dream-chase, his paws twitching, his good eye glittering beneath the half-closed lid. I lay back, careful not to wake him.
I really hoped he caught that blonde bitch of a cat.
CHAPTER 9
I spent the morning doing domestics and clearing emails, quite a few of which were a complex cross-referencing, cc-ing and no doubt bcc-ing, clutter of communications from various levels of police hierarchy, arranging my re-admittance into HQ. They promised me desk space on the third floor with a computer giving me access to missing persons’ files going back to the 1980s. If I needed earlier information I’d have to go down into the dungeons and hunt through the archived files not yet entered in the database. All of this I knew, of course; I’d been doing it for years. This was McFay’s way of reminding me I was back on trial only, and that if I strayed outside the parameters of this particular case and tried to go hunting for information about Snow’s killing, he’d know about it. McFay’s name featured in shouting capitals in all the emails.
McFay hadn’t mentioned clearing me for access to Central. I guessed that would happen if I passed this first little test. At least at HQ I wouldn’t be banging into Sean or his pregnant girlfriend every five minutes. HQ wasn’t even within spitting distanceof Central, though depending on my frame of mind I might be tempted to give it a go.
Smithy was performing the autopsy on my John Doe at ten and, given the state of the body, I didn’t think it would take him more than an hour. My plan was to call in to the hospital around midday and see what I could get out of him. The written report to the coroner could take weeks and I wanted a couple of preliminary answers before that.
In the meantime, while Wolf settled himself on the sofa, I sipped coffee and started a file on the Joe Doe. I didn’t get far before my first question mark. John Doe? I don’t know much about the human body. I vaguely know where my pancreas and liver are, but if I was served them both on a plate — an unlikely scenario, I admit — I probably wouldn’t be able to tell them apart.
But I know two differences between male and female skeletons. The male pelvis is pretty much straight and parallel; females’ flared hips create a chalice-shaped cavity, and in mature adult skeletons, this difference is obvious. Less obvious, the elbows on females twist outward to accommodate this purpose-built design difference, whereas men’s elbows have no twist. Esoteric stuff but useful for the work I do. I’d get confirmation from Smithy later in the morning, but from my eyeball of the skeleton, I’d go with my amateur-pathologist assumption this was a John and not a Jane Doe.
I slid the John Doe photos from the envelope Lou had given me, and held them under my desk lamp. The photocopies weren’t as lurid as the originals but they were sharp and had been enlarged for detail. The body in situ looked more tragic than it had propped in the wheelbarrow. The right arm was thrown up and over where the head should be, as if warding off a blow; the body was on its side and curled into itself. It looked like it had been placed in the recovery position, which, I realised, was almost identical to thefoetal position. It’s also the way we lie when we’re in pain.
I spent the next twenty minutes writing up the very few details I already knew and the little I could glean from studying the photos. The written statement from the ranger who had found the body was one double-spaced page of typed text. It told little more than I already knew: he’d been laying possum traps in a densely bushed area in the Orongorongas when he came across the body. The traps were set every 250 metres or so near a newly formed stream, watercourses being the best trap-laying points since possums come there to drink.
The next two paragraphs waxed lyrical on the pros and cons of bait versus gin traps, with the ranger, a Scott Wilborough — I checked the
I really hoped he caught that blonde bitch of a cat.
CHAPTER 9
I spent the morning doing domestics and clearing emails, quite a few of which were a complex cross-referencing, cc-ing and no doubt bcc-ing, clutter of communications from various levels of police hierarchy, arranging my re-admittance into HQ. They promised me desk space on the third floor with a computer giving me access to missing persons’ files going back to the 1980s. If I needed earlier information I’d have to go down into the dungeons and hunt through the archived files not yet entered in the database. All of this I knew, of course; I’d been doing it for years. This was McFay’s way of reminding me I was back on trial only, and that if I strayed outside the parameters of this particular case and tried to go hunting for information about Snow’s killing, he’d know about it. McFay’s name featured in shouting capitals in all the emails.
McFay hadn’t mentioned clearing me for access to Central. I guessed that would happen if I passed this first little test. At least at HQ I wouldn’t be banging into Sean or his pregnant girlfriend every five minutes. HQ wasn’t even within spitting distanceof Central, though depending on my frame of mind I might be tempted to give it a go.
Smithy was performing the autopsy on my John Doe at ten and, given the state of the body, I didn’t think it would take him more than an hour. My plan was to call in to the hospital around midday and see what I could get out of him. The written report to the coroner could take weeks and I wanted a couple of preliminary answers before that.
In the meantime, while Wolf settled himself on the sofa, I sipped coffee and started a file on the Joe Doe. I didn’t get far before my first question mark. John Doe? I don’t know much about the human body. I vaguely know where my pancreas and liver are, but if I was served them both on a plate — an unlikely scenario, I admit — I probably wouldn’t be able to tell them apart.
But I know two differences between male and female skeletons. The male pelvis is pretty much straight and parallel; females’ flared hips create a chalice-shaped cavity, and in mature adult skeletons, this difference is obvious. Less obvious, the elbows on females twist outward to accommodate this purpose-built design difference, whereas men’s elbows have no twist. Esoteric stuff but useful for the work I do. I’d get confirmation from Smithy later in the morning, but from my eyeball of the skeleton, I’d go with my amateur-pathologist assumption this was a John and not a Jane Doe.
I slid the John Doe photos from the envelope Lou had given me, and held them under my desk lamp. The photocopies weren’t as lurid as the originals but they were sharp and had been enlarged for detail. The body in situ looked more tragic than it had propped in the wheelbarrow. The right arm was thrown up and over where the head should be, as if warding off a blow; the body was on its side and curled into itself. It looked like it had been placed in the recovery position, which, I realised, was almost identical to thefoetal position. It’s also the way we lie when we’re in pain.
I spent the next twenty minutes writing up the very few details I already knew and the little I could glean from studying the photos. The written statement from the ranger who had found the body was one double-spaced page of typed text. It told little more than I already knew: he’d been laying possum traps in a densely bushed area in the Orongorongas when he came across the body. The traps were set every 250 metres or so near a newly formed stream, watercourses being the best trap-laying points since possums come there to drink.
The next two paragraphs waxed lyrical on the pros and cons of bait versus gin traps, with the ranger, a Scott Wilborough — I checked the
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