Wounds Read Online Free PDF Page B

gloves. If I don’t, I’m up all night applying lotions and scratching like a flea-infested dog. I’m not fun to live with when I get that way.”
    â€œI didn’t know that.”
    Shuffler grinned. “No need for you to. Latex comes from rubber trees in Africa and Southeast Asia. Some of us develop the allergy over time. Some patients who have exposure to latex because of repeated surgeries can develop the allergy.”
    â€œAs uncomfortable as that sounds, I don’t see how a skin allergy plays into this.”
    â€œHang with me just another moment, Detective. Not all allergies are created equal. What I have is simple irritant-contact dermatitis. Annoying but not serious. On the dangerous end of the scale is latex hypersensitivity. Some people have such a serious response they go into anaphylactic shock.”
    â€œYou mean like people who are allergic to bee stings.”
    â€œExactly, except the causative agent is latex or some other rubber-based product. I’m betting he used to carry an Epipen of some sort.”
    â€œSo he could give himself a dose of epinephrine if he needed to.”
    â€œYes. And he needed to in the worst way.”
    â€œBut someone kept him from reaching it.”
    The ME nodded. “That’s how it looks now. I’ll know more when the blood work is back and after I open him up. For now, it looks like someone held the young man down and held a latex glove over his mouth. Most gloves come with latex powder in them. Your victim inhaled some and suffocated shortly after—suffocated by his own body.
    â€œA death that results from a felony is still murder. The death might not have been premeditated, but running a roller with pins in it over the body shows intent—sick intent.”
    Carmen stared at the body. “You’ll get no argument from me.”

5
    May 4, 1985
    T he Saturday night seemed darker than usual, heavier with salty ocean air. The street lights along Grand Avenue in Pacific Beach pooled golden light on the asphalt and sidewalks of the beach community. Small shops and houses lined the streets. At an hour past midnight, most lights in buildings were off, but a few glowed in the bars and bungalow homes. Pacific Beach was an eclectic community, filled with young people who couldn’t tolerate living more than a few miles from the ocean, and old surfers who had moved into town never to leave.
    Ellis Poe saw the view on a regular basis. Several times a week—more often than he liked—he drove from the McDonald’s on Garnett Street, to Grand to Balboa, to his home in East Clairemont—and usually did so in the wee hours of the day. Ellis had worked at the burger joint for the last two years, becoming a favored closer. When not exhausted, he was thankful for the late shift. First, it gave him time to do homework before making the fifteen-minute drive to the fast-food restaurant. Much of his shift was taken up with cleaning the grill, mopping the floor, sterilizing the milk-shake machine, and twenty other daily details required to close the place for the night. During those hours, Ellis could focus on his work without having to deal with patrons. Ellis liked people; he just didn’t much like being around them.
    There were exceptions of course. He wasn’t a misanthrope. He just liked people he knew, and those in small numbers.
    As Grand gave way to Balboa, Ellis let his mind run to the days ahead. A few more weeks of study and then final exams. Soon he’d leave behind the tedious high-school experience and move to the more challenging and, hopefully, mature college life. He wouldn’t be going far. San Diego State University would be his collegiate home. He saw no need to leave his hometown. History majors were not judged by their choice of colleges, unlike science and engineering majors.
    Ellis kept a light foot on the accelerator. He was in no hurry to get home. His parents would be long asleep.