‘Just couldn’t stay away, could you, Sergeant? Missed me that much?’ The pathologist’s mellifluous voice was laced with humour, as it always was when dealing with the living. His treatment of the dead, though, was as solemn and respectful as a priest administering last rites.
‘Nothing like the lure of a cold morgue on a hot day, Doc,’ Cam replied, raising his voice over the thrum of the powerful extraction fans. He approached the steel table and all that remained of Darren Pilkington.
‘You’re late, missed all the excitement,’ McManus said. ‘I started a T-section but couldn’t finish it. Most of the internal organs have been reduced to mush; the body was falling apart under my knife. I’ve got a few tissue samples, but they’ll have to do, I’m afraid.’
The fumes of the Vicks on the other man’s mask seared Cam’s lungs as he drew his first sharp breath, but did little to disguise the sickly reek as he forced himself to take in every detail of the weeping green mass before him. He whispered a prayer of thanks that Rita hadn’t been called in to visually identify the body.
‘Is there anyway of confirming the corpse’s ID, Doc?’ Cam asked when he could be sure of the steadiness of his voice.
McManus moved a hand to what was left of the face. The slack jaws hung open; tissue from the bloated tongue sloughed off and stuck to his finger when he wriggled it into the mouth. A tooth fell from the top jaw and clunked like a boiled sweet against its lower neighbours. Cam felt the acid rise in the back of his throat and swallowed to keep it down.
Throughout his long career he had been exposed to sights such as this more often than he cared to remember, and while he found them as unpleasant as the next person, he’d discovered years ago that his ability to block them out was better than most. He’d accepted the case from Rod with alacrity, saw it as his last chance to cling to the job he loved and delay the inevitable.
Caught up as he’d been by his initial interest, he hadn’t realised until now just how much he’d underestimated the human element. Despite his determination to see this as nothing but ‘the case’, it became increasingly hard not to flinch at the words McManus was saying, or gag at the sight he was viewing. He found himself taking short, shallow breaths, had to force himself to breathe more deeply.
McManus said, ‘As you can see, his teeth are in a shocking state, with much decay. I don’t think this bloke was particularly keen on dentists, probably never been in his life.’ The pathologist waved his hand above the decaying head like a conductor over a particularly sensitive piece of music. ‘With dental records, ID would have been a piece of cake, but without them they don’t do us any good at all. And look at this.’ McManus picked up one of the hands; the skin hung from the shining muscle like a loose glove. ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to rule out fingerprint ID too.’
Cam cleared his throat. The sound bounced back at him from the tiles and stainless-steel fittings of the cold room. ‘I believe they collected DNA samples,’ he said.
‘Yes, but the results could take days.’
‘The wife recognised his clothes.’
‘Then unless proved otherwise, we are working on the assumption that this is Darren Pilkington.’
‘Any idea about a time of death?’
‘The insulation from the wool bale has proven to be an advantage as well as a disadvantage. On the one hand, the insect activity has been reduced, but on the other, the wool prevented rapid cooling of the body, resulting in an increased putrefaction rate.’
Cam pointed to one of the arms, well past the bloated stage. ‘But on this one here, there’s obviously been a lot insect activity.’ There wasn’t much left of the arm but a few shreds of skin, yellowing sinew and gleaming bone. The little flesh that remained was pocked with maggot holes, and looked similar to the flesh of the fly-blown sheep he had been shearing the previous morning.
‘The arm you’re looking at now is the one that was exposed to the air. As you can see, it’s considerably the worse for wear. The wool protected the other arm and rest of the body from insect damage — to a degree, anyway. And as for the body in the hole, it will be different again due to the different environmental conditions. It will smell different too — not as sickly as this one, more like the gamey smell of a dirty ferret hutch. I knew a pathologist once who could provide estimated time of death with amazing accuracy through smell alone.’
McManus moved his hand to the other arm. The loose skin slipped and slid under his fingers like an oversized glove.
‘As it is this is a fascinating case. Different parts of this body have decayed at different rates, which makes an accurate estimation of time of death almost impossible. I’ve collected some sample insects to send to a forensic entomologist in Perth, although we can only use that as a last resort, I’m afraid; our budget is limited.’
Cam blew out a short gust of frustration, the heat deflected from his mask back to his face, but at least he wasn’t feeling sick any more.
McManus went on, ‘I estimate the time of death to be four to fourteen days. Can’t get any closer, I’m afraid. That wool bale was one helluva thermos flask. How long has the guy been missing, anyway?’
‘Seven days.’
The pathologist nodded, put his hand flat on the autopsy table and leaned across the body to Cam. In a conspiratorial whisper he said, ‘But one thing I am absolutely positive about is that we are investigating a homicide.’
Cam relaxed his tensed shoulders. ‘Is that supposed to make me feel better?’
‘Yes, I thought it might. It certainly rules out any other causes of death doesn’t it?’
McManus straightened and moved to halfway along the table. It was then Cam noticed that Pizzle’s torso was dotted with several pairs of dark holes. Although their edges were now ragged with insect activity, he could still tell by their shape that they had been caused by something long and pronged.
He pointed to one of the double holes. ‘A pitchfork?’
McManus shook his head. With the flats of his hands he pressed one of the wound’s edges. Cam knew what to expect and steeled himself. Fluid, the colour and texture of pea and ham soup, bubbled from somewhere deep within the body.
‘The cavities tunnel in and curve down, much like the prongs of a pitchfork, but these puncture wounds are smaller, and a pitchfork usually has three prongs, not two. Have another go,’ McManus said.
‘About six centimetres apart.’ Cam thought aloud. ‘A grappling hook, maybe?’
‘I imagine it could be, although grappling hooks also tend to have three prongs, but I suppose the smaller middle hook might not have reached the flesh. There are numerous double puncture wounds throughout the body, and a single puncture wound to the neck that ripped through the jugular — like a fish hook, if you will.’
Cam’s hand moved to his ear. The movement was not lost on McManus. The glint in the pathologist’s eye, the raising of the caterpillar eyebrows, betrayed the perverse delight he took in shocking seasoned police officers.
‘Cause of death: exsanguination from wounds. And there’s something else, too.’ McManus pointed to the body’s decomposing right leg. ‘See the tearing wound here on the thigh? It’s a much bigger wound than those caused by the prongs, hence the increased rate of decay and insect activity, making the pattern less distinct. Jagged edges, variable rate of penetration. There’s a similar wound on the arm. Any ideas?’
Cam was beginning to feel as if he were participating in a game show. He dropped his hand from his ear. ‘I’m sure you’re dying to tell me, Freddie.’
McManus’s hand dived to the nearby trolley. ‘Ta-daa!’ he said triumphantly, rattling a specimen jar between his fingers. ‘In the report I refer to this as “Item 2B”.’
Cam took the specimen jar and examined its contents. He looked at McManus, whose brow was furrowed, his mask crinkling around his nose.
‘It looks like the canine tooth of a large dog.’
CHAPTER TEN
Jo placed the reference book back on the library
shelf then looked at her watch. Home time at last. The night’s excitement over the bushfire had left her exhausted. By the time she and Charlie had reached the bogged truck it had been burning vigorously, the black smoke and suffocating fumes preventing them from getting close enough to put out the fire. They’d had to call up several more units, and they had all busied themselves with building a firebreak around the twisted metal pyre to stop the flames from spreading further.
When Jo had told the captain about the two strange men, he’d brushed off her suspicions that they might have been the arsonists. Apparently the original fire had been lit several kilometres to the west and the police had caught the firebug fleeing the scene with an empty jerry can. Nevertheless, what little sleep she’d snatched last night had been broken by indistinct images of unsmiling men in low-hanging hats, staring at her through walls of flames.
She did her best to dismiss these thoughts as she walked the corridor of the administration section. Built as a boarding school over a century years ago, the once exclusive girls’ school had suffered hard times and declining numbers, along with every other institution in the area. Recently it had been taken over by a dynamic husband-and-wife team, Anne and Jeffrey Smithson. They’d sunk much of their own money into the venture, remodelling the school with the aim of attracting Asian students eager for an Australian education. The new boarding wing was nearly finished, the enrolment lists growing and by next year it would be a fully functional boarding school again.
Anne Smithson, the school principal, had asked for a word with Jo before she went home. Jo thought it was probably about the new raspberry highlights her hairdresser had persuaded her to try. Unfortunately the warm red highlights had turned out looking more like the tequila sunrises that the girl had admitted to quaffing by the bucket-load the previous night.
Anne Smithson leaned back in her squeaking leather desk chair. The walls of her office were papered with degrees and diplomas, the antique furniture pungent with the smell of fresh polish. With her head tilted with an air of maternal concern, Anne regarded Jo across her Edwardian desk.
Maybe Jo hadn’t been called in to discuss hairstyles after all.
‘I hear you’ve joined the Volunteer Bushfire Brigade,’ Anne said.
Jo jumped in, barely letting the principal finish her sentence. ‘It won’t affect my job, Anne, I’ll only be attending after-hours fires. They’ve usually got plenty of farmers available on roster for the weekdays. Last night was an exception because they just couldn’t find anyone else.’ Her mind whirred as she continued planning her defence. Anne couldn’t really stop her, could she?
Anne said, ‘Yes, I know all that, and that’s not the problem. The problem as I see it is your personal safety. I’m very impressed with your good intentions, but let’s face it, the fire brigade is a dangerous hobby, and added to that, you’re so tiny; I don’t see how you could possibly keep up with the men.’
Jo laughed. It was strange how lightly she could take disapproval from anyone but Cam.
‘For a start,’ she told the older woman, ‘it’s not a hobby, it’s something I wouldn’t even consider doing if they weren’t so short-handed. And as for the size thing, a competent radio operator is just as important as any big muscly fellow clinging to the end of the hose. And that reminds me, Anne: they’re looking for more people to man the communications van. I thought the job seemed right up your alley, so I put your name down for it.’
Despite the deliberate tease in Jo’s voice, Anne Smithson blanched, bringing a hand up to pat her immaculate helmet of ash-blonde hair.
Jo grinned. ‘Got you there, didn’t I?’
Anne laughed self-consciously; Jo got the feeling Anne never knew quite how to respond to her humour.
‘Umm, Jo, before you go, there’s one more thing . . .’
‘Yes, Anne?’
‘Your hair. I know hair colour like yours is the height of fashion, but I’m not sure if it’s a good example to the girls, they’ll probably start copying it. We like our staff to err on the side of conservatism, and that colour you’ve chosen is, well . . .’
‘I know, bloody awful. I’m getting it redone just as soon as I can.’
Jo smiled as she rose to her feet, straightening the waistband of her uncomfortable, conservative skirt.
***
‘What have you got for us, Freddie?’ Rod asked as Dr McManus followed Cam into the superintendent’s office.
Once seated, Freddie thumped a pile of paperwork onto the desk. ‘It’s all detailed here.’ He fanned out a pile of photos. ‘All in glorious technicolour. You can keep everything, I’ve made copies. The body was badly decomposed, but I still managed to glean a few things of interest.’
While McManus explained his findings to Rod, Cam put on his reading glasses and began to shuffle through the first few pages of the report, back to the beginning of the autopsy, which he had missed.
His concentration was broken by Rod’s exclamation of ‘Good God!’
Cam looked up to see McManus triumphantly waving the bottled tooth in the same way he’d done that morning in the morgue.
‘The Pilkingtons have a large dog,’ Cam said quietly.
‘What kind of dog?’ Rod asked.
‘Anatolian Shepherd.’ Cam gulped some water from a plastic cup. He couldn’t work out if it was the heat of the office or the hot rush of an idea that had dried his mouth and sped up his heart.
‘A notoriously aggressive breed,’ McManus said. ‘We’re not talking about puppy nips here. The man was savagely mauled. There’s another bite on the left upper arm. The bicep was almost pulled from the bone.’ He pushed a photo from the file towards Rod, who didn’t pick it up.
‘I’ll take your word for it,’ Rod said, turning his eyes to Cam and staring thoughtfully at him. ‘You’ve gone very quiet. What’s your problem?’
Cam ran his hand around the edge of his collar, licked his dry lips. Here goes nothing, he thought, taking a breath. ‘I’m not convinced the body in the wool bale belongs to Darren Pilkington.’
Silence. McManus’s caterpillars arched in surprise, Rod looked at him as if he were measuring him up for a straitjacket.
Cam continued, ‘At first I thought it was Pilkington, but now, with the discovery of the tooth, I can’t say I am. There’s something about the dog attack that just doesn’t feel right to me. I just can’t see a dog like this attacking her own master.’
‘There’s nothing strange about someone being attacked by their own dog. My wife has a friend in her quilting circle whose face was just about ripped off by her dog a few years ago,’ Rod said.
‘Yes, I’ve heard stories like that too. But you don’t know the Pilkington dog. I do, and she’s trained to protect. And Darren was always good with animals. An animal who attacks its master is usually one that’s been badly treated, or grossly misunderstood.’ Cam returned to the notes in front of him and held up a finger. ‘Wait, let me check the body’s physical description. I missed the measuring up.’
When Cam found the relevant page he thumped his finger onto it, his heart sinking. ‘Says the bloke was five foot five, slim build. It certainly sounds like Pilkington.’ He blew out a breath, slumped back in his chair and shook his head. ‘Maybe I’ve jumped the gun.’
McManus nodded. ‘A small man; the body fitted into the wool bale quite nicely, with very little damage.’
Rod said, ‘Cam, I hate to say it, but I think your friendship with Pilkington is clouding your judgement.’
Cam opened his mouth. He’s not my . . . Closed it again.
‘Dogs are predators. They see blood, they get the blood lust and join in,’ Rod continued. ‘I think you’re only seeing what you want to see.’
McManus’s caterpillar eyebrows wriggled with merriment. He always enjoyed a lively debate, providing that the opinion being questioned wasn’t his own.
Cam kept his expression neutral. ‘I prefer the Doubting Thomas analogy myself. And you’re right, odds are it is Pilking
ton, but I still won’t be completely convinced until I see the DNA evidence.’
Rod massaged his forehead. ‘Okay, suit yourself.’
‘But I’ll continue with the investigation assuming it is,’ Cam conceded.
‘Good of you,’ Rod said, not hiding his sarcasm. ‘And just keep your theory to yourself for the moment. It’s no good going off on tangents at this stage of the investigation, it just confuses the issue. ‘
Cam nodded. Rod was right, but there was nothing he could do to stop him from thinking about it.
‘And check the dog’s teeth while you’re about it, ‘McManus said.
‘Be careful, though, don’t get your hand bitten off. One more officer in hospital and I’ll be the one conducting cavity searches in the lock-up. Oh, and there’s something else.’ Rod pushed a plastic bag across the desk, containing a small blue plastic cap. ‘While you were at the autopsy I had a meeting with the SOCO team. This was found among the rubbish in the spoiled wool — the stuff you and Mrs Pilkington swept up. Know what it is?’
Cam nodded as he turned the small plastic object around in his fingers. He recognised it immediately; his son had been asthmatic. ‘It’s the cap that protects the mouthpiece of a Ventolin inhaler. Joe used to leave these things lying around the house all the time.’
‘I’ve sent lung-tissue samples off to the lab, but it’ll be a couple of days before we get the results. Was Pilkington asthmatic?’ McManus asked.
‘Not that I know of, but I’ll follow it up with his wife,’ Cam said. He turned to Rod. ‘Get any prints off it?’
‘Yes, but we’re still running them through the database. I’ll ring you as soon as we get a match. There was another set of prints on a bucket in the shed, different again.’
‘Neither of them are Pilkington’s?’
Rod shook his head. ‘Harris printed Mrs Pilkington, they’re not hers either, but I suppose they might be the vet’s. I ran a background check on him. He’s got form. Nothing serious, but he’s been booked a couple of times for disturbance of the peace and assault, something to do with an animal rights organisation. Years ago when he was at university he was involved in a violent protest at a battery chicken farm. On another occasion he was done for pelting the Minister of Agriculture with rotten eggs. He got two months for that.’
Flare-up: a tense, taut mystery (A Cam Fraser mystery) Page 6
