I filled him in on the reported good works and the varying theories: that Bagman Jesus was a missionary or a philanthropist, that the baby on his crucifix was a pro-life statement or that it symbolized how we’d all once been innocent and pure — like Baby Jesus.
“The guy had a way with people,” I concluded. “Very charismatic, some kind of homeless person’s saint.”
Jacobi drummed his fingers. “You don’t know this saint’s name, do you, Boxer?”
“No.”
“And you have no clue as to who killed him or what the motive was?”
“Not a hint of a clue.”
“That’s it, then,” Jacobi said, slapping the desk. “It’s over. Finished. Unless someone walks in and confesses, you’re done wasting department time. Get me?”
“Yes, sir,” said Conklin.
“Boxer?”
“I hear you, Lieutenant.”
We cleared out of Jacobi’s office and punched out for the day. I said to Conklin, “You understood that, right?”
“What’s not to understand about ‘finished’?”
“Rich, Jacobi was clear as day. He told us to work Bagman Jesus on our own time. I’m going down to see Claire. You coming?”
Chapter 7
CLAIRE WAS WEARING a surgical gown with a butterfly pin at the neckline, apron stretched across her girth, flowered shower cap covering her hair. On the stainless autopsy table in front of her lay a naked Bagman Jesus, his terrible bashed- in features facing up at the lights.
A Y incision ran from clavicles to pubis and had been sewn up in baseball stitches with coarse white thread. He had bruises all over his body and overlapping lacerations and contusions.
Bagman Jesus had been worked over with a vengeance.
“I got back the X-rays,” Claire said. As she talked, I looked over at where they were pinned to the light box on the wall.
“Broken right hand, probably took a swing at his attacker or it was stomped on when he was down. He’s got a lot of fractures involving his facial bones, as well as multiple skull fractures. Broken ribs, of course, three of them.
“All this multiple blunt-force trauma might have killed him, but by the time someone took a bat to him, he was already dead.”
“Cause of death? Give it to me, Butterfly. I’m ready.”
“Jeez,” she said. “Working as fast as I can and still not up to Lindsay time.”
“Please?” I said.
Resigned, Claire reached behind her, held up a bunch of small glassine bags with what looked like distorted slugs inside.
“Those are twenty-twos?” Conklin asked her.
“Right you are, Rich. Four of the shots to the
head did the old internal ricochet. Went in here, here, right here, and back here, whizzed around under the scalp, and laid there like bugs under a rug.
“But I suppose there’s an outside chance Mr. Jesus could’ve survived those four slugs.”
“And so?” I asked. “What killed him?”
“Soooo, baby girl, the shooter plugged Mr. Jesus through the temple, and that was likely your murder round. Shot him again at the back of his neck for good measure.”