‘Where would he have gotten the scalpel? From the office of a medical examiner perhaps?’ wondered Lance, in full awareness that Alvin Randall was Metro City’s chief medical examiner.
‘I would say yes to that Lance, but any medical examiner who wanted to inflict this injury would be well aware that it would be a very close kill. The likelihood is that the victim was close enough to get off a final strike. Plus, if you’re asking. I do a stock take every day, and no, we are not missing anything,’
Alvin was fully aware of what Lance had meant when he said what he had said, but the Doctor was professional enough to know that the Detective was searching for leads.
‘But we can see from the victim’s fingernails, that indeed apart from dirt and moss, there is nothing else underneath them.’
‘So what are you saying, Doc?’
‘Well, what I'm saying is that the ferocity of the following blows is probably what prevented the victim from lashing out in near death.’
Lance watched as the Dr. pointed out the multiple stab wounds on the victim's chest and abdomen. He returned to describe it in full.
‘There are eleven stab wounds, conducted with the scalpel clustered within the upper and outer chest area, lower abdomen, and upper abdomen, but only one from the bowey. The consistent depth of the wounds that she sustained, are all irregular, and this mimics a rapid succession of accidental puncture wounds. All of the wounds have penetrated the full thickness of the skin and soft tissue of the underlying muscles.’
The coroner delivered in full flow and pointed to each wound with his left hand’s little finger. His glasses sat over his nose as he re-examined each one again over the time-frame of a heartbeat.
‘Yup, each one is as random as the last, but there is something about it which strikes me as very odd, Lance.’
A dead body with a gazillion stab wounds, thought the detective. He hated for the day when all of this appeared normal.
Still, he relented.
‘Go on.’
‘Well, judging by the cleanliness of the initial incision across the throat, it strikes me that not one other fatal blow was delivered to the victim.’
‘Doc, she is like a pin cushion here, I can see plenty of fatal wounds.’ joked the detective.
He was finding slight joy in the potential of a victim with so many wounds ever coming out on the other side of that.
‘Not necessarily. Most multiple stabbings that we see will have at least one or two, “lucky shots,” that will penetrate a kidney, heart or even a lung if the force provided is enough, but here, every stab wound is just that, a wound.’
The coroner was right. Annie-Ann Richards could have survived the attack in the smallest of margins between the closest stab to the fatality of the side stab with the hunting knife, which was a quarter of an inch away from her right kidney.
‘So your saying, is that the killer missed on purpose after cutting her throat?’
‘It would appear so Lance, the significant blood loss from her slit throat would have been more than enough to kill her within a few minutes. The additional wounds are of an in-significance to the overall effect of the fatal blow.’
There within that explanation, did it begin to make some sense.
Lance thought it over for a second as he turned his back on the coroner and the deceased victim. Maybe, he thought, that the murderer was sending some message or indeed could have had the most random of luck in not hitting a vital organ or artery in the onslaught that followed.
‘What kind of odds are you saying against someone not hitting something Doc?’ Lance kept his back to the coroner. He had gotten as much information from the corpse as he could and felt the need to think a little bit more.
‘Oh, I would say that it's quite high but random. But with the precision of the throat cut, it's near on impossible that the same person could have missed, over so many times.’ Alvin said as he covered the body of Annie-Ann over for the final time.
She was now as far away from a peaceful resting place as one could find in Metro City.
‘And who again could have cut that precise?' Marshall already knew the answer to that.
‘Oh, I would say someone in a special forces, military background, a professional butcher, a surgeon or even just a blade specialist in general. It could be anyone really.' Said Alvin, as he began to open his pocket notebook and take a note on his last examination, ever the professional.
Marshall spoke aloud and to himself.
‘Special Forces? Well, I guess there could be some of those in the department, but I would have heard about that. Most were Army, but a few, like Pete Brandt and me and Ed Johnson, were Rangers,’ he wondered.
‘Hey Alvin, who else was there did you say?’ said Marshall for effect, as he knew exactly who was on the list and where he was going next.
‘Eh, Surgeons, Army guys, and butchers.’ The coroner repeated but was interrupted.
‘Yeah, that's it, Surgeons. I know where some of those are.’
ANGEL OF MERCY
Angel of Mercy Medical Centre Hospital served the greater East and West Side boroughs of Metro City itself and could cater for an impressive two hundred and twenty patients at any one time, and was usually full. It’s old gothic facade which had been built in the late 1900s had been thoroughly renovated and is now blended the old with the new, in clean, sharp walls and new wards and a high walled, high ceilinged, olden time feel. The building had a history, of that there was little doubt.
The hospital maintained a staff roster of about fifty-five nurses and doctors, which was almost a ratio of one per five patients, unheard of in many other hospitals. This was considered a high rate and the hospital and patients had the City Trust to thank for this.
The City Trust had been formed in the years of an economic boom in Metro City. It consisted of some very wealthy benefactors, as well as some of the leading social lights in the City. Its mandate was to fund areas such as healthcare, the arts, and social equality. Angel of Mercy Hospital was a shining gem of its capabilities, though it's being there, had more to do with luck than planning.
Detective Marshall felt impressed as he walked through the inner lobby and onwards to the front reception desk. He remarked to himself that even the non-hospital areas smelled like a hospital.
He looked at the large-bosomed brunette receptionist that was already smiling at him, and hoped could he keep her smiling, as he began to speak.
‘Hi, my name is Detective Marshall,' began Lance as he opened his wallet and showed off his badge. It conveniently folded out, with a side pocket that also exposed a condom, though just a sliver of foil, could be seen. She had promptly stopped smiling.
‘I wonder if you could page a member of staff for me, specifically the on-call surgeon.' He continued as he quickly folded up the wallet and the two-year-old contraceptive away.
Amber, looked from the identification photo to the man in front of her. She had only seen the ID, and then looked back, towards the smoothly shaved bald headed man.
After years of malicious gossiping and rumor mill, fire tending in the hospital, the twenty-eight year old, Amber, had a firm grasp on philandering police officers, and from experience, sometimes too firm a grip.
‘Yeah?’ That would be Dr. Malawaty.’ She chewed on some gum and continued to figure out the detective. He was handsome, she thought, in a Bruce Willis kind of way.
‘Yeah, Dr. Malawaty. He is a surgeon. I want to speak to him please.’ Lance asked.
In another life, he might have looked at Amber differently, but the sexualized version of Lance Marshall had long since retired.
‘Yeah I know he is a surgeon,’ replied the receptionist. ‘But what do you want with him?’ she asked.
‘I am afraid that is police business, ma'am. If you could page him for me, I would be grateful.’
Amber had gotten from the detective what she required, a good hefty chunk of gossip. The switchboard at Metro County Hospital would be red hot for the r
est of her shift.
‘Sure, I will page him. Please take a seat over there, and he will be down as soon as he can.’ Amber said, as she directed Lance to move to the bank of chairs at the right of the reception.
The detective waited for an hour before the surgeon could free himself from his work. He had been on-call for the past week and was living in the hospital itself, in the on-call room.
The professional Surgeon was attending a series of road traffic accident, victims and would need to be on site throughout the early stages of their recoveries. He apologized to the detective for his delay and suggested that the two men retire to a doctor's lounge to discuss matters in private.
Lance walked beside the doctor and for an instant, felt like he was about to collar the Park Lane murderer.
Dr. Ishram Malawaty had fixed two chamomile teas and placed them on small coasters in the quaint but surprisingly little, on-call lounge. Six sleeping rooms, one of which, was currently being used by the Doctor were located in a narrow corridor just beside the small lounge.
The detective noticed just how tired the doctor was by the shade and color of his skin. The forty-four-year-old Pakistani man almost looked white with just sheer tiredness and fatigue. Lance figured he would need a lot of luck and skill to coax anything from the weary doctor.
The two men exchanged slight pleasantries about the weather and the refreshing drink until the doctor decided his schedule was far too busy, to not get to the point.
He spoke in a heavy Pakistani, yet very Anglicised accent.
‘Detective, as you can see, I am a very busy man. What is it that I can help you with?’
‘Well Doctor, I have some technical questions that only you can answer. I can assure you it won’t take up too much of your time.’ Lance pondered how he might approach this.
‘I’ve already explained that I am investigating the murder which took place in Park Lane, just 24 hours ago. I wonder if you could tell me where you were 24 hours ago,’
Lance didn't want to accuse the doctor, so he quickly followed.
‘Or if you saw anything or anyone that might have looked suspicious, I know you were on call during that time.’
The doctor was maybe too fatigued to sense that he was being thought of, as a suspect. He nodded and just perhaps a little too quickly for the detective.
‘No no no no,' he said vehemently, ‘I did not notice anything. I only knew something was wrong when I heard some people talking in the Emergency Department the next morning.’
Dr. Ishram blinked excessively.
Lance kept up with some decisive questioning and tried to see if these rapid blinks were leading somewhere.
‘That's ok Doctor. I realize you were very busy. It's just that the attacker was very proficient with a blade, delivering as clean an incision as a surgeon perhaps,’
This was certainly going to garner a response.
‘I was wondering if there were many surgeons on call that evening?’
Dr. Ishram was silent for a second as he blinked the blankness away. An intelligent man who was an exceptional doctor and a surgeon, he read the detectives question, as it was put to him. He responded as a tired man might, with fast words and excessive hand gestures.
‘Oh my God, are you accusing me of something detective? There was only me on call that night. I was seeing a young boy of just five-years old who was in a car accident. He had fractured his clavicle and sternum in three places. He had bruised ribs and severe facial injuries sustained when his seatbelt worked Mr. Marshall.’
Ishram answered, in a matter of fact, but spooked the detective when he attempted to avoid the question by waffling on about the specifics of the crash. Marshall probed some more, and remembered that this job was not about making friends.
‘I didn't say I was accusing you, Doctor, I just wanted to know if you knew anyone else who was on call that evening? The wounds inflicted on the victim in the park were as precise as a surgeon could make. That said, I did have to ask. You understand that it's my job to ask?'
Lance was offering the doctor an escape clause from a direct question. How he reacted might determine the detective’s next move.
‘I can tell you, that one hundred percent Mr. Marshall, I was attending to that boy. He is very sick.’ He now spoke more calmly and assuredly. ‘I think that one of my colleagues, a Dr. Rahham was supposed to be working a day shift in a medical ward, but I cannot be sure. I was in the operating theatre all of the day.’
The doctor finished his tea quickly and wiped his chin. For him, the conversation was now over, and Marshall could read this from the negative body language that he was putting out.
‘Ok, I might have to question Dr. Rahham myself as well, to see if he has any information. I am afraid that I have to rule everyone out of a murder investigation, Dr. Ishram,’
The doctor nodded his head, though he hadn’t been listening, and sat forward, with heavily folded arms.
‘Dr. Ishram, I need for you to provide me with the contact details of Dr. Rahham, so I can rule the Dr. out of the investigation.’
The Doctor woke up a little, but just nodded blank.
Lance finished his tea and placed it on the draining board beside the small sink. It was clear that this informal chat was now over.
Dr. Ishram stood up and guided Lance to the door out of the lounge as silence soon permeated the area. They moved down the broad and sterile corridor to the door at the end of the floor, still in silence.
As Lance approached the door towards the reception, and began to think of thanking the Doctor for his assistance, he noticed an old wooden emergency exit door to his left. It seemed out of place for some reason. It was as if the door had been there before the paint around it or even before the concrete floor had lain.
‘What's behind there?' enquired the detective as he pushed the reception door open. Exasperatingly, the doctor rubbed his forehead and explained.
‘This is an area for the doctors, nurses and some patients to relax and attempt to find solace.’ It sounded lovely.
‘That’s a great idea,’ said the detective, as the door remained open. ‘Where does it lead to?’
‘It leads to the Park.’ replied the eminent surgeon.
He had known where the door had lead to, but he wanted the doctor to see that he knew as well.
Detective Marshall decided that subtle surveillance on tracking the doctor and his movements from then on was the way to go. Maybe he was innocent, but something just did not add up. The more that Lance thought about it, the more confusing this case.
The doors opened, and Lance stepped out and walked towards the reception desk one last time. He approached Amber who by now, felt that she had developed some kind of bond with the detective. He supplied her with gossip, and she spread it willingly.
The professional detective decided to act on his boldness and call her by her first name, which was on her name badge.
The professional detective decided to act on his boldness and call her by her first name, which was on her name badge.
‘Amber, it’s me again. I wonder could you tell me when Dr. Rahham is back on shift? I have a few things that I want to ask of the Dr.’
‘Police work?’ she smiled.
‘Yeah, something like that.’ He flirted.
‘Well, I have the call sheets down here, and Dr. Rahham won't be back in the country until Tuesday week.’
Lance had hit his first stumbling-block in the burgeoning investigation. One of his potential murderers had probably skipped the country, and with it, came any chance of a swift conclusion.
‘Did I just miss him? He must have left today?’ enquired the Detective, hoping he might be able to track the flight or departure time.
Ideally, the doctor would still be in transit to wherever he was going, and the detective could easily have the man arrested over international waters.
‘Oh. Dr. Rahham left three days ago detective. The Dr. had to leave for family reasons.’ Amber explaine
d. She suspected that the two doctors had been involved in faking passports or smuggling in drugs. They were the possible crimes that the two men were committing that she was feeding out to her friends anyway. Lance could smell lies among the disinfectant.
‘And Dr. Ishram, Was he in surgery all night Friday?' It was a close and personal question, but the detective knew that Amber was beginning to trust him. She had seen the badge and gone weak, he surmised, not being right or wrong in this regard.
‘Yeah, he began at six in the evening and worked on straight until three in the morning. It was touch and go in there at that surgery for a long time, I heard.’
‘And the whole time, there were people with him?’ This was pushing it for the detective. He had no idea if Amber had been compromised and he could well be sabotaging the case. But to hell with it, he thought.
This could break the case as well.
‘The whole time. He stayed in surgery the whole time. Three surgeries were going on simultaneously. But if you ask me, something was going on afterward.’
Now, this sounded promising. She leaned in a little closer.
‘I see them walking around all together, and they only talk to each other.' She eye-balled Lance again as she whispered.
‘Who is they?’ he asked, having no idea where this was going.
‘Them,’ she nodded to the woman in the long white coat with the jet-black hair and Indian Sikh headscarf who walked the corridor on the way to a hospital ward. ‘They all go around together,’
Lance noticed the woman walking to a set of stairs and looked back at Amber. She was beautiful and ditzy, but it was apparent to the detective that she hid slight casual racism. She just did not trust anyone that did not look like her or her friends.
Did you know that Dr. Ishram and Rahham sit on the board of the hospital? They are the only non-American board members.’
‘That's ok, Amber, thank you for all of your help.' Lance said as he backed away from the receptionist. He had already said too much.
Marshall Law Page 4
