It required all of us to transfer him, facedown, to the autopsy table. He weighed two hundred and fifty-nine pounds. His feet protruded over the table's edge. I was measuring the burns to his leg when the buzzer sounded from the bay. Susan went to see who it was, and shortly Lieutenant Pete Marino walked in, trench coat unbuttoned, one end of the belt trailing along the tile floor.

“The burn to the back of his calf is four by one and a quarter by two and three-eighths,” I dictated to Fielding. “It's dry, contracted, and blistered.”

Marino lit a cigarette. “They`re raising a stink about him bleeding,” he said, and he seemed agitated.

“His rectal temp is one hundred and four,” Susan said as she removed the chemical thermometer. “That's at eleven-forty-nine.”

“You know why his face was bleeding?” Marino asked.

“One of the guards said a nosebleed,” I replied, adding, “We need to turn him over.”

“You saw this on the inner aspect of his left arm?” Susan directed my attention to an abrasion.

I examined it through a lens under a strong light. “I don't know. Possibly from one of the restraints: “ “There's one on his right arm, too.”

I took a look while Marino watched me and smoked. We turned the body, shoving a block under the shoulders. Blood trickled out of the right side of his nose. His head and chin had been shaved to an uneven stubble. I made the Y incision.

“There might be some abrasions here,” Susan said, looking at the tongue.

“Take it out.”

I inserted the thermometer into the liver.

“Jesus,” Marino said under his breath.

“Now?”

Susan's scalpel was poised.

“No. Photograph the burns around his head. We need to measure those. Then remove the tongue.”

“Shit,” she complained. “Who used the camera last?”