door in Latin – Hic locus est ubi mors gaudet succurrere vitae . This is the place where death rejoices to help those who live.
She took a breath as she went in, the swinging door wafting the odour of cleaning fluids and stomach gases. She reached into her pocket for the small tub of Vicks she carried in her bag for moments like this, a quick smear under the nose taking away the worst. She could never get used to the smell of a freshly-opened stomach, like stale food mixed with vomit and gas.
Joe Kinsella was different. He was quiet, but there was an intellectual detachment about him, like he was there to spot something, not just get through the ordeal.
Laura could deal with post-mortems, but only just, because they were different to finding a body or being puked on by a drunk at the custody desk, where you deal with the moment, adrenaline driving the action. Post-mortems were cold and calculated, the exposure to death by appointment, and so there was too much time to think about it. She wasn’t one of those who could eat their sandwiches over the body, and it was the jokers that always made her wary. That was usually a front, their own way to deal with the difficulty of the situation.
Carson wasn’t like that. He was uncomfortable, worried about keeling over or feeling faint but was too macho to admit it, although he seemed determined to get the job done and get out.
When they walked in, Jane Roberts was already on the table, which was nothing more than a sloping tray with raised edges, built so that the blood could be sluiced into the drains without dripping onto the floor. Jane was uncovered, although there were plastic evidence bags over her hands, and she bore little resemblance to the attractive young woman who had gone missing. Her stomach was distended, with her skin showing a green tint and her face swollen, the sharp cheekbones and pouting mouth Laura had seen in photographs now gone forever.
The pathologist, Doctor Pratt, was walking round the body, trying to form a snapshot view before he started slicing. He was in a green scrub suit and what looked liked a Perspex welding helmet, although the visor was still up and over his head. He played the fool and the flirt, wide around the stomach, with grey hair sticking up wildly on top of his head, but he was the best there was, and that was all that mattered.
He gave Laura a smile as he looked towards them. ‘Ah, the cavalry. And McGanity. So good to see you. I heard they had you shoved into a uniform for a while.’
Laura smiled her greeting and went directly to the head-end of the mortuary table. It was nearer to the action, but could be a grim spot to be at when the Stryker saw shrieks into the skull and the scalp gets peeled forward like a swimming cap. The only saving grace was that the cooling fans were always at the top of the table, so that the smells were blown down the body, not up. It was always the ones at the feet who fainted. And Laura knew that this was going to be a bad one because the body had been lying outdoors for a few days, with plenty of time for the gases to start bubbling inside.
‘So you want to know what I think so far?’ Doctor Pratt asked, as he pulled his pen from the pocket of his green smock. ‘Step closer,’ and when Carson was by his shoulder, he said, ‘Look here,’ and used the pen to point to Jane’s wrists, just visible above the plastic evidence bags. Laura joined them, and saw brown marks on the edges of the forearms, the signs of abrasions. She knew what that meant: ligatures.
‘Tied up, just like last time,’ she said.
‘Not tied,’ the doctor said.
Carson frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Cloth or leather ligatures would give a more even ring around the wrists,’ Doctor Pratt said. ‘These marks seem more abrasive, as if it was something rigid against her wrist bones.’ He pointed to the right wrist. ‘What do those grazes remind you of?’
Laura looked closer. The scrapes on the wrist bone
She took a breath as she went in, the swinging door wafting the odour of cleaning fluids and stomach gases. She reached into her pocket for the small tub of Vicks she carried in her bag for moments like this, a quick smear under the nose taking away the worst. She could never get used to the smell of a freshly-opened stomach, like stale food mixed with vomit and gas.
Joe Kinsella was different. He was quiet, but there was an intellectual detachment about him, like he was there to spot something, not just get through the ordeal.
Laura could deal with post-mortems, but only just, because they were different to finding a body or being puked on by a drunk at the custody desk, where you deal with the moment, adrenaline driving the action. Post-mortems were cold and calculated, the exposure to death by appointment, and so there was too much time to think about it. She wasn’t one of those who could eat their sandwiches over the body, and it was the jokers that always made her wary. That was usually a front, their own way to deal with the difficulty of the situation.
Carson wasn’t like that. He was uncomfortable, worried about keeling over or feeling faint but was too macho to admit it, although he seemed determined to get the job done and get out.
When they walked in, Jane Roberts was already on the table, which was nothing more than a sloping tray with raised edges, built so that the blood could be sluiced into the drains without dripping onto the floor. Jane was uncovered, although there were plastic evidence bags over her hands, and she bore little resemblance to the attractive young woman who had gone missing. Her stomach was distended, with her skin showing a green tint and her face swollen, the sharp cheekbones and pouting mouth Laura had seen in photographs now gone forever.
The pathologist, Doctor Pratt, was walking round the body, trying to form a snapshot view before he started slicing. He was in a green scrub suit and what looked liked a Perspex welding helmet, although the visor was still up and over his head. He played the fool and the flirt, wide around the stomach, with grey hair sticking up wildly on top of his head, but he was the best there was, and that was all that mattered.
He gave Laura a smile as he looked towards them. ‘Ah, the cavalry. And McGanity. So good to see you. I heard they had you shoved into a uniform for a while.’
Laura smiled her greeting and went directly to the head-end of the mortuary table. It was nearer to the action, but could be a grim spot to be at when the Stryker saw shrieks into the skull and the scalp gets peeled forward like a swimming cap. The only saving grace was that the cooling fans were always at the top of the table, so that the smells were blown down the body, not up. It was always the ones at the feet who fainted. And Laura knew that this was going to be a bad one because the body had been lying outdoors for a few days, with plenty of time for the gases to start bubbling inside.
‘So you want to know what I think so far?’ Doctor Pratt asked, as he pulled his pen from the pocket of his green smock. ‘Step closer,’ and when Carson was by his shoulder, he said, ‘Look here,’ and used the pen to point to Jane’s wrists, just visible above the plastic evidence bags. Laura joined them, and saw brown marks on the edges of the forearms, the signs of abrasions. She knew what that meant: ligatures.
‘Tied up, just like last time,’ she said.
‘Not tied,’ the doctor said.
Carson frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Cloth or leather ligatures would give a more even ring around the wrists,’ Doctor Pratt said. ‘These marks seem more abrasive, as if it was something rigid against her wrist bones.’ He pointed to the right wrist. ‘What do those grazes remind you of?’
Laura looked closer. The scrapes on the wrist bone
Similar Books
