will give you a ride if you need one.”
“Of course.” Mr. Hu hesitated. “Detectives, I don’t know if you can answer this, but is this related to the other man who was murdered? The one in the mall?”
“Where did you hear about that?” Hank asked neutrally.
“The news, of course,” the thin man blinked. “It was all over it. I just wondered. It seemed such an odd coincidence…”
“We really can’t release any information on either case,” Nick said firmly. “But we are looking for the person responsible.”
“Of course, of course,” Mr. Hu nodded. He mopped his face with the edge of his scarf and repeated in a small voice, “I just don’t understand who could do such a thing.”
“Neither do I,” Hank told Nick as they walked toward the car. “Both good guys who spent all their time volunteering their time and working for free? Maybe someone out there just really hates the Christmas spirit.”
“We’re missing something,” Nick said as he got into the car, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. Hank paused in buckling his seatbelt.
“Pray tell, oh wise one,” Hank said dryly.
Nick ignored him. “There’s a connection here.” He started the car, listening to the ignition purr before pulling out into traffic on the busy street. "Something beyond the fact they were both santas."
They found Ms. Gingrich waiting for them at the front desk, readjusting the sash on her coat and telling Wu that they had called. Nick intervened before Wu could say something cutting.
“Hi, Ms. Gingrich. Sorry to bring you down here again, but we had a few follow-up questions.”
She followed them to their desk and gave a timid smile, placing her purse on the floor beside her and crossing her legs demurely. “It’s no problem,” she said. “Honestly, I was in the neighborhood anyway.”
“All the way up here?” Hank sounded surprised. The police station, meant to be conveniently located in the heart of Portland—and probably had been at some point, early on—had drifted farther and farther away from the metropolitan area and was now ensconced to the north of the busiest parts of the city. It was a frequent complaint for officers who had to make the drive every day from the more residential areas.
She shrugged, a tiny motion of her shoulders underneath an olive green peacoat. The hems of the sleeves were roughly stitched, like she had sewn them herself. “I quit my job at the mall. I just couldn’t—it wasn’t the same, not now,” she shakily. Her face scrunched up as she added, “And the new Santa they hired is kind of handsy with the help, if you know what I mean.”
“Ah,” Nick said knowingly. “Well, we were just wondering if Mr. Alcuse had ever talked about anybody, maybe mentioned the name of a friend, anything like that?”
“None that I can think of,” she said, tilting her head. Her hair fell in soft waves that brushed the tops of her shoulders. “I mean, he was a really friendly guy, everybody knew him. He probably mentioned a lot of people, but nobody I can think of off-hand.”
Nick could hear Hank trying not to sigh; witnesses were notoriously unreliable or unhelpful, and the ones who weren’t usually were lying. It was a no-win situation interviewing them, but all part of the job. He kept the sympathetic expression firmly affixed to his face, fighting back his frustration.
“Anything at all, Ms. Gingrich. Please try to remember.”
“I really am, but the only thing that really stands out was the Portland Preservation Service.”
“The what?”
“It was some kind of charity for a nature preserve they were thinking about building in the woods near Forest Park. He was crazy about it, always talking about conservation. He went out there a few weeks ago with a few other volunteers to look over the land.” She had a guilty expression on her face, as if she was ashamed of what she was saying. “I gave him five dollars for his collection just to get him to stop talking about it.”
“That’s very helpful, Ms. Gingrich,” Nick said. “Did he mention the names of any other volunteers?”
“Um, there was one… I mean, I don’t know that he was a friend, he was just a guy he worked with on it. What was his name?”
Hank and Nick waited for her to remember, resisting the urge to prompt her—that way led to false identifications all around, as all of their detective class trainers had taken great pains to stress to them. It was why police portraitures were often so unreliable. She sighed in frustration and leaned down to search through her purse, pulling out a package of toothpicks. At the detectives’ questioning look, she held them up for inspection.
“Sorry. I’m trying to quit smoking. Sometimes it helps me think better if I can just have something and that nicotine gum tastes awful,” she said, chewing on the end of the toothpick. After a few seconds of mangling the wooden stick, she offered, “Craig something? He had a weird last name, started with an L, I think. Linkers? Craig Linkers?”
“Kirk Lingers, maybe?” Hank broke in. It was close enough that a little prompting wouldn’t hurt, but Nick still shot him a look. Hank shrugged in response; it was all they had to go on, and the Captain was itching for a lead on a case that thus far had only offered up more questions everywhere they looked. Any link beyond the made-for-late-night-news Santa connection would be helpful.
Lisa shrugged helplessly. “Maybe? It was a while ago. I’m sorry I can’t help you out more.”
“You did fine, Lisa,” Hank reassured her, leading her to the front desk. Nick trailed behind, idly listening to Hank and Lisa make small talk as they walked down the long hallway. Hank mentioned something about the possibility of snow the weathermen were claiming for this weekend. Nick softly began humming, “I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas” underneath his breath.
“Please stop singing that,” Lisa snapped. Hank and Nick looked at her in surprise. She shook her head, brushing back her hair and looking frazzled and apologetic. “Sorry. It’s just I’m not really in the Christmas spirit after all this.”
“We understand,” Hank said. “The officer here will show you out and take down any information.”
“Thank you,” she said, already filling out the forms Wu handed to her.
As they walked back to their desks, Hank let out a low whistle. “That was kind of weird.”
“But understandable. Besides, I used to work in retail,” Nick said, thinking back to his college days, when he had worked at a Home Depot to make ends meet. He grimaced. “You try hearing the same Christmas songs for eight hours a day and not snap. And she probably couldn’t even duck into a store-room to get away from it when she wanted.”
“Still,” Hank commented dubiously.
Nick grinned and clapped him on the shoulder. “Spoken like someone who has never had to work retail.”
“Hey, can I help if it I was born rich and handsome?” Hank called to his back.
"No, but it would help if you stopped announcing it," Wu said, walking past. "Harper's waiting for you. Said she's got something."
"Thanks, Wu."
They headed down to the morgue. “Detectives,” Doctor Harper greeted them as they walked in.
"What have you got for us, Doc?" Hank asked, eyeing the room with distaste. Despite it being part of the job, nobody enjoyed hanging around with dead bodies.
The doctor beckoned for them to follow her, where she pulled back the sheet to reveal the pale, cold body of the late Mr. Lingers. His eyes stared sightlessly at the ceiling, clouded over with death.
"I haven't done a full autopsy on him yet, but I did find traces of the same substance I found in your other Santa. Lab analysis came back on it this morning, confirming that it was organic. Keratin, to be precise."
"Fingernails?" Hank asked with some surprise.
"Very good," Dr. Harper praised. "Someone remembers their seventh grade biology class."
Nick hid his grin as she continued, "It also appears in pretty much every animal with claws, tusks, horns... Rhino's horns are almost entirely made out of keratin."
"The more you know," Nick quipped. "Could it have been human?"
"No way to really tell," Dr. Harper shook her head. "The lab also ran an analysis on the fungus growing on it, but the results were inconclusive. It looks similar in make-up to certain nail fungi, but nothing I've seen before."
"Have you gotten a chance to do a full autopsy on the first vic?"
Dr. Harper smiled. "It's your lucky day, boys. It's been pretty slow around here, so I pushed it ahead. No drugs or alcohol in his system and my autopsy confirmed my original guess of cause of death." She pointed with her pen to the gashes in his shoulder, one of them deeper than the rest. "Whatever it was sliced the subclavian artery, as I suspected. Kind of unusual, though."
Nick looked up at that. "Why's that?"
"It takes a lot of force to get past the thoracic inlet. The only time I've seen injuries like this one was when I was doing my residency and car accident victims came in. This shows no damage to the outlying areas, though. My guess? You're looking for a very sharp, curved weapon, one that could have penetrated above the clavicle and sunk in."
Hank frowned. "Like a sickle?"
"Smaller, more direct, but shaped similarly, yes."
"Was there anything else?"
Dr. Harper flipped through her chart, skimming the pages. "Nothing relevant that I could see. He was in pretty good health, surprisingly. The only thing that I could find was some damage to his lungs."
"What kind of damage?" Nick asked.
"Consistent with COPD," Dr. Harper said. "Loss of elasticity in the lung tissue, signs of excess sputum production... It wouldn't have surprised me if he got tired after dealing with kids all day. The lack of circulation would have worn him out quickly, especially if he was doing anything physical, like going up stairs or exercising."
"Which explains why he asked Mr. Spicer for the break-room key," Nick said to Hank. They nodded to Dr. Harper. "Thanks, Doc."
"No problem," she waved them out. "Do me a favor and catch this guy. I don't want to explain to my kids why Santa died."
Author:
tripatchRating: PG
Pairing: Gen
Summary: A mall Santa is murdered and Nick is on the case. The problem? Monroe seems to think it might be a real Santa.
Notes: Thanks to
be_merry for the quick beta and my brother for indulging me when I ask about police procedure for my fics. ♥!| Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 |
| Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 |
| Chapter 7 | Author’s Notes | Teaser |
There was a crowd of people standing at their scene, a modest-sized outdoor display in a park with over-sized presents wrapped in green foil packaging, plastic lollipops lining the path, and a truly garish display of lights on a small house that proudly proclaimed itself to be the home of Mr. And Mrs. Clause. Nick wondered if the real santas ever got tired of the merchandising or if they really were good-natured enough to enjoy it. He and Hank wound their way through the crowd to a wooden sleigh painted bright red with boughs of pine attached to the ends. Two bored-looking reindeer, plump from grain and hay, milled nearby in a small paddock, still wearing their harnesses adorned with silver bells.
The patrolman looked up, his expression changing from stressed to relief when they flashed their badges at him.
“Thank God,” he said. “I can’t handle this. It’s your baby now, detectives.”
“Thanks, Pinshaw,” Nick said, allowing the man to slip past. Two EMTs stood nearby, uneasily shifting from foot to foot. Nick recognized one of them and gave the woman a smile. “Hey, Sheryl.”
“Hey, Nick,” she replied. She was a short, slightly overweight woman, with red cheeks and usually had a pretty smile that was absent now. Her face was white and drawn, bags under her eyes. She nodded to the sleigh. “He’s in there. We didn’t touch the body—it was obvious he’s been dead for a while.”
He nodded and glanced over to where she was gesturing. Draped along the sleigh, his limbs contorted in an unnatural pose brought on by rigor mortis and the awkward position, was the second victim. He was dressed in the traditional Santa outfit, a plush red costume trimmed in white fur, shiny black leather boots complete with silver buckle, and a bag of presents spilling onto the ground below. His hat was lying discarded next to the sleigh; the red against the frozen ground seemed inappropriate somehow, and Nick pushed aside a sudden wave of sadness to examine the scene.
The CSU guys were still busily snapping photographs from all angles of the scene, capturing every nuance from fifty yards away to the minutiae of the sleigh. Nick sighed and scrubbed his face with his hand.
“What have we got?” he asked the coroner.
The man shrugged. “Harper can tell you more, but all I can say is that the guy’s been dead for a while.”
Nick looked up at Hank. “What time did you say you picked up Mr. Spicer?”
“Around 5:30 this morning,” Hank said, following his logic quickly. They both looked at the coroner, who shook his head.
“Negative, detectives. I’d say this guy was killed around 8:00 this morning.”
“We got an ID?”
“Kirk Lingers,” a man standing nearby piped up. He was tall and skeletal, almost bony in aspect, and his cheeks were sunken in his too-thin face. He had on a pair of black slacks, too baggy for his frame, and a white button-up shirt underneath a thick parka. His scrawny neck was entirely covered with a long blue and white scarf whose ends trailed to somewhere around his waist. He shoved his hands deep into his pockets to fend off the cold seeping in and chilling everyone’s bones.
“And you are?” Hank asked.
“I’m the one who found the body. I’m also Mr. Lingers’s boss. Harold Hu,” the man held out a gloved hand. The detectives shook it dutifully. “I came by to open the display this afternoon and found him like that, just lying there.” He stared at the body in shock for a moment before turning away, a pained expression written on his face. “Is there any way that you could cover him up? There are children present.”
Nick glanced over his shoulder, where there was another crowd of onlookers, some of whom were parents with their children, hugging them and reassuring them as they cried pitifully. He sighed. “We’ll work as quickly as we can, Mr. Hu. Can you tell us about Mr. Lingers?”
“He’s been working with us for eight years now,” Mr. Hu told them. “He was such a nice man, loved the kids… I just don’t understand how anyone could do this. And so close to Christmas!”
“Neither do we,” Hank said grimly, “but we’re working to find out.”
“Are you the only one who has access to this area?” Nick asked him.
“No, of course not. This is an open display. There are chain link fences around the area, of course, but honestly they don’t do much to deter people. Just last week we had to clean off graffiti left by teenagers on the house.” The man smiled sadly. “Mr. Lingers actually volunteered to help us with the work, free of charge.”
“Thank you for your help, Mr. Hu. We’re going to need to take you to the station to get your statement and ask a few more questions. The officers will give you a ride if you need one.”
“Of course.” Mr. Hu hesitated. “Detectives, I don’t know if you can answer this, but is this related to the other man who was murdered? The one in the mall?”
“Where did you hear about that?” Hank asked neutrally.
“The news, of course,” the thin man blinked. “It was all over it. I just wondered. It seemed such an odd coincidence…”
“We really can’t release any information on either case,” Nick said firmly. “But we are looking for the person responsible.”
“Of course, of course,” Mr. Hu nodded. He mopped his face with the edge of his scarf and repeated in a small voice, “I just don’t understand who could do such a thing.”
“Neither do I,” Hank told Nick as they walked toward the car. “Both good guys who spent all their time volunteering their time and working for free? Maybe someone out there just really hates the Christmas spirit.”
“We’re missing something,” Nick said as he got into the car, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. Hank paused in buckling his seatbelt.
“Pray tell, oh wise one,” Hank said dryly.
Nick ignored him. “There’s a connection here.” He started the car, listening to the ignition purr before pulling out into traffic on the busy street. "Something beyond the fact they were both santas."
They found Ms. Gingrich waiting for them at the front desk, readjusting the sash on her coat and telling Wu that they had called. Nick intervened before Wu could say something cutting.
“Hi, Ms. Gingrich. Sorry to bring you down here again, but we had a few follow-up questions.”
She followed them to their desk and gave a timid smile, placing her purse on the floor beside her and crossing her legs demurely. “It’s no problem,” she said. “Honestly, I was in the neighborhood anyway.”
“All the way up here?” Hank sounded surprised. The police station, meant to be conveniently located in the heart of Portland—and probably had been at some point, early on—had drifted farther and farther away from the metropolitan area and was now ensconced to the north of the busiest parts of the city. It was a frequent complaint for officers who had to make the drive every day from the more residential areas.
She shrugged, a tiny motion of her shoulders underneath an olive green peacoat. The hems of the sleeves were roughly stitched, like she had sewn them herself. “I quit my job at the mall. I just couldn’t—it wasn’t the same, not now,” she shakily. Her face scrunched up as she added, “And the new Santa they hired is kind of handsy with the help, if you know what I mean.”
“Ah,” Nick said knowingly. “Well, we were just wondering if Mr. Alcuse had ever talked about anybody, maybe mentioned the name of a friend, anything like that?”
“None that I can think of,” she said, tilting her head. Her hair fell in soft waves that brushed the tops of her shoulders. “I mean, he was a really friendly guy, everybody knew him. He probably mentioned a lot of people, but nobody I can think of off-hand.”
Nick could hear Hank trying not to sigh; witnesses were notoriously unreliable or unhelpful, and the ones who weren’t usually were lying. It was a no-win situation interviewing them, but all part of the job. He kept the sympathetic expression firmly affixed to his face, fighting back his frustration.
“Anything at all, Ms. Gingrich. Please try to remember.”
“I really am, but the only thing that really stands out was the Portland Preservation Service.”
“The what?”
“It was some kind of charity for a nature preserve they were thinking about building in the woods near Forest Park. He was crazy about it, always talking about conservation. He went out there a few weeks ago with a few other volunteers to look over the land.” She had a guilty expression on her face, as if she was ashamed of what she was saying. “I gave him five dollars for his collection just to get him to stop talking about it.”
“That’s very helpful, Ms. Gingrich,” Nick said. “Did he mention the names of any other volunteers?”
“Um, there was one… I mean, I don’t know that he was a friend, he was just a guy he worked with on it. What was his name?”
Hank and Nick waited for her to remember, resisting the urge to prompt her—that way led to false identifications all around, as all of their detective class trainers had taken great pains to stress to them. It was why police portraitures were often so unreliable. She sighed in frustration and leaned down to search through her purse, pulling out a package of toothpicks. At the detectives’ questioning look, she held them up for inspection.
“Sorry. I’m trying to quit smoking. Sometimes it helps me think better if I can just have something and that nicotine gum tastes awful,” she said, chewing on the end of the toothpick. After a few seconds of mangling the wooden stick, she offered, “Craig something? He had a weird last name, started with an L, I think. Linkers? Craig Linkers?”
“Kirk Lingers, maybe?” Hank broke in. It was close enough that a little prompting wouldn’t hurt, but Nick still shot him a look. Hank shrugged in response; it was all they had to go on, and the Captain was itching for a lead on a case that thus far had only offered up more questions everywhere they looked. Any link beyond the made-for-late-night-news Santa connection would be helpful.
Lisa shrugged helplessly. “Maybe? It was a while ago. I’m sorry I can’t help you out more.”
“You did fine, Lisa,” Hank reassured her, leading her to the front desk. Nick trailed behind, idly listening to Hank and Lisa make small talk as they walked down the long hallway. Hank mentioned something about the possibility of snow the weathermen were claiming for this weekend. Nick softly began humming, “I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas” underneath his breath.
“Please stop singing that,” Lisa snapped. Hank and Nick looked at her in surprise. She shook her head, brushing back her hair and looking frazzled and apologetic. “Sorry. It’s just I’m not really in the Christmas spirit after all this.”
“We understand,” Hank said. “The officer here will show you out and take down any information.”
“Thank you,” she said, already filling out the forms Wu handed to her.
As they walked back to their desks, Hank let out a low whistle. “That was kind of weird.”
“But understandable. Besides, I used to work in retail,” Nick said, thinking back to his college days, when he had worked at a Home Depot to make ends meet. He grimaced. “You try hearing the same Christmas songs for eight hours a day and not snap. And she probably couldn’t even duck into a store-room to get away from it when she wanted.”
“Still,” Hank commented dubiously.
Nick grinned and clapped him on the shoulder. “Spoken like someone who has never had to work retail.”
“Hey, can I help if it I was born rich and handsome?” Hank called to his back.
"No, but it would help if you stopped announcing it," Wu said, walking past. "Harper's waiting for you. Said she's got something."
"Thanks, Wu."
They headed down to the morgue. “Detectives,” Doctor Harper greeted them as they walked in.
"What have you got for us, Doc?" Hank asked, eyeing the room with distaste. Despite it being part of the job, nobody enjoyed hanging around with dead bodies.
The doctor beckoned for them to follow her, where she pulled back the sheet to reveal the pale, cold body of the late Mr. Lingers. His eyes stared sightlessly at the ceiling, clouded over with death.
"I haven't done a full autopsy on him yet, but I did find traces of the same substance I found in your other Santa. Lab analysis came back on it this morning, confirming that it was organic. Keratin, to be precise."
"Fingernails?" Hank asked with some surprise.
"Very good," Dr. Harper praised. "Someone remembers their seventh grade biology class."
Nick hid his grin as she continued, "It also appears in pretty much every animal with claws, tusks, horns... Rhino's horns are almost entirely made out of keratin."
"The more you know," Nick quipped. "Could it have been human?"
"No way to really tell," Dr. Harper shook her head. "The lab also ran an analysis on the fungus growing on it, but the results were inconclusive. It looks similar in make-up to certain nail fungi, but nothing I've seen before."
"Have you gotten a chance to do a full autopsy on the first vic?"
Dr. Harper smiled. "It's your lucky day, boys. It's been pretty slow around here, so I pushed it ahead. No drugs or alcohol in his system and my autopsy confirmed my original guess of cause of death." She pointed with her pen to the gashes in his shoulder, one of them deeper than the rest. "Whatever it was sliced the subclavian artery, as I suspected. Kind of unusual, though."
Nick looked up at that. "Why's that?"
"It takes a lot of force to get past the thoracic inlet. The only time I've seen injuries like this one was when I was doing my residency and car accident victims came in. This shows no damage to the outlying areas, though. My guess? You're looking for a very sharp, curved weapon, one that could have penetrated above the clavicle and sunk in."
Hank frowned. "Like a sickle?"
"Smaller, more direct, but shaped similarly, yes."
"Was there anything else?"
Dr. Harper flipped through her chart, skimming the pages. "Nothing relevant that I could see. He was in pretty good health, surprisingly. The only thing that I could find was some damage to his lungs."
"What kind of damage?" Nick asked.
"Consistent with COPD," Dr. Harper said. "Loss of elasticity in the lung tissue, signs of excess sputum production... It wouldn't have surprised me if he got tired after dealing with kids all day. The lack of circulation would have worn him out quickly, especially if he was doing anything physical, like going up stairs or exercising."
"Which explains why he asked Mr. Spicer for the break-room key," Nick said to Hank. They nodded to Dr. Harper. "Thanks, Doc."
"No problem," she waved them out. "Do me a favor and catch this guy. I don't want to explain to my kids why Santa died."
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2011-12-09 10:43 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2011-12-09 10:59 am (UTC)Thank you! My beta is taking her finals now, but as soon as she's done, it should be coming more regularly!
(no subject)
Date: 2011-12-10 11:08 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2011-12-10 01:28 pm (UTC)Next one should be up soon, once I can wrangle one of my beta readers into submission.
♥!