“Somewhere between six and twelve hours.” The doctor traced a finger along a white pattern on the dead man’s lower back. “This is odd. He was lying on something that whole time that applied pressure to keep the blood from settling. Reminds me of a daisy. I’m not sure what would cause this formation.”
Mason studied the twelve-inch-wide floral pattern and waved for the crime scene tech to move in closer for more photos of the back. What had the man lain on? A toy? A sculpture?
Seth scowled at the length of rope around the victim’s wrists. Whoever had tied up the man had wrapped padding around the lowest third of his forearms before covering the padding with several feet of rope.
Why protect the skin from the rope if you’re going to kill the guy?
Seth gently pulled back on the padding, trying to see underneath. “Dammit. I can see some blood under here, but I don’t dare remove the rope until I can do it in a way to preserve the evidence.”
A car honked, and Mason was thankful for the screen the Portland police had put up. But it wasn’t enough. The police cars and the morgue’s van told the drivers that something was up. How many people were slowing to take pictures with their phones?
The morning rush-hour traffic was being allowed to crawl by but was limited to one lane. At first all four westbound lanes over the bridge had been closed as police and techs collected evidence. The lucky commuters driving east cruised over the river on the lower bridge level, unaware of the death on the top level. Mason could almost hear the cursing of the westbound drivers late for work. Rush hour in downtown Portland was rotten on a good day. Throw in a problem on one of the many bridge spans and it got exponentially worse.
In Mason’s opinion, Portland could easily use another half dozen bridges. No one got anywhere fast during rush hour. Especially if you had to cross the Willamette River.
As far as bridges went, the Fremont was a good one. It had eight lanes to accommodate commuters, unlike the ancient Sellwood Bridge with its two narrow lanes that made Mason want to close his eyes while crossing. The Fremont was modern-looking and elegant with a single large arch that displayed the U.S. flag and the Oregon state flag at its peak.
Seth eased the body onto its back. He pulled off his thin vinyl gloves and laid them on the man’s chest to be taken back to the examiner’s office along with the corpse. “I’ll have a better time frame for you later this afternoon.”
“Slow day?” Mason joked. He hadn’t expected an autopsy until tomorrow morning.
“A slow day is always a good thing, in my opinion,” Seth answered. “I look forward to the day that I can sit around and read a book in the office instead of counting bullet holes in someone’s back.”
“But if you just sat in the office you’d miss scenes like this,” said Ray, indicating the orange-and-pink sunrise behind Mt. Hood. From the Fremont Bridge, the view was nothing short of spectacular.
Mason grunted. Trust Ray to point out the cup was half full. It was freaking cold for February, and Mason hadn’t had enough coffee yet. This call had awakened him an hour before his alarm had been scheduled to go off, and it’d been hard as hell to leave Ava in their warm bed. She’d mumbled and stirred as he’d answered his phone, and then promptly gone back to sleep. They’d been together a few months, and he liked waking up to her face every morning. He glanced at his watch. By now Ava was on her way to the FBI headquarters out by the airport.
The morning could be worse, he acknowledged. It could be pouring rain as he stood outside with a dead body. He’d had his share of those types of scenes.
A distant thumping entered his consciousness and he looked up to see two news helicopters far down the river. The helicopters would have already been in the air for the morning traffic. They seemed far away, but Mason knew their cameras could zoom in close. The temporary screen blocked the scene from the traffic, but a helicopter in the right spot would have a perfect view. He motioned for two uniforms to stand between the helicopters and the naked corpse. Sure enough, both helicopters immediately moved position. “Watch them,” he ordered the cops. “Try to keep their view to a minimum.” Vultures foiled for the moment, he scanned the rest of the scene.
Why stage this show? The guy was already dead.
Light gravel and usual freeway debris littered the area. He knew the techs had collected all evidence before they’d opened the one traffic lane. The rope around the neck had already been bagged and labeled. The responding cops had cut it off in an attempt to resuscitate, and Mason crossed his fingers no key evidence had been damaged.
Was the hanging symbolic to the killer or victim?
Dr. Rutledge studied the face of the victim. “He looks pretty healthy. Build is in good shape. Took care of himself. No wedding ring.”
Mason had already mentally classified the victim. Male, thirties, average build, blond, very pale-skinned. No visible tattoos or large scars. Symmetrical face. But one eyebrow was quite a bit higher than the other, making the corpse look dubious about his last living moments. Mason shifted his position to look at the face square on. Something isn’t right. He reached out a gloved hand to brush the hair to part on the correct side.
“Oh, shit,” Ray whispered over his shoulder. “That’s Carson Scott. The U.S. representative.”
Mason’s morning took an abrupt turn for the worse.
Special Agent Ava McLane lifted the lid of the coffeepot in the break room and cautiously sniffed. Someone had a habit of making the coffee five times as strong as it should be, and she had a hunch that that barista had brewed the current batch. She poured a half inch in her cup, wincing at the black color. She sipped and felt her tongue curl at the bitterness. She sipped again. Not so bad. She filled up her mug and grabbed a bagel to offset the acid en route to her stomach.