I don’t want to.”
“But you will,” Leanne promised, holding his gaze. “You most definitely will.”
Chapter Eight
The first murder in St. Andrews in over a decade was being given high priority by Fife Constabulary and the local press. Thankfully there were no royalty in the town to turn a dog and pony show into a three-ringed circus. It was Sunday, but the pathologist and his assistant were both in the sterile tiled basement that housed the mortuary.
It wasn’t like in the States where each corpse had a drawer to themselves. In Scotland bodies were stacked a dozen to a fridge.
Nick stared at the pale cadaver on the steel-top table. The stench of formaldehyde and bleach never quite disguised the odor of human decomposition. But it wasn’t the smell he detested, though that punched you in the gut at the door and clung to your clothes and skin until you scrubbed it off. It wasn’t the body parts displayed like offal in a butcher’s shop. It wasn’t the coarse, ugly incision, stark against smooth alabaster skin.
What Nick hated most was the knowledge that one day the body being dissected on the slab might be his. His heart gave an extra hard squeeze in protest.
Dying didn’t bother him, but having some saw-wielding mortuary technician peel off his face sent a quiver of fear into his bowels. And he hated being scared. It reminded him of that terrified little kid who’d held a knife to his mother’s throat all those years ago.
“There’s sign of sexual activity, but difficult to say if it was forced.” Cutter glanced up from washing his hands in the old Belfast sink.
“Any semen or trace?” Nick asked.
Intelligent black eyes gleamed as Cutter nodded, drying his hands on paper towels. “I sent it to Forensics, priority.” His beak of a nose jutted out from a face that was almost hairless. “Cause of death is blunt force trauma to the back of the head.”
No shit, Sherlock.
Runrig belted out “Loch Lomond” on a radio perched high on a bench behind him. With help from the mortuary assistant, a girl with hair as straight as a plumb line, Cutter rolled Tracy Good onto her side and pointed to two gashes on the girl’s skull.
Nick raised his eyes to the pathologist. “Hammer?”
Cutter nodded. “Possibly.” His bony shoulders stabbed through his lab coat in a shrug. “Probably. I’ve included scale photos of the lacerations with the report.”
Where was the murder weapon? Where were Tracy Good’s belongings? Was this a simple case of robbery gone wrong, or something more sinister?
His boss, Superintendent Pamela Richardson, had promised him every resource as long as he nailed the killer. He and the supe had gone through Police College together, but while he’d been mired in the filth of London’s organized crime, she’d been fast-tracking up the ranks at record speed. Didn’t mean she was a bad copper, but she was one hell of a politician. She generally left him alone to get on with the job, but that would change if he didn’t get a result. It might change if she knew who his chief suspect was.
“Her palms and knees were abraded and her clothes were covered in grass stains.” Cutter laid Tracy Good back onto the table.
“From the blood splatter I’d say she was probably hit first from behind as she walked along the footpath.” He demonstrated on his assistant who fell as directed. “She dropped to her hands and knees and rolled down the embankment and fell onto the beach. The killer followed, stood over her from the front and hit her again.” Cutter stood before his assistant and raised his hand. “The second wound is the mirror image of the first and the second blow killed her.”
The assistant stayed on the floor for a moment looking like a dead body extra on CSI . Then she got up and brushed off her white coat.
“It took time for her to die. At least ten minutes.”
Nick closed his eyes. Was she dying when I walked past?
“Time of death?” His voice was croaky, but
“But you will,” Leanne promised, holding his gaze. “You most definitely will.”
Chapter Eight
The first murder in St. Andrews in over a decade was being given high priority by Fife Constabulary and the local press. Thankfully there were no royalty in the town to turn a dog and pony show into a three-ringed circus. It was Sunday, but the pathologist and his assistant were both in the sterile tiled basement that housed the mortuary.
It wasn’t like in the States where each corpse had a drawer to themselves. In Scotland bodies were stacked a dozen to a fridge.
Nick stared at the pale cadaver on the steel-top table. The stench of formaldehyde and bleach never quite disguised the odor of human decomposition. But it wasn’t the smell he detested, though that punched you in the gut at the door and clung to your clothes and skin until you scrubbed it off. It wasn’t the body parts displayed like offal in a butcher’s shop. It wasn’t the coarse, ugly incision, stark against smooth alabaster skin.
What Nick hated most was the knowledge that one day the body being dissected on the slab might be his. His heart gave an extra hard squeeze in protest.
Dying didn’t bother him, but having some saw-wielding mortuary technician peel off his face sent a quiver of fear into his bowels. And he hated being scared. It reminded him of that terrified little kid who’d held a knife to his mother’s throat all those years ago.
“There’s sign of sexual activity, but difficult to say if it was forced.” Cutter glanced up from washing his hands in the old Belfast sink.
“Any semen or trace?” Nick asked.
Intelligent black eyes gleamed as Cutter nodded, drying his hands on paper towels. “I sent it to Forensics, priority.” His beak of a nose jutted out from a face that was almost hairless. “Cause of death is blunt force trauma to the back of the head.”
No shit, Sherlock.
Runrig belted out “Loch Lomond” on a radio perched high on a bench behind him. With help from the mortuary assistant, a girl with hair as straight as a plumb line, Cutter rolled Tracy Good onto her side and pointed to two gashes on the girl’s skull.
Nick raised his eyes to the pathologist. “Hammer?”
Cutter nodded. “Possibly.” His bony shoulders stabbed through his lab coat in a shrug. “Probably. I’ve included scale photos of the lacerations with the report.”
Where was the murder weapon? Where were Tracy Good’s belongings? Was this a simple case of robbery gone wrong, or something more sinister?
His boss, Superintendent Pamela Richardson, had promised him every resource as long as he nailed the killer. He and the supe had gone through Police College together, but while he’d been mired in the filth of London’s organized crime, she’d been fast-tracking up the ranks at record speed. Didn’t mean she was a bad copper, but she was one hell of a politician. She generally left him alone to get on with the job, but that would change if he didn’t get a result. It might change if she knew who his chief suspect was.
“Her palms and knees were abraded and her clothes were covered in grass stains.” Cutter laid Tracy Good back onto the table.
“From the blood splatter I’d say she was probably hit first from behind as she walked along the footpath.” He demonstrated on his assistant who fell as directed. “She dropped to her hands and knees and rolled down the embankment and fell onto the beach. The killer followed, stood over her from the front and hit her again.” Cutter stood before his assistant and raised his hand. “The second wound is the mirror image of the first and the second blow killed her.”
The assistant stayed on the floor for a moment looking like a dead body extra on CSI . Then she got up and brushed off her white coat.
“It took time for her to die. At least ten minutes.”
Nick closed his eyes. Was she dying when I walked past?
“Time of death?” His voice was croaky, but
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