Death, upon first glance, appears to be due to exsanguination caused by the aforementioned wound."
She left the microphone on as she reached for the forceps to remove the bullet. The recorder was sound-activated, so it would only record what she said anyway. Later she would use the tape to write up her report, leaving out any muttered comments it caught that were irrelevant to the case.
Rachel measured and described the size of the gunshot wound, as well as its placement on the body, then set to work cautiously easing her forceps into the hole, moving slowly and carefully to be sure she was following the path of the bullet and not pushing through undamaged tissue. A moment later, she had reached and grasped the missile and was drawing it carefully back out.
Murmuring a triumphant "Ah ha!" she straightened with the bullet caught in the spoon of the forceps. Turning toward the tray, Rachel paused with irritation when she realized there was no container for it. Such things weren't normally needed, and she hadn't thought to grab one. Muttering under her breath at her lack of forethought, she moved away from the table to the row of cupboards and drawers to search.
While looking, Rachel pondered where Tony had got to. His five-minute trip in search of beverages had become a rather lengthy absence. She suspected it was a certain little nurse who worked on the fifth floor who was holding him up. Tony had fallen hard for the girl and knew her schedule like the back of his hand. He usually arranged his breaks around hers. If she was in the cafeteria when he arrived, Rachel could count on his taking his full break now. Not that she minded. If she did go home after removing this bullet, he would have no one to relieve him for the rest of the night.
Finding what she'd been looking for, Rachel packaged the bullet, then carried it to her desk to make out an identification tag. It wouldn't do for evidence to get misplaced or to be left lying around without a label. Of course, she couldn't find the labels right away and wasted several minutes looking for them. Then she messed up three before getting one right. It was all a good indication that Rachel wasn't on the ball tonight, and that going home was a good idea. She was a perfectionist, and such little mistakes were frustrating, even embarrassing.
Exasperated with herself and her weakened state, Rachel smoothed the label onto its container, then paused as she caught movement out of the corner of her eye. She turned, expecting Tony to have returned, but the room was empty. There was just herself and John Doe on the gurney. Her feverish mind was beginning to play tricks on her.
Rachel shook her head and stood. Alarm shot through her as she noted that her legs were a touch shaky. Her fever was skyrocketing. It was as if a furnace switch had been flicked on, taking her from cold and clammy to burning up in a heartbeat.
A rustle drew her attention back to the gurney. Was that right hand where it had been the last time she looked? Rachel could have sworn she'd laid his hand back palm down after examining it for identifying scars, yet now it was palm up, the fingers relaxed.
Her gaze travelled up the arm to the face, and Rachel frowned at its expression. The man had died with a blank, almost stunned look, which had remained frozen in death. But now he wore more of a pained grimace. Didn't he? Maybe she was imagining things. She must be imagining things. The man was dead. He hadn't moved his hand or changed his expression.
"You've been working the night shift too long," Rachel muttered to herself. Slowly she moved back to the gurney. She still had to remove the rest of the corpse's clothes and examine his lower front body.
Of course, she would need help from Tony in turning the man to examine his back. His lower front could wait until Tony returned too, but Rachel decided against it. The sooner she got out of there and went home to bed, the better. It was smarter to get as much done, as possible now, before her assistant returned. Which meant cutting away the shooting vic's pants. To that end, Rachel reached for the shears—then realized she hadn't checked for head wounds.
It was doubtful he'd been shot in the head. At least, she hadn't