in Italy. In those cases, a strong, thin, band of metal was used and the wound was far deeper, generally close to complete decapitation. What we have here is basically a subcutaneous wound that only grazes underlying muscle. Yet enough pressure was exerted to bring about asphyxiation.”
I said, “Someone taking their time.”
“Someone exercising precise control,” said Basia Lopatinski. “If this was a musical matter, we might say a virtuoso performance in lento tempo.”
“That’s interesting. Maybe we’re dealing with a musician.” I told her about the guitar string gauges.
“Yes, I thought of that as well. But as I said, theory is not encouraged.”
She buttered a slice of bread, nibbled a corner. “The second initial point of interest is consistent with the first. As I’m sure you know, fentanyl is fatal in extremely small doses. I know you policemen wear gloves because even a subcutaneous dose can be dangerous. And when combined with heroin, the danger of a lethal overdose is significant. And yet we don’t have that. Not close. We have a cocktail with just enough to incapacitate, perhaps to the point of unconsciousness, perhaps only to the point of semiconsciousness.”
Milo said, “A sadist prolonging the process.”
Lopatinski took three more bites. “Yes, sadism makes sense. The third factor isn’t supposition, it’s correlation. Whether or not it’s a causal correlation—I’m being too abstract, sorry.”
She took a sip of tea. “The third factor is another homicide. A case I handled in Warsaw.”
Milo sat forward. “Unsolved?”
“No, solved. That’s what makes it even more interesting. I’ll summarize. Eight years ago I was a professor of pathology and deputy chief medical examiner at the Warsaw morgue. A victim came in, a prostitute dumped in a public latrine in a bad part of town. The murderer was caught—a career criminal who also played folk music on the street for gullible tourists. Ignacy Skiwski. I will spell that for you.”
Milo copied. “A latrine.”
Basia Lopatinski said, “Exactly, the first similarity. The others involved modus. Pre-injection—with heroin alone, fentanyl was not widely available then. Initially, the injection was believed to be in the antecubital fossa where an addict would inject.”
She patted the inner crook of her arm. “This victim was an addict, no one thought anything of it. But then we shaved her head and found the wound in the neck and I realized the arm puncture had already begun to scab so it was older. I informed my superior and he told me to concentrate on the strangulation because it was the true cause of death. I did, but what stood out to me was exactly the same as your case. No deep wound, just enough pressure with a metal garrote to cut off oxygen fatally.”
I said, “Folk music. A guitar string.”
She nodded. “The police recovered a cheap instrument from Skiwski’s room that was missing a string—I don’t remember which one. I termed the gauge consistent with the wound. As I wrote in your report, skin is not static, it moves around, so one can never be sure.”
I smiled. “That theory made it into Jane Doe’s summary.”
“Ah! You have found me out, Dr. Delaware. Yes, I slipped it by. In any event, Skiwski was apprehended and bound over for trial.”
Milo said, “How’d he get caught?”
“Another prostitute saw him leaving with the victim and the victim’s blood was recovered from his clothing. He never confessed but he had no alibi or explanation. Also, he had a criminal record.”
“For what?”
“Theft, drunkenness. More important, aggressions on women.”
“What kind of aggressions?”
“Beatings, intimidation.”
I said, “Sounds like low impulse control. When he graduated to murder he got sophisticated?”
“All I know is what I saw on the table. In any event, a month or so after Skiwski’s arrest, he hung himself in his cell.”
“Did he use another guitar string?”
“Towels,” she said. “For himself, he was gentler.”
I said, “How old was he?”
“Thirties—late thirties if I recall correctly. Why do you ask?”
Milo understood the question. “That’s old enough to have done it before.”
Lopatinski’s eyes rounded. Soft, golden brown. A woman who saw death daily but hadn’t been twisted into something dry and acrid. “You think it was a serial?”
I said, “It’s the kind of crime you see in serials.”
Basia Lopatinski thought about that. “Yes, you’re making sense. I don’t believe the police found any matching crimes. Did they look for any?”
World-weary shrug.
She picked up the gnawed slice of bread. “Even had I thought of it, I’m not sure I would have suggested it. We were liberated in 1992 but attitudes persisted. Don’t rock boats.”
“And now