by Karen Long
“I understand and will bring it back to you as soon as I can.”
Mackenzie nodded, “Ok.”
“So, when you found the…” Eleanor started.
“Della,” responded Mackenzie uncomfortably. “I called her Della.”
She nodded. “When you found Della, was she wearing the same clothes in this photograph?”
He nodded. “There was a scarf round her neck but I didn’t like it.” He put his hands back in the cardboard box and brought out a lime green silk scarf. It was dirty and torn along one edge.
“Did anyone else know about Della?”
He shrugged. “No-one comes over here very often. Well not the back bit. I go to the main office. Larry knows I’m ’ere but he don’t come over.”
Eleanor reached over, picked up the album and pointed to the photograph. “She has a greenish tone in this photograph. Is that accurate or…”
“That’s what I told ya!” he said, exasperated. She was mouldy. Like she’d been left outside for a long time and she felt like she was made of plastic. Solid but I wus surprised that she had a drawing on ’er arm. Like a tattoo. It was faint. A faint snake!” he smiled, pleased with the rhythm and rhyme he’d created. “It wus a big snake with a black open mouth. I dunno what sort…” He was beginning to fidget. Eleanor imagined that he’d probably not maintained a conversation for this amount of time, in a good while.
“A black mamba,” said Laurence.
Eleanor looked at him. He shrugged his shoulders imperceptibly and turned away from her.
Mackenzie looked baffled, “Maybe…” he said non-committedly.
“Her eyes?”
“What about ’em?” Mackenzie asked, confused.
“Did you look at them?”
His mouth dropped slightly, as if trying to second guess where a confession might take him.
“What were they made of?”
He sighed and looked relieved. “Glass I think. Yeah, glass. No real person would have eyes made of glass, would they?”
Eleanor stood up and reached for the photograph albums. She noted the sudden anxious look that passed over his features. “We will need you to come down to station headquarters and be interviewed later on today.”
“Am I in trouble?” he said quickly.
“Not unless you’re hiding something or refuse to co-operate,” she said calmly.
He shook his head vigorously.
By the time Eleanor had finished her interview with Mackenzie, Susan Cheung and her team were organising the retrieval processes. The coroner was just manoeuvring his van between the CSI trucks and Mike Bradshaw was preparing to leave. He waved to Eleanor and Laurence, trotting over to meet them.
“He tell you anything?” asked Mike.
Eleanor shook her head. “Thought it was a shop dummy. Found it a couple of months ago and brought it back here.”
“Huh?” said Mike.
Laurence flipped open the photo album and showed Mike the Polaroid.
“Holy fuck! And he thought she was a mannequin? Why?” asked Mike incredulously.
“Gonna have to find that out,” said Laurence.
“Well, have fun kids,” said Mike, turning to leave.
Eleanor turned to her partner. She hadn’t seen him for several months and in that time he seemed to have grown a little older. His dark beard showed flecks of grey and his blue eyes reflected a little less light. She didn’t know how to break the ice between them or even if it could be broken. “You got a bag for those?” she indicated the photo albums. He nodded, turned, and walked towards his car.
As she threaded her way across the compounded mounds of charred household waste, Eleanor tried to imagine how a body could have been preserved and then deposited at the waste site. So far she’d only managed to come up with a med school prank or funeral home blunder. She stood at the edge of the taped-off area and stared at the body.
“How the hell are you?” asked Susan Cheung warmly. She pulled the mask away from her face and rested it on her forehead.
“I’m good.”
“First day back and you’re dealing with this huh?” said Susan, knowing that that was exactly the sort of thing that Eleanor wanted to deal with.
“What have we got here?” asked Eleanor, selecting a pair of plastic bootie covers and slipping them on.
“Hmm. Ok gotta be honest, I really don’t know.” Susan leaned her face towards the body and using her hand in a scooping action, drew the fumes into her nostrils.
“What do you smell?” asked Eleanor, with growing interest.
“Formaldehyde but I’m not committing to that till I’ve run chem tests.”
“Embalming fluid?”
Susan raised her eyebrows and shook her head slightly. “I really don’t know yet. Early days but it’s kind of a distinctive smell.”
“If… supposing it was, would that have explained why there’s so little flesh left on it?”
“It might,” said Susan. “Formaldehyde burns hot and hard.”
The sound of talking drew Eleanor’s attention for a moment. Laurence was chatting to Manny, Susan’s tech officer and helping him carry up a collecting box. She turned her attention back to the body. “Is there any flesh left?”
Susan nodded. “The backside has melted into the garbage beneath it. So we’re going to take the whole thing in a bag down to the morgue and hope that we can separate the two.”
“How long?” said Eleanor.
“Doc Hounslow’s in at midday and said if we can get down before twelve she’ll do it.”
Eleanor nodded.
“You’ll text me the autopsy time?” asked Eleanor.
“Will do,” replied Susan returning to the task in hand.
The walk back down to the manager’s office was uncomfortable and, for the most part, silent. Eleanor took careful footsteps, aware that a slip would involve physical contact with Laurence, which was the last thing she wanted at the moment. Larry Beatman was waiting for them, his face blackened and sweaty from the morning’s activity.
“Hey, pleased to meet ya! Larry Beatman, site manager,” he drawled. They both shook hands with him.
“I’m DI Raven and this is Detective Laurence Whitefoot,” she said curtly. “Tell me what happened Mr Beatman.”
“Larry, please. It was a fire, nothing major, happens couple of times a year. We’ve found a big pile of batteries, probably mercury cells. They have a tendency to short circuit and ignite.”
“So you don’t suspect arson?” asked Laurence.
“Nah!”
“Uh-huh. That doesn’t explain why we’ve got a partially-cremated skeleton on our hands,” said Eleanor. Larry shuffled his feet and massaged his temple with grubby fingers.
“I know it looks bad but Mackenzie ain’t the type to go killin’ anyone. He’s not very bright but totally harmless. He lives on the site ’cos he ain’t got nowhere else to go. He thought it was a shop model or some’at,” he sighed.
“Did you see the ‘shop model’ before the fire?” she asked.
He nodded. “Yeah but only from a distance. Mackenzie knows he ain’t supposed to take trash from the site but he’s curious and lonely. I saw it when I went to see him. Looked like a plastic shop doll to me… Look he ain’t done nothing wrong. He’s a lonely boy, can’t read or write but he does a shitty job. One that we can’t get no-one else to do, ok?”
“He says he found it over on the east side. When was that being filled?” she asked.
Larry scratched his head. “Can’t say for sure but at least two months ago. We moved round to the north from there.”
“We’ll need to get a spot on where the body was initially located and send crime scene there.”
Larry nodded. “I’ll do that now.”
There was a pause as Eleanor waited to see if anything more would be forthcoming. When it was clear that Larry had said what he was going to, she handed him her card. “If you know of anything that might help us in this matter pleas
e call me on this number at any time. Larry tapped his forehead with the card in salute and then headed off.
“What’s the plan boss?” said Laurence, without making eye contact.
Eleanor took her time. “Autopsy’s going to be around midday and I want to be there for that. In the meantime I think I’m going to do a bit of research.”
“Uh-huh? Care to elaborate?”
“Care to follow?” she said lightly.
Laurence stood next to Eleanor outside ‘The Saunders’ Family Funeral Parlour’, his jaw lolling forward slightly as he absorbed the contents of a framed bulletin propped on a pink and gilt easel in the bay window. It read ‘Papa Saunders and family warmly embrace the following guests this week. Lola Andrews, Mama to Rosa and Letitia, and Baby LeToya, an angel.’ Two huge photographs of Lola and baby LeToya were positioned above their names and in curling script across the bottom of the bulletin was written, ‘Their maker tends to their souls and we tend to their earthly remains’.
“Really?” asked Laurence quietly.
“Really,” Eleanor nodded and knocked on the door.
The door was opened by a black youth in his mid-teens, dressed, despite the weather being in the high twenties, in full morning suit, including tie, waistcoat, jacket and high collar. “Sir, Ma’am, how may Saunders be of service to you?” he asked with a combination of surprise, empathy and politeness.
“May I speak with Mr Saunders please?” asked Eleanor.
For a moment what looked like fear passed across the boy’s features but he pulled open the door and ushered them in. “Would you mind waiting in the guest room Ma’am?” he asked quietly.
Eleanor nodded. “Tell your father it’s DI Eleanor Raven.”
The boy’s lip twitched but he nodded and left them.
“Why are we here?” whispered Laurence, picking up and scanning one of the many glossy brochures that adorned the mahogany side table. “Do you think the body went missing from here?”
Eleanor raised an eyebrow. “Do you think that likely?”
Before Laurence could offer an opinion the door opened and the boy entered, clearing his throat. “My father is with a guest in the basement. He asked if you’d care to join him.”
Titus Saunders, like his son, was dressed in full morning attire and was hovering proprietorially over the corpse of Lola Andrews. The only concession to his work in the basement being a pair of latex gloves, which he pulled off on seeing the detectives and warmly shook their hands. “Well Detective Raven it has been too long. Too long!” his voice still bore traces of a life begun in the southern states.
“You are looking well Titus. And how is Matthew?” asked Eleanor.
Titus’ beaming face glowed proudly. “He’s just completed his law degree and is applying to take his masters.”
Laurence, not wanting to hover on the periphery of yet another Raven dominated interview chirped in. “He intends to practise?”
At this Titus’ smile disappeared and all trace of ease evaporated. “No sir, he will not be practising!”
“I need your help Titus,” butted in Eleanor, extracting the Polaroid photograph and handing it over to Titus still sealed in its plastic evidence bag. Titus changed his glasses and peered at the photograph, shaking his head. “Dear Lord! What is that? That ain’t no doll if you’re seeking me out.”
“Tell me what you can see,” she said. “This photograph was taken before a fire.”
Titus’ mouth grew hard. “How hot and what’s left?”
“Fast and hot but not cremation temperature. Autopsy’s this afternoon but I want some ideas first.”
Titus nodded. “This idiot know what he’s got there?” He pointed to Mackenzie’s image.
Eleanor shook her head. “He thought it was a mannequin of some flavour.”
Titus made a snorting sound, turned to a workbench and focused an illuminated magnifying glass over the photograph. “May I?” he asked slipping on a pair of latex gloves.
Eleanor nodded and peered over his shoulder as Titus removed the Polaroid from the evidence bag and lined it up under the huge glass. He turned to Laurence. “You wanna see this?”
Laurence joined them at the bench. Titus manoeuvred the photograph around, allowing the light and magnification to reveal truths.
“Hmmm, can you give me anything more?”
“Not yet. The body was located under bags of domestic refuge. It was then propped on a box and left outside for a couple of months.” she replied quietly.
“It was rigid?” Titus asked. “Plastination and mummification leave a body rigid. Formaldehyde and glycerine is what we use to keep our guests soft; like Mrs Andrews here. Go on touch her hand.” He nodded to them both. Eleanor wrapped her hand around the corpse’s, which offered some resistance but wasn’t entirely solid. “Relatives like to touch their loved ones and they don’t want reminding they’re dead. Formaldehyde keeps ’em pliable. They used to use formalin, and in older times arsenic to preserve the bodies, when they had to transport them back from battlefields. Nowadays, we got dozens of products to use. Each company has its own formula.” He opened a cupboard and showed them neat lines of plastic bottles bearing a company logo and a standard ‘biohazard’ label. “We use this brand for the embalming fluids but several other companies for make-up and sanitising equipment.”
“There was a mould,” she stated.
“Maybe the products used weren’t in high enough concentration. Formaldehyde works on most fungi, bacteria and viruses but it ain’t fool-proof. We use mixtures that contain centrimide, which is an ammonium bromide powder and can help, but you need to realise that the human body wants to decompose and you are fighting the organisms that achieve that. You said this body was left outside?”
Eleanor nodded.
“Embalming, if that’s what this is, is difficult. What I’m doing for Mrs Andrews is slowing down the natural processes, so she can be viewed by her family. I ain’t preserving her for time eternal. Look at this…” He reached for a textbook off a shelf and flicked through the pages. “This is little Rosalia Lombardo.” The reproduced photograph showed a sepia image of a little girl lying, as if asleep, in a tiny coffin with a glass partition. Blonde curls framed her perfect features and a large silk ribbon sat pertly on her crown. “Rosalia died in 1918 of pneumonia and she was preserved by the master Alfredo Salafia, using a combination of formalin, glycerine, zinc salts and salicylic acid. She is perfect but she isn’t exposed to any dampness.” He raised his eyebrows meaningfully. I don’t know what you’ve got there but it must have been professionally done to have been exposed to the elements for a couple of months and remained in that condition.”
Eleanor thought for a couple of moments and then nodded. “Thank you Titus, you’ve been a great help.”
Titus carefully replaced the photograph in the evidence bag and handed it back to her. “I’m here if you need further thinking.”
“I appreciate that. Thank you.”
“So how the fuck did I put my foot in it this time?” asked Laurence tetchily, as they headed for their cars.
“Matthew Benton will never practice law because he’s serving two consecutive life sentences for first degree murder… and I put him there.”
Laurence stared for a moment, trying to process this information. “How come you’re best buddies with his father then?”
“I didn’t judge Matthew; I caught him.” she replied simply.
Chapter Two
“What strange and exotic mayhem have you brought with you now Detective?” asked Dr Mira Hounslow, as she stared at the blackened remains precariously balanced on an autopsy table. Dr Hounslow was the very antithesis of the chaos she examined. Her hair was always immaculately arranged and her make-up flawless; her manner crisp and decisive.
“Susan has filled me in on the circumstantial details,” she said, positioning several x-rays into the illuminated viewer.
“We have a Polaroid of the body prior to its being burnt,” rep
lied Eleanor, holding the evidence bag in front of her. Protocol in the autopsy suite demanded that movement and conversation were at Dr Hounslow’s discretion only.
“Strange and exotic indeed,” she said, beckoning Eleanor and Laurence over to the viewer. “This photograph,” she reached for it. “It depicts our gentleman as alive?”
“Gentleman?” asked Eleanor.
Dr Hounslow pointed to the second slide. “That,” she said, pointing to the pelvis with a gloved finger. “Is an adult male pelvis. The iliac crest is considerably higher and narrower than a woman’s and I’m looking at a sub-pubic angle. There is no doubt in my mind but if there’s some in yours Detective, then I suggest you run the measurements through the national database.” she said, pointedly.
Eleanor smiled and shook her head. “The body was found in this condition under piles of domestic waste at the Westex landfill site.” She handed over the Polaroid. “It gave the impression of being a shop mannequin to one of the workers, who photographed it and placed it near to his workplace.”
“It must have been fairly hard to the touch to be so convincing. Still, an understandable mistake for anyone to make,” replied Dr Hounslow studying the image.
Laurence cleared his throat, a gesture encouraged by Dr Hounslow as a way of seeking, rather than demanding, her attention.
“Yes?”
“What is that?” he pointed to the third x-ray.
“Ah, that’s quite a thing isn’t it?” she answered, moving closer to the viewer.
“Surely it couldn’t have been surgically inserted before death?” he asked.
Eleanor moved over and stared at the opaque cylindrical object wedged into the pelvis.
“Not without causing considerable damage. No, I believe it was a post-mortem addition.”
“What is it?” asked Eleanor confused.
“I imagine it was placed there to facilitate access to the poor gentleman,” she said brusquely.
“As in sexual access?” said Eleanor moving closer to the viewer. “Will you be able to tell when you open him up?”
“Depends on what’s left down there. I don’t imagine there will be anything resembling biological evidence, but we’ll see. Right, let’s to it.”
