Free Devil's Playground by D. P. Lyle Page B

suppress the nausea that wound its fingers around her gut.
    She had been in this room perhaps a dozen times before, yet never got used to it. The chill, the smell, the bodies, the dim lighting gave it a crypt-like quality. Death seemed to reside in every corner, to hide in each shadow.
    She watched him work, fascinated by his skill as much as she was amazed that anyone could do this for a living. Ralph was a small man with a thin, angular face. His glasses were so thick that they magnified and distorted his pale blue eyes, lifting them from his face where they floated as if unattached. Short dark hair surrounded his bald pate, which sprouted sparse black fuzz. His narrow shoulders slumped forward, as his delicate hands probed Juan’s liver, which now resided in a shallow white plastic basin.
    Carlos’ body, which had been examined earlier, occupied a stretcher near the far wall. A flimsy white sheet draped over his lifeless form. The charred remains of John and Connie Beeson, zipped inside two plastic bags, lay on another stretcher.
    “So, what’s the story, Ralph?”
    “As I suspected, Juan crushed Carlos’ trachea, then hung himself. Looks like Carlos put up a fight. His knuckles and Juan’s face were bruised and battered. Juan sustained a fractured nose and lost a couple of teeth, but no other injuries. No broken neck, fractured larynx, anything like that. Died of asphyxiation. No drugs. Blood alcohol level was 0.09, which means he was fairly well lubricated when he was locked up three hours earlier, but other than maybe impairing his judgment, it didn’t play a roll in his death.”
    Sam shook her head. “How does someone hang themselves like that?”
    “Most people, who try hanging as a way out, die from asphyxiation, not from a broken neck. You have to fall a few feet to create enough force to snap your neck. Tipping over a chair or, as Juan did, stepping off a bunk, won’t usually do it. Typically, in self-hangings, the victims repent when they discover they’re not dead and it ain’t like the movies. They excoriate their neck and hands, even rip out finger nails, trying to escape the noose or climb the rope to loosen it. Anything to survive.”
    “But, not Juan.”
    “Nothing. Looks like he simply hung there and died.” He shook his head. “Strange to say the least.”
    “And Connie Beeson?”
    “Not pretty. She was decapitated and died instantly. John also died instantly from massive head and chest injuries. Both bodies were burned beyond recognition.”
    “The driver?”
    “As expected, blood alcohol was 0.22 and he had a hefty dose of amphetamines on board.”
    Alcohol. Speed. Like Garrett said. “When did you get the blood reports back? About the alcohol and drugs?” Sam asked.
    “About an hour ago.”
    An hour. Yet Garrett knew hours ago. Lucky guess?
    “As you know, that’s a common combination among truckers,” Ralph continued. “This guy’s levels of both were pretty high. How he was driving is beyond me.”
    “He apparently wasn’t driving very well. Who was he?”
    “James McElroy. Lived in Van Nuys. I called his wife. Seems he was driving on a suspended license. Two DUI convictions in the past year.”
    “And this clown was hauling ass with a ton of gasoline. Any idea why he crossed a hundred yards of desert to head the wrong way down the freeway?”
    “Maybe he passed out or got confused. Maybe road rage. Who knows?”
    “Those two kids that he barely missed felt he was after them. Or somebody anyway.”
    “I’d suspect road rage or some type of acute psychosis. According to McElroy’s wife, he used Black Mollies like candy when he drove cross-country. Long term use of that stuff can cause psychoses, rage, disorientation, and a load of other problems.”
    Sam stood and stretched. “Thanks, Ralph. I’ll let Charlie know.”
    “If anything else comes up, I’ll give you a call.” He hunched back over the organ filled plastic basin.
    *
    Sam blocked Jimmy’s right