Endgame: CSI Reilly Steel #7

by Casey Hill

  She’d barely made it a step further down the hallway before someone rounded the corner and nearly ran her over, stopping just in time to grab her by the arms and avert his body weight. Which was considerable.

  Kennedy looked like he’d just rolled out of bed, and was chomping on a huge baguette filled with sausages, eggs rashers and goodness knows what else.

  “You know,” Reilly said, “I don’t think Josie would be happy about what you’re eating for breakfast…”

  He looked back at her, his eyes sleep-ridden, his jaw unshaven, “Breakfast? I’ve been up so long this is practically lunch. And what my lovely wife doesn’t know won’t hurt her.” The big man grinned at her and took the last bite. When he had finished licking his lips he said, “Just stopped by to see if you wanted a lift over to the morgue?”

  Damn. Reilly had forgotten that Karen Thompson had scheduled Graham Hackett’s autopsy briefing for this morning.

  She looked longingly at the door to her office, only a few feet away. She could imagine the expensive leather chair she’d purchased herself, and how relieving it would be to sit down, just for a moment. But she looked back at Kennedy and sighed. “That’d be great, thanks.” She hefted the files in her arms to her other side. “Just let me set these on my desk, and I’ll meet you downstairs.”

  She unlocked the door to her office, balancing her files and bag precariously on one arm. When she got the door open she took one step in and flipped on the light, revelling wistfully in the space she was able to call her own.

  The room wasn’t scented – there were no candles or perfumes anywhere around. While her overly sensitive nose could be a blessing at crime scenes, it was torture for her to be around candles or diffusers - like someone had stuffed a piece of lemon or lavender right up her nose.

  She set the files down on her heavy wooden desk and slid her handbag from her shoulder, placing it in her chair so she wouldn’t be tempted to sit. As nice as five minutes off her feet sounded, she knew that if she did sit down she wouldn’t be getting back up.

  As she passed back through the glass door she caught a glimpse of her reflection. Despite the growing heft to her stomach, she still looked the same as she did every day at the office. A professional outfit, usually grey or navy, and a business-like ponytail pulling her blond hair away from her face.

  Reilly lifted her chin and walked back through the door.

  Tired or not, you got this.

  18

  “Would you like a chair, Reilly?”

  Although she could detect no hint of condescension in Karen Thompson’s motherly tone, Reilly still resented the idea that anyone - least of all the ME - thought she needed special treatment.

  She shifted her weight to distribute it more evenly on her feet and said through slightly gritted teeth. “I’m fine standing thanks.”

  The city mortuary was a stark contrast to the GFU lab. The walls were painted white, the ground a stark white tile, and the examination table a cool steel gray. The only speck of color in the room was Dr. Thompson’s blue scrub outfit.

  The ME shrugged, though Reilly saw something flare in her eyes, and she got the feeling that if she could do so without damaging Reilly’s pride, her colleague would insist that she take a seat during the briefing.

  As it was, Thompson glanced at each of Reilly’s detective counterparts before commencing a report on her findings. She cleared her throat and donned her gloves, before pulling back the sheet to reveal the top portion of Graham Hackett’s naked body.

  Chris, Kennedy, and Reilly, all had nose plugs and face masks, but Thompson was much more comfortable around the pale body, and she stood over the corpse free of facial garments.

  “Just to start off with the usual observations. Based upon lividity and rigor present upon preliminary examination of the victim, he was deceased no more than four to five hours. I would also speculate, again based on blood lividity, that the body was not moved post mortem. There is no indication of sexual activity in the hours leading up to death, but swabs have been taken for analysis to be certain. The victim’s stomach contained little by way of food: some semi digested peanuts, likely consumed three to four hours before death, although it’s harder to accurately give timings due to the large amount of alcohol consumed.”

  Made sense, Reilly thought, nodding.

  “I can now make the victim’s only item of clothing - a pair of boxer shorts - available to the lab, also fingernail scrapings and hair samples for analysis.” Doctor Thompson moved towards the body. Pale and covered in black bruises, it was clear that the wounds on the victim’s head, shoulders and hands were random and indiscriminate. Whereas the damage inflicted by Karen Thompson was far more deliberate and methodical.

  Freshly-stitched post mortem wounds extended from both shoulders to below the sternum, with a third incision tracing from the pubis across the abdomen to join the other two incisions.

  Seeing what had only days before been the toned, athletic body of a young man who obviously cared deeply about his physical appearance now lying violated, triggered a mixture of sadness and pity.

  “As you can see, the attack was concentrated on the head and upper body. The majority of the contusions to the head, bruises and lacerations to the shoulders are consistent with that of a blunt weapon wielded with excessive force.” Dr. Thompson pointed to the discolored portions of the boy’s skin.

  “Based on the bruises and the direction of the breaks in the skin here, these injuries were most likely caused by right-handed attacker and a weapon wielded in such a manner ….” She brought her hands up above her head like she was chopping wood, then brought it down towards the lifeless body. “That’s why we only see such injuries here – this kind of swing would have trouble landing anywhere else on a standing person. I have counted thirteen blows in total, though two appear to have been aimed at the head and rebounded onto the shoulder.”

  So whoever attacked Graham Hackett had to be at least his height or taller, Reilly thought, in order to be capable of landing such blows. And right-handed.

  “The left collar bone has also been fractured, along with the left eye socket,” Dr Thompson pointed out the injuries with her little finger, the rest of her fingers curled towards her.

  “The victim’s hands took quite a bit of punishment too,” She continued to move their attention along Graham Hackett’s muscular arms, to his hand where his fingers pointed in several unnatural directions.

  “Ring, middle and index fingers on the right hand were all fractured, as well as open fractures to the middle and index fingers on the left. If we look closer at the left hand it appears the skin has been split from the metacarpals all the way down to the capitate.”

  At this point, Reilly found herself looking away from the gruesome image of a skilled young athlete’s hand that had been all but split in half.

  “But the blow that I speculate ended the attack, as well as the victim’s life, is indicated here.” Karen Thompson gestured to the partly caved-in part of Graham Hackett’s skull, “and I can only speculate, based on the condition of the injury and the fissures in the skull, that this was the same weapon used to distribute the bruises. Although coming from a slightly different direction - diagonally, right to left - again indicating a predominately right handed attacker. The width of the impacted area is roughly ten centimetres by twelve centimetres in an oval shape. The bruising of the outer skin also has some unusual impression markings …” The pathologist indicated the impacted area. “The damaged area is bisected by this impression here, which may well be easier to make out from the original crime scene photos.”

  At this, Thompson snapped off her gloves and retrieved some photographs from a folder on a workbench nearby. “You can clearly see the variances in discolouration of the skin. And the victim’s shorter haircut means this rather distinctive impression marking, almost certainly resulting from the murder weapon, is clearly visible.”

  The others took turns looking through the gruesome photograp
hs.

  “Any thoughts as to what kind of weapon would have caused such impression markings?” Reilly asked, studying the photo.

  “Not particularly, though it does seem to suggest the weapon could consist of two different materials. If you also look along the length of that rather defined rectangular shape, there are also what appear to be small round indentations.” Thompson pointed out the very faint markings on the photo with the pen. “All laceration wounds are relatively clean, but we did isolate a fibrous material found in one of the deeper wounds to the victim’s shoulder. Perhaps you can cross reference this with any other trace found at the primary scene. Given the material’s location inside the wound, I would surmize it was either on or part of the murder weapon,” the doctor concluded, as she placed the photos back in their folder.

  “I think I know what it is…” Chris said suddenly, studying the photos again. “The rectangular impression gives it away.”

  “What?” Kennedy asked. “The murder weapon you mean?”

  He nodded. “Remember all those trophies in Hackett’s room?”

  Kennedy seemed to think for a second, but Reilly didn't have to. “The hockey stick?” she supplied. Although in truth, the sports implement depicted on the trophies was flatter and much longer than that. But yes, such an object could definitely inflict the kind of damage poor Graham Hackett had suffered.

  “Not a hockey stick, a hurley stick. They’re made from wood - ash to be specific - but some of them also have steel bands across the curved part. Gary will know what I’m talking about.”

  “Jesus …” Kennedy shuddered, obviously visualising the attack playing out in a whole new way.

  But as always, Dr Thompson was unmoved. “Sounds about right. I’ve ordered the usual bloodwork as always,” she told them, “but we won’t have the results for a few days at least. Otherwise, that’s all I’ve got at present.”

  The four stood silently in front of the body then, almost as though they were giving Graham Hackett a final moment of silence he could no longer appreciate.

  Soon the doctor spoke again. “I must admit these are some of the hardest,” she said quietly.

  Surprised, the other three looked in unison away from the corpse and up at Karen Thompson. She was famously stoic, worked with dead bodies every day, and it was easy to assume that to a certain extent, these things no longer bothered her.

  “Such a young kid, his life so cruelly ended,” she said, glancing down at the body, “just as it was truly about to begin.”

  The others seemed to understand exactly the kind of feeling she was expressing, and they stood solemnly in the room for a moment more, before eventually leaving Thompson to her work.

  19

  Kennedy straightened up when they were out of the ring of despair that seemed to hang over the mortuary building. He pulled his thumbs through the belt loops of his pants and hiked them back up, muttering under his breath. “Walloped in the head with a hurl …” He ran a hand over his head. “This whole case is depressing, honestly.”

  Chris seemed to nod his agreement, but distractedly so.

  For Reilly’s part, seeing the kid’s body again like that under the artificial lights, triggered unwelcome emotions in her chest yet again. It was though the new part of her, the budding life inside her, was now reacting to the evil and wrongdoing that she had been exposed to for much of her adult life.

  Normally she let nothing get to her, and when something did get to her, she kept it far from her workplace. Certainly, none of her coworkers needed to know about such concerns.

  “Reilly.”

  Chris said her name like he had uttered it a few times before yet failed to garner her attention. She looked up at him, and satisfied she was listening this time, he looked at her closely and said, “We should head back for a quick debrief, and cross-reference any preliminary findings with the investigation so far.”

  “Of course,” she said, a slight blush coming to her cheeks at the obvious signs of her distraction.

  The three made their way back to the GFU in Chris’s Ford, lightly discussing between them what they’d established from witnesses so far.

  “The girl is still insistent that her attack and Graham Hackett’s murder is just coincidence and completely unrelated,” said Chris. “But you know what they say about coincidence…”

  “Dunno, for what it’s worth I think the whole Holly Glynn thing is a bit … off,” Kennedy proffered.

  “How so?” Reilly asked from the back seat.

  “Well, I would like to think my two would keep their wits about them for starters…it’s a big deal to be set upon and attacked by a complete stranger like that, and yet have no recollection of any of it.”

  “Well, alcohol would have been a factor…”

  “Yes, but surely it’s the kind of thing that would sober you up quick-smart? All we got from the young one is dark clothes and the smell of fags off him - I mean, it’s next to nothing.”

  “So what are you thinking? That she’s holding back? Or could be that there was something stronger than alcohol at play?” Reilly mused. She’d wondered about this now given the drugs element to the boy’s attack.

  “Rohypnol?” Chris suggested.

  “Perhaps. She could well be holding out either.”

  “All I’m saying is we still don’t know for sure that she didn't know the guy. Best to keep an open mind. And speaking of which,” Kennedy added, rolling his eyes as he angled his head towards Chris. “Yer man here has a real hard-on for Simon Hackett.”

  Chris was quick to explain. “I don’t know … the kid’s had a bad attitude from the get-go. His reaction to brother’s death was plain … weird. He was completely unaffected.”

  “Everybody is different though. I’ve seen people totally withdraw when something like this happens. Circumstantial denial: some people, especially younger ones are unable to process what is happening around them.”

  “Reilly, this guy is no kid - he’s nineteen years of age. That term you use so much springs to mind - Okom something.” Chris searched for the phrase.

  “Occam’s Razor?”

  “Yep that’s the one; sometimes the simplest explanation is the correct explanation. There’s a drunken party, two brothers fight, everybody leaves and one brother is dead the next morning…Occam’s Razor.” Chris insisted as they pulled into the GFU car park. “Multiple witnesses have confirmed aggro between the brothers that night. Simon says he went to a nightclub, but we haven’t yet been able to confirm that and even if he did, he still had plenty of time to attack and kill his brother after he got home, if say, the argument started up again. I just think Simon Hackett needs to remain a strong suspect, if not our most likely one at this point.”

  “I hear you, but it’s still early days,” Reilly demurred.

  When they reached the building, Kennedy made a quick pit-stop, while she and Chris proceeded back to her office.

  “You seem preoccupied lately…” he commented idly. “Try not to let this case get to you. I know it’s not easy with the victim being so young, but…”

  Reilly squared her shoulders and braced herself, keen to change the subject. “It’s not just that. There’s something else on my mind actually.”

  She looked up into his soft brown eyes then, realizing that they held a spark of uncharacteristic hope. She then wished her admission could have been uttered slightly differently so Chris knew for sure that the news he was about to receive was not something he would be happy to hear.

  “Todd … he’s coming to Dublin,” she blurted, unsure why she was telling him this. “Arriving next week. He’ll be staying with me.” She also couldn’t figure out, for the life of her why she had added that last part. Sure, she felt like she needed to tell Chris, but now it just felt like she was pushing it too far, rubbing it in, even.

  He stared at her for a moment, and Reilly saw that brief optimistic flare quickly disappear. She felt a growing sense of dread as the look was replaced with somethin
g akin to disdain.

  Chris blinked, then said in an indifferent tone, “That’s great news - I’m very happy for you. But do you think we could go through those reports now - particularly the ones from Tech? We’ve got a lot to get through.”

  “WHAT’S UP YOUR HOLE?” Kennedy had managed to completely sidestep manners and come out with it in the brashest way possible, as usual.

  He and Chris were grabbing a bite before heading out to question some of the other kids in attendance at the Hackett party.

  At the GFU, Rory had provided them with a comprehensive list he'd collated of teens in attendance - as well as their full names and addresses based on his analysis of Graham Hackett’s iPad and social media correspondence, giving them a good idea as to who they should talk to next.

  The cafe they had chosen for lunch was out of the way, small and local. It was hardly ever busy and that helped them to get in and out fast. Plus, the food was decent.

  The mid-afternoon sun was barely peeking through the clouds that spread over the sky like slush on concrete, and a grey glow from that pushed through the blinds to the right of their table, casting Kennedy in an artificial light.

  The big man took a bite from his chicken burger shortly after asking the harsh question, and as Chris stabbed a piece of his own salad he watched as grease dripped from his partner’s chin and back onto the plate.

  It was fortunate the menus of their favourite cafe for lunch were so varied in their options, or the two might have never eaten together. The staff always managed to get a laugh out of the two detectives’s very differing orders, no matter where they went.

  Salad is for rabbits, Chris could hear Kennedy saying, and often did on countless occasions. He watched as his colleague took another huge bite of his burger, and this time a glob of mayonnaise fell from the bun and hit the plate like a bomb. If Josie knew about the poison her husband consumed for lunch (or indeed breakfast) on a daily basis, she would probably kill him. Or Chris, for letting it happen.