'A single blow delivered with great force.'
'Enough to kill him?'
'Maybe. We'll see. My guess is he's going to have fractures of the left temporal parietal skull and a big epidural hemorrhage.'
'That's what I bet.'
The gloved hands manipulated forceps and the light. A hair, black and about six inches long, clung to the bloody collar of Davila's commando sweater. The hair was collected and placed in an envelope as I worked my way through thick darkness, finding the door. Returning my tinted glasses to a cart, I slipped out. Marino was right behind me.
'If that hair's his,' he said in the corridor, 'then he's dyed it again.'
'I would expect him to have done that,' I said, envisioning the silhouette I had seen last night. Gault's face was very white but, I could not tell about his hair.
'So he's not a redhead anymore.'
'By now he may have purple hair, for all we know.'
'He keeps changing his hair like that, maybe it will fall out.'
'Not likely,' I said. 'But the hair may not be his. Dr. Jonas has dark hair about that long, and she was hovered over the body for a while last night.'
We were in gowns, gloves and masks and looked like a team of surgeons about to perform some remarkable procedure like a heart transplant. Men were carrying in a shipment of pitiful pine boxes destined for Potter's Field, and behind glass, the morning's autopsies had begun. There were only five cases so far, one of them a child who obviously had died violently. Marino averted his gaze.
'Shit,' he muttered, his face dark red. 'What a way to start your day.'
I did not respond.
'Davila'd only been married two months.'
There was nothing I could say.
'I talked to a couple guys who knew him.'
The personal effects of the crack addict named Benny had been unceremoniously heaped on table four, and I decided to move them farther away from the dead child.
'He always wanted to be a cop. I hear that all the damn time.'
The trash bags were heavy, a foul odor drifting from the top of them, where they were tied. I began carrying them over to table eight.
'You tell me why anybody wants to do this?' Marino was getting more furious as he grabbed a bag and followed me.
'We want to make a difference,' I said. 'We want to somehow make things better.'
'Right,' he said sarcastically. 'Davila sure as hell made a difference. He sure as hell made things better.'
'Don't take that away from him,' I said. 'The good he did and might have done is all he has left.'
A Stryker saw started, water drummed and X-rays bared bullets and bones in this theater with its silent audience and actors that were dead. Momentarily, Commander Penn walked in, eyes exhausted above her mask. She was accompanied by a dark young man she introduced as Detective Maier. He showed us the photographs of tread patterns left in the snows of Central Park.
'They're pretty much to scale,' he explained. 'I will admit that the casts would be better if we could get them.'
But NYPD had those, and I was willing to bet that the Transit Police would never see them. Frances Penn almost did not look like the same woman I had visited last night, and I wondered why she really had invited me to her apartment. What might she have confided had we not been summoned to the Bowery?
We began untying bags and placing items on the table, except for the fetid wool blankets that had been Benny's home.
These we folded and stacked on the floor. The inventory was an odd one that could be explained in only two ways. Either Benny had been living with someone who owned a pair of size seven and a half men's boots. Or he had somehow acquired the possessions of someone who owned a pair of size seven and a half men's boots. Benny's shoe size, we were told, was eleven.
'What's Benny got to say this morning?' Marino asked.
Detective Maier answered, 'He says the stuff in that pile just showed up on his blankets. He went up on the street, came back and there it was, inside the knapsack.' He pointed to a soiled green canvas knapsack that had many stories to tell.
'When was this?' I asked.
'Well now, Benny isn't real clear on that. In fact, he's not real clear on just about anything. But he thinks it was in the last few days.'
'Did he see who left the knapsack?' Marino asked.
'He says he didn't.'
I held a photograph close to the bottom of one of the boots to compare the sole, and the size and stitching were the same. Benny had somehow acquired the belongings of the woman we believed Gault had savaged in Central Park. The four of us were silent for a while as we began going through each item we believed was hers. I felt lightheaded and weary as we began reconstructing a life from a tin whistle and rags.
'Can't we call her something?' Marino said. 'It's bugging me she's got no name.'