The Alibi Man by Tami Hoag Page A

from the moment he was given the lead on a case, Landry became the victim’s advocate. It was his job to get justice for that person. And in order to do that, he needed to know, to see with his own eyes, everything he possibly could about the victim—how she had lived, and how she had died.
    He stood on the side of the table opposite the ME, in mask, cap, gown, gloves, and booties. All one could see of anyone in the room were their eyes.
    The ME was Mercedes Gitan, acting chief medical examiner, to be precise. The defection of her predecessor to a cushy teaching job at the University of Miami had opened the spot for Gitan. If the powers that ran the county had any sense, they would give her the position permanently.
    “See here?” she asked, pointing into the gaping wound where the gator had taken a large chunk of tissue out of Irina Markova’s lower torso. “It’s a section of the head of the femur. The gator snapped it like a chicken bone. The power in an alligator’s jaws is unbelievable: between fifteen hundred and two thousand pounds of pressure. Equal to the pressure of the weight of a small pickup truck.”
    “I’d rather be under the truck,” Landry said.
    “Amen to that. I did the autopsies on two of those recent alligator-attack victims. That’s not a good way to go. I can’t even imagine the terror those people felt. I suppose the good news here is that our victim was already well past feeling anything when she was attacked—by the second animal, that is,” Gitan added grimly.
    She heaved a sigh and shook her head as she looked down at Irina Markova’s face, the ravaged eyes and lips. “These are the tough ones. I can slice-and-dice drug dealers and gangbangers all day long. They know what they’re in for, doing what they do. This one is a pure victim. She didn’t go out looking to cross paths with a killer.”
    “I knew her a little bit,” Landry said. “Enough to say hello. She was an acquaintance of a friend.”
    “I’m sorry. You don’t have to stay for this, James. I can call you later.”
    “No. This is part of it. She’s my vic. You know how I am.”
    “Superstitious?”
    He shrugged, still staring at the body. “I need to see what happened to them with my own two eyes. I feel like…like I owe it to them to be here, at least for this part, you know? Crazy, huh?”
    “Not so. Shows that you’re still human. I always figure that the time I start just counting the bodies, not thinking of them as human beings, is the time I need to consider another career. I mean, I don’t get emotionally involved. We can’t do that and stay sane. But I do them the courtesy of knowing their names.”
    “Thanks for coming in for this one, Merci,” Landry said.
    He had called her personally to make the request. He’d known her for six or seven years, had watched her work her way up the ladder. She was very good and very thorough. This wasn’t going to be an easy case. Gitan would garner every bit of information, no matter how insignificant it might seem. She wouldn’t miss a thing.
    “Oh, who needs to have a life?” she said. “Besides, the mayor of Wellington, the mayor of West Palm, the mayor of Palm Beach, the sheriff, the state’s attorney, and half a dozen other big shots called me after you did.”
    Landry gave a humorless laugh. “Nobody cares when some Loxahatchee redneck gets his brains blown out. A beautiful young woman strangled and dumped—that’s bad for tourism. Can’t have a killer running around during season.”
    Gitan glanced at her watch and huffed a sigh. “Where the hell is Cecil? WHERE THE HELL IS CECIL!!”
    “Just waiting for you to scream, boss.”
    Gitan’s assistant, a seven-foot-tall black transvestite, came into the suite. Even on the stool, Gitan had to crane her neck to look up at him.
    The process began with the external examination of the body. Gitan spoke quietly into her microphone, identifying the victim, stating her age, height, weight, sex,