Free Justice Denied by Robert Tanenbaum Page A

the flattened Jane Doe. As he had feared, the teeth were all over the place, from the windpipe to the base of the brain. He gathered them carefully and placed them in a plastic bag. There was evidence of careful dental work; she had not been raised in poverty. Death had been instantaneous, of course, from massive brain damage, but the woman had at least been alive when she hit the ground. The hyoid and trachea were intact, and there was no sign that the woman had been strangled, stabbed, or shot. He examined the hands, which had been placed in plastic bags. He took samples from under the fingernails for later microscopic examination, and as he handled the cold fingers he noticed that there was extensive bruising around the wrists. That was an odd note, although nearly any mark could be explained by a falling-body death. Still, you got marks like that when someone’s wrists were tightly held.
    He examined the woman’s vagina, a difficult and tedious procedure, for the organ was badly torn by bone fragments from the disintegrated pelvis. He took samples and put them aside for later microscopic and chemical analysis. Ordinarily he would have taken samples also from the rectum and oral cavity, but these were so badly damaged and contaminated by the explosive eversion of the viscera and by direct impact that such samples would have had little forensic value. What did have value was something he discovered on the inside of the woman’s thigh, high up near the crotch and protected by that location from the general ruin: the clear and unmistakable marks of human teeth. He rolled the body, first to one side, then to the other. More teeth. He got out the Polaroid rig and took photographs.
    Maher secured and labeled his samples and covered and refrigerated what was left of the Jane Doe. Before going home, he stopped by his office and wrote a note to himself to call the police officers in charge of the case and, if what he now strongly suspected was borne out by the lab, the rape bureau of the D.A.’s office as well.
    â€œDoes that hurt?” asked the orthoped.
    Karp, who had turned pale and nearly cracked a molar gritting his teeth, gasped, “Yeah, that hurts.”
    â€œHow about this?” said Dr. Hudson, twisting. Karp let out a shrill yelp.
    â€œI’ll assume that’s affirmative,” said the doctor. Then he allowed Karp’s knee to relax back on the examining table. Dr. Hudson rolled a little distance on his stool and examined a chart. He was a squat, muscular man with a gray crew cut and a squared-off face that seemed accustomed to issuing bad news.
    â€œI saw you what? Four years ago?” the doctor asked, reading from his chart. “I told you to come back every six months and you didn’t bother. So. What’ve you been doing with that thing?” He indicated the reddened lump that was Karp’s left knee.
    â€œWhat do you mean, what’ve I been doing? I use it when I walk,” said Karp.
    â€œNo unusual strains? Falls?”
    â€œWell, a little basketball.”
    The doctor’s eyes widened. “Basketball? What, on asphalt? In the playground?”
    â€œYeah, that, and, um, I was on a pro team for a couple of months last winter as part of a murder investigation.”
    â€œYou’re joking! No, wait, you’re that guy! D.A. Karp, they called you—played for the Hustlers, right?”
    â€œRight,” said Karp, an appeasing smile creasing his lips.
    â€œGet the hell out of my office!” said Dr. Hudson.
    â€œSo did he really throw you out?” asked Marlene. It was lunchtime later the same day; they were seated in Karp’s office, and she had brought him a sausage sandwich and a root beer from one of the cancer wagons that plied Foley Square. She herself sipped coffee. She had a lunch date later.
    â€œNo, worse,” replied Karp, shoving bits of onion back into his mouth with his fingers. “He gave me a lecture.