cavity. âHere we are,â he said as he retracted the instrument and held it up for all to see.
âWhatâs that?â Diane asked.
âThat, Detective, is goose down.â
âThe pillow?â Byron asked.
âThatâs what it looks like. Most likely inhaled during suffocation. Iâll need to perform a full post on Mr. Bones and his pillow to be sure.â
Byron looked at Pelligrosso. âThe pillow goes to Augusta with us.â
Ellis continued his exam, cutting off OâHalloranâs pajama bottoms and top. The old man was wearing a soiled adult diaper. There were no obvious signs of trauma on either the torso or legs. Ellis waited for Pelligrosso to snap a Âcouple of photos before proceeding. He looked at Diane, who was still wearing gloves. âGive me a hand rolling him over.â
Her face squinted up in disgust. Pelligrosso smiled. OâHalloranâs body was stiff enough to make it more like flipping a mattress. Again, Ellis checked his upper torso and legs. Lividity, pooling of the blood, was exactly where it should have been on the victimâs back and lower extremities, confirming heâd died lying face up.
âSo we know the body hasnât been moved.â Ellis said to himself as much as to anyone in the room. âNo other obvious signs of trauma,â he said, turning to face Byron.
âHow soon can you post?â
âHow soon can you get him on my table?â
âSarge, I still gotta dust everything in this room for prints,â Pelligrosso said.
âWeâll lock down the house and post a uniform outside,â Byron said. âYou can come back this afternoon after the autopsy. Also, I want elimination prints from everyone who came in here. Anyone who may have touched something, paramedics, cops, nurses, everyone.â
âIâll take care of it.â
Byron turned to Diane. âLetâs get Nurse St. John down to 109. Iâve got a few questions for her.â
Â
Chapter Three
P ORTLAND â S POLICE DEPARTMENT stands at the corner of Middle Street and Franklin Arterial, beside Portlandâs revitalized Old Port district. The physical address is 109 Middle Street or, as itâs more commonly referred to by the rank and file, simply 109.
Byron pulled into in a metered space a little west of 109. Experience told him the rear garage was most likely full, as there were more police vehicles than spaces, but his real reason for parking in front was to piss off Assistant Chief Cross, or Ass Chief Cross, as Byron fondly referred to him. Cross, thanks to a designated spot inside the climate controlled garage beneath the station, had no concept of 109âs parking problems. Byron thought of his own glove box, so packed with parking citations it barely closed. Lieutenant LeRoyer was always yelling at him about parking illegally. âTheyâre gonna slap a boot on your car, John,â heâd say. Byron was pretty sure if the parking-Âcontrol Nazis ever got brazen enough to enforce the scofflaw on his car, theyâd skip right past the boot and towing options and proceed directly to the salvage yard, where theyâd have it crushed. Time to start throwing the citations in the trunk, he thought. With his battered briefcase in hand and a knowing grin on his face, he ascended the crumbling cement steps toward the plaza and the dayâs first interview.
The 109 was constructed in the early 1970s as a police station/community center, replacing an outdated, turn-Âof-Âthe-Âcentury two-Âstory brick-Âand-Âgranite structure, which once stood around the corner between Newbury and Federal Streets. The new buildingâs façade is brick and mortar with darkened glass windows. In spite of numerous transformations since its grand opening in 1972, the odd-Âshaped exterior still looks much like a childâs attempt at building a southwestern Pueblo from blocks than the headquarters
Richard Erdoes, Alfonso Ortiz