by Casey Hill
‘I just needed a change, that’s all,’ she said, before deftly changing the subject. ‘So how long have you and Kennedy been working together?’
‘In Serious Crime? Nearly three years now.’ OK, he thought. Obviously certain things are off limits. And despite this, or perhaps because of it, he found himself become more and more intrigued.
All too soon it was time to leave and Chris signaled for the bill.
‘Let me get that,’ Reilly insisted, forcibly.
‘No, I asked you out … I mean, I asked you to come and—’Nice one, Chris, he remonstrated with himself, completely bewildered as to what the protocol was for this kind of thing. Emma would be proud of him – not.
‘Seriously, it’s mine,’ she said, leaving a couple of twenties. Chris relented, unwilling to embarrass himself any further.
‘Well, I’ll get the next one then,’ he muttered, and was he imagining it, or was there a hint of a smile playing about her lips?
‘Do you want to get a taxi?’ he asked as they got up and left the table, ‘or we can walk? It’s not that far.’
‘Let’s walk then, it’s not often I see the outside of the lab – might as well make the most of it.’ He held the door of the restaurant open for her. ‘I have to tell you though,’ she added, referring to next item on their agenda, ‘I’m looking forward to this. It’ll be my first time down here on official business – Gorman usually does these.’ She laughed lightly. ‘He usually prefers to keep me where he can see me.’
And as Chris followed Reilly down Grafton Street, he decided that a woman who actually looked forward to visiting the city morgue was a very rare creature indeed.
‘Could they make this place any more depressing?’ he wondered aloud after he and Reilly signed in beneath the dreary fluorescent lights. He looked around at the gray walls, the gray floors, the institutional desks and chairs. Despite being housed in a brand new building, the autopsy suite still felt dank and gloomy.
She chuckled as they headed through the heavy double doors to the observation room. ‘What – you think this would be more fun if the walls were painted in delicate pastels and we had some classical music playing? Believe me,’ she continued, ‘these places are the same the world over.’
When they stepped into the observation room they found that apart from the pathologist and her staff, they seemed to be the only observers that evening, although given that it was an alleged suicide, that wasn’t unusual.
Minutes later, they were both suited up and awaiting Karen Thompson’s appearance inside the cold and sterile autopsy room.
Chris shivered – although he was used to being around bodies, he always found it damn near impossible not to be affected by the smell of the place. And his stomach – which thanks to the bright idea to eat beforehand was still filled with undigested pasta – instinctively began to churn.
He struggled not to retch as the smell washed over him. The morgue had its own unique odour that clung mercilessly to clothes, hair, skin, everything, and, despite the protective gear they’d been given, the stench of the place was unavoidable.
Karen Thompson, dressed in surgical greens and wearing heavy-duty rubber boots, entered the room and nodded briefly at them before confidently heading toward the utility area at the other end.
‘Let’s begin, shall we?’ she said, moving to the head of the autopsy table and addressing two mortuary attendants. The men, each clad in plastic overalls and using surgical gloves, duly unzipped and removed the polythene body bag before deftly lifting the stiff remains of Jim Redmond back onto the white marble table.
At the head of the table there was a short hose attached to a water tap and at the bottom, a swivel tap fixed to a large sink unit. The autopsy table briefly reminded Chris of a holiday he and his ex Melanie had taken in Cairo a few years back, the large marble slab reminiscent of the ones used by the Ancient Egyptians when preparing bodies for mummification. He still recalled word-for-word the Egyptian tour guide’s gruesome description of the process: ‘First, they suck out the brains through the nose, then remove the organs and the entrails, before draining the blood away at the end of table …’ Now it was poor Jim Redmond’s blood draining away and his organs being handled in a similar manner to those ancients, he thought, solemnly.
Another attendant put up a selection of X-rays, backlit for viewing, and Karen put on a pair of surgical latex gloves before switching on her Dictaphone. Close by, a forensic photographer stood ready to record the proceedings for posterity.
‘Case number 1386, postmortem of James Redmond,’ the doctor began, her tone clipped and efficient as she spoke into the mouthpiece. ‘Subject is a well-nourished white male, mid-fifties, with slight receding dark hair, blue eyes and weighing approximately eighty-eight kilos. Height is one hundred and seventy-two centimeters.’
She paused briefly, and moved along the side of the table. ‘Time of death was estimated as 9.25 a.m. on Friday, 25th February. Cause of death is due to lack of oxygen.’
She paused, carefully examined Redmond’s neck and returned to her Dictaphone. ‘Inflammation and V-shaped ligature compression marks on the neck indicate that death occurred by hanging. The characteristics of these marks would seem to confirm that the manner of death – as pronounced by the attending physician at the scene – is in fact suicide.’
Reilly was tight-lipped. She seemed disappointed by Karen’s clearly stated verdict.
Chris, on the other hand, was relieved. Maybe her hunch was incorrect – there was nothing on the body to support anything but suicide, nothing to add to the strange coincidences that seemed to link it to the Ryan murders. The idea was a positive one – he and Kennedy really didn’t want another casualty to add to their growing list of homicides, whatever intuition Reilly might have.
As they stood watching the ME continue her external examination, Chris gradually began to feel the onset of fatigue. He loosened his shoulders and tried to concentrate on the doctor’s movements, his mind struggling to focus.
It had been a long day – a very long day, in fact – and the recent developments in the investigation had taken a lot out of him. So, of course it was natural for him to be dead on his feet at this stage – who wouldn’t be tired? This was simply weariness, he reassured himself, good old-fashioned weariness, and nothing to do with the similar bouts of tiredness he’d been experiencing for the last few weeks, nor the persistent throbbing in his joints.
But his fatigue was temporarily forgotten when Reilly suddenly flinched. Something Karen was saying had caught her attention and, bit by bit, he let the doctor’s words swim back into focus.
‘ … Slight recent trauma to the anus – some bruising, minute lacerations—’
‘Excuse me, Doctor?’
‘Yes?’ Karen looked up from her examination of Redmond’s body; if she was annoyed that the other woman had interrupted her flow of observation, she didn’t show it.
‘The anus shows some form of trauma?’ Reilly repeated.
‘Consistent with recent sexual activity, yes.’ She indicated the body. ‘There are also traces of what I suspect may be latex. But nothing major, nothing forcible, if that’s what you’re thinking.’
‘I wasn’t suggesting … sorry for the interruption, please keep going,’ Reilly said, giving Chris a sideways glance. He made a mental note to ask her afterward what the hell that was all about.
A few minutes later, Karen completed the remaining external visual examination and then, positioning her cloth mask tightly into place, she picked up a scalpel and made a neat Y-incision into Redmond’s chest.
As always, he was impressed by the deft, fluid motion of her gloved hands and for a while the room was still as she worked, breaking through the ribcage and skilfully removing and weighing organs, and recording concise observatory remarks for transcription; her soft features all the time fixed in an expression of intense concentration.
Once samples had been taken, the organs returned, and every incision sutured, th
e ME finally snapped off her gloves and dropped them in a nearby biohazard container.
‘Well?’ he asked Reilly when the procedure was complete and they waited in the hallway for the doctor. ‘You heard what she said – it was a straightforward suicide.’
‘Yes, but what about the anal trauma?’ she argued. ‘Redmond was a married man; his wife identified his body and was apparently inconsolable. She’s the one who is convinced that this was no suicide.’
‘Of course she was,’ Chris replied. ‘Who wouldn’t be? Sounds like he might have been a closet homosexual, which makes his suicide even more plausible, doesn’t it?’
‘I suppose,’ Reilly bit her lip, her disappointment palpable. She’d had high hopes that the ME would find something out of kilter. ‘I don’t know …’ She paused, choosing her words carefully. ‘It’s just that when you add this to the other strange findings we’ve had on this case, I think there’s something else going on, something we’re not seeing.’ She looked up at him, her tone of voice almost apologetic. ‘You can call it a gut feeling, if you like, but I’d wager a lot that this is no simple suicide.’
‘Gut feelings don’t count for much in this business,’ he pointed out.
‘I know, but the trace—’
He cut her off. ‘Look, as far as everyone else involved in this thing is concerned, there’s nothing suspicious about the guy’s death. Now, I know there’s evidence common to this and the Ryan crime scene, but as we’ve said before, there could be a simple explanation for that.’ He tried to look sympathetic. ‘We’ve agreed to consider it along with the Ryan case for the moment, because of the fibers mostly, but sooner or later we’re going to have to come up with something more substantial than a paint sample and a hunch.’
Reilly had a determined look. ‘You may be right – but there’s something I want to check with Karen before we go.’
‘What?’ he asked, exasperated. Did she never give up?
‘Remember in there, when she collected penis swabs? I want to take a look at those samples properly, find out what they are.’
‘Jesus, what do you think they are?’ he asked, disbelievingly. ‘We’ve already clarified that he could be a closet homosexual.’
‘There’s no harm in checking though, is there?’
‘But—’ The rest of his sentence was interrupted as Karen, now dressed in civilian clothes, joined them in the hallway.
‘Is everything all right?’ she said, a penetrating look in her saucer eyes.
‘Sure,’ Reilly said. ‘I just need a favor. Those swabs you took from Redmond earlier? I’d like to take them back to the lab with me tonight for analysis, if that’s OK.’
‘Tonight?’ Karen looked taken aback by the request. ‘You can if you want, but we’ll be sending everything from today over to GFU in the morning anyway. But, if it’s really that urgent, I can sign those samples out for you now.’
‘I’d really appreciate that, thanks.’
As Chris and Reilly walked with Karen to her office, she gave them both a searching look. ‘It’s unusual to have someone from Serious Crime around here for a suicide procedure, let alone a GFU investigator,’ she said, her tone wary.
Reilly was noncommittal. ‘I’ll be honest, Doc, this is a bit of a fishing mission. We have some anomalies in the trace collected at the Redmond crime scene, some things that may connect this with another, ongoing murder investigation.’
‘The Ryan murders?’ Karen was sharp, no doubting that.
‘I really can’t say at this point.’
‘All right.’ The ME sat at her desk and pulled out the forms to transfer the samples to Reilly’s care. She wrote quickly, signed with a flourish and handed her the paperwork. ‘There you go.’
‘Thanks.’
As they turned to go, Karen called out to them. ‘Ms Steel?’ She stopped in the doorway. ‘Am I missing something here?’
‘I think we’re all missing something,’ Reilly replied, her mouth set in a hard line, ‘and I’m determined to find out what.’
11
Gerry Watson’s love of the simple things in life belied his young age. When most 26-year-olds would be in their element in a bar or nightclub, he was more content to head for the hills with his tent and camping gear. He always felt most alive in the wilds, an area without a phone signal was not a curse for him and he could happily live without text messages and social networks. No, to him the wide open spaces of nature were the places to be enjoyed most, and the longer he could spend in that environment, the more his worries melted away.
He had acknowledged the place he now laid was one of the best spots he’d set up camp, something that was not easy for a ‘local expert’ like him to admit, as he had not been the one to discover it. The view from where he lay was awe-inspiring, a ‘promised land’ view of rivers, waterfalls and sunlit mountainsides. He lay in his tent beside the camping stove and pan; an earlier meal now cold as the afternoon winter sun struggled to emit any real warmth. Gerry didn’t care though; he was a million miles from the worries of the world and that was what mattered most.
Of course, nature wasn’t all a bed of roses and had its annoyances, even at this time of the year. Though unseasonably mild, it seemed every flying insect within a twenty-mile radius seemed intent on plaguing him, but there was little point in swatting at them.
Also, wilderness such as this had far more nasty inhabitants than a few flies, and when the first rat darted from behind a large boulder, entered the tent and inquisitively sniffed just below Gerry’s ear, he didn’t notice a thing.
When sharp rodent incisors pierced his flesh, the only resulting movement was his exposed skin twitching, as the larva of swarming flies sought nourishment from inside. The look of terror etched on his face was appropriate, but it was a look Gerry had been wearing since days earlier his life had slowly been taken from him.
Reilly could tell it was nasty even before she got to the campsite – the grim faces of the officers as she approached told her everything she needed to know. It was now eight in the morning and she’d been fast asleep when the call came in around six-thirty.
The uniform standing guard nodded as she approached. ‘Might want to put your mask on – it’s pretty rank in there.’
She nodded her thanks and pushed through the door of the white forensic marquee that had been erected to enclose an expensive North Face four-man tent.
Given that her sense of smell was one of her best weapons, wearing a mask was actually the last thing Reilly wanted to do –. Still, the wave that hit her as she stepped inside took her aback.
She paused and closed her eyes. At first she found herself fighting back the waves of nausea while she tried to let her olfactory organs filter out the different smells from the chaos and give her some clues, something to work with.
The overpowering odor was the smell of death – the unmistakable stench of rotting flesh. But there were other smells, too, fighting their way through and she tried to relax and let them come to her. Vomit, but that was likely to be fresh, probably from whoever had found the body.
Reilly opened her eyes and saw Karen Thompson moving away from a body which was bathed in the harsh floodlight. Looking around, she could now see that the crime scene was deeply compromised. There were footprints all over the grass where someone had stepped in and out of the entrance to the tent – probably whoever had found the body. There was also a pool of vomit near the tent – again, most likely the first on the scene.
Damn.
The pathologist’s dour face brightened a little when she saw Reilly. ‘Hey. Sorry to see you again so soon.’
She gave her a small nod in response. ‘It’s been quite a night, huh?’ She looked past her toward the body. ‘What have we got?’
‘One body, male, single gunshot wound to the chest.’ Karen shook her head, a grim look on her face. ‘The tent was open so exposure to the elements means time of death isn’t immediately obvious; that’s pretty much all I can say at this point.�
�� She gave Reilly’s arm a brief pat of encouragement as she stepped past her.
Reilly stood and surveyed the scene. She tried to let her eyes scan around before she concentrated on the corpse but it was hard to ignore. Focus, she told herself, look for the details.
The North Face emblem on the tent caught her eye. She was familiar with the logo from her own love of the outdoors and had often used a similar kind of tent on her many camping trips to Yosemite back home. Reilly let her eyes settle on the victim. Like the Ryans, the guy was young, in his twenties and unremarkable looking, someone you wouldn’t look twice at if he passed you in the street.
His position was strange though – he had clearly been posed after death. He was lying inside the open tent with his head propped against his rucksack, one arm loose by his side. The other arm was propped across the open wound on his chest so that his index finger pointed toward the opening of the tent.
Reilly shuddered involuntarily and looked away – the finger seemed to be pointing directly at her. It seemed very personal and made her feel that somehow she was being accused. Trying to ignore these feelings, she turned her attention back to her immediate surroundings.
She closed her eyes, tried to picture it – what had happened? And why? It was bizarre, sinister even – but what did it mean? And the pointing finger – what was it pointing at? The police? Some other unknown person? A clue? It could mean anything. Trying to push these unanswerable questions from her head, Reilly began her examination of the scene.
She pulled her flashlight from her bag and moved in closer to the body, running the beam across it to reveal the little details that could often get lost in the overall picture.
Upon closer inspection of the victim’s face she saw that he was actually quite good-looking, with a mop of dark hair, athletic build, and strong white teeth. Teeth weren’t normally the first thing she noticed in a situation like this, but this guy’s mouth was set in a grimace, gums exposed.
