Under Parr

by Andrea Bramhall

  Collier scowled at his computer as he pecked away at the keys.

  Kate was not entirely convinced that his use fell into that category.

  She studied him as he worked. He had dark hair slicked back with a razor-sharp side parting and a pronounced widow’s peak. His face was clean shaven, his strong jaw, wide mouth, and straight nose were topped off with piercing blue eyes. He was a good looking guy. Very good looking. And he knew it. Always well-turned-out in a sharp suit, polished shoes, and well-groomed, he looked more like a model than a police detective, but Kate had seen him use that to his advantage. Witnesses and perps had been known to fall for his obvious charms—well, the ladies, anyway. But there was something about him she didn’t like. Perhaps he was just a little bit too…perfect.

  She shook her head and jolted herself out of her reverie. “Anything on that name, Jimmy?”

  “Yes. Annie Balding was pronounced dead on the morning of the sixth of December 2013. Doctor declared her after being called in by nursing home staff. They found her dead in her bed in the morning.”

  “Cause of death?”

  “It says natural causes.” His eyes flicked back to the screen. “I’ve got her medical records here. She was diagnosed with lung cancer over a year before. She also had Parkinson’s disease, so they weren’t treating the cancer. The last time the doctor visited he’d prescribed oral morphine to keep her comfortable, and written that it was just a matter of time. No autopsy was performed, and her death wasn’t a surprise.”

  Kate sighed. “Poor thing. How old was she?”

  “Sixty-eight.”

  “No age,” she said quietly to herself. “Missing persons?” she asked Stella.

  “I’ve discounted women and anyone under the age of fifty—”

  “Why fifty?” Collier asked.

  “The dentures. Probability of the victim wearing dentures and being under fifty are slim.”

  “But not impossible.”

  “No, not impossible, but highly unlikely,” Stella said in a tone that was clearly warning him to back off.

  He seemed to get the hint and remained quiet.

  “Anyway, I’ve still got quite a few. Too many, really. As soon as you get some more info from the doc, we’ll be able to see if any of these are our victim.”

  “I’ll take that as my cue to scarper, then. Jimmy, you coming?” Kate asked.

  “Yup.” Jimmy stood up and grabbed his coat in one fluid motion. “Lead the way, boss.”

  “Oh, so now you’re being nice to me. No. You cannot drive my new car.”

  Jimmy shook his head. “Like I’d have the guts to even ask.”

  Kate smiled. “I’m so glad we understand each other, Jimmy.”

  * * *

  The artificial smell of formaldehyde and decay hit Kate as she pushed open the door to the morgue. She hated the place. The cold atmosphere had little to do with the air conditioning, and everything to do with the emptiness that lingered inside. Despite the few living people who littered the tables and benches with the mementos of life, it was death that permeated the air. Death that whispered in the ear of the over-imaginative, and death that lingered in the shadows.

  Dr Ruth Anderson stood at the head of the steel table in her medical gown and gloves. The skeleton was laid out anatomically already, and she was holding one of the long leg bones.

  “Glad you could make it,” Ruth said with a small smile.

  Her dark hair was held back with a rubber band and there was a pencil stuck into the bunch. She had on a pair of safety glasses that Kate wasn’t sure were strictly necessary, but Ruth was always one to follow procedure in her lab. Not a bad thing. It made her witness testimony harder to dismiss, and her work was impeccable. Kate was glad to be working with her again—they’d become friends of sorts over the past couple of months.

  “Oh, you know me, doc. I wouldn’t miss something like this,” Kate joked back. She motioned her hand up the length of the table. “He looks like a tall chap.”

  Ruth held out the thigh bone. “Skeletons always look bigger when they’re spread out. The length of the femur indicates he was of average height for a man. 5’9”.”

  “And he’s definitely a man?”

  “Definitely.”

  “Is there any way, given what you’ve got here, that you could determine if he was transgender or a cross-dresser or something like that?”

  Ruth frowned then smiled. “You mean because of the teeth and the flowery dressing gown?”

  “It was a dressing gown?”

  “Looks like it from the scraps I was able to get together. But no, from what I have of the remains, there would be no way to tell you that. If he was transgender, pre- or post-op, I’d need flesh to ascertain that information. As to lifestyle choices, I can’t give you any details on those. He may have been, or he may have grabbed something as quickly as he could for some reason. More for you to figure out, I’m afraid.”

  “Just one more thing, right? What about his age? Can you give me something on that then?”

  “Very difficult with a mature skeleton. It’s actually much easier to get a close approximate age in young people.”

  “Why?”

  “The developmental patterns of maturation are very specific. The older we get, though, the fewer clues we have to use as determining markers.” She waved the long bone again. “For example, in the femur of a person under the age of twenty-five the growth plates would still be open, so I could use the measurements to determine the age of the skeleton at death. But over twenty-five, the growth plates are closed and of no help in determining age.”

  “Well, if you’re going to tell me the best you can do is over twenty-five, then I don’t think we’re ever likely to figure out who our victim is.”

  “Ye of little faith, Kate.” Ruth smiled as she put the leg bone back in its place. “I’m much better than that.” She winked at Kate, and Jimmy chortled. “In the absence of clues in the skull or the long bones, I have to look at the pelvic symphysis, the ribs, and the bone density to get you a clearer age bracket to work with.”

  Kate frowned.

  “The pelvis symphysis is that thin band of cartilage just there.” She pointed to the juncture of the pelvis and the spine. “That straightens over time and becomes perfectly straight by the time a person reaches the age of fifty.” She looked at Kate. “What do you see?”

  “It looks pretty straight to me.”

  “Exactly. So next I look at the ribs. The sternal area, where the ribs meet the breastbone, has predictable changes over time too. The ends of those bones start off all smooth and rounded, and then become pitted and sharp over time. Can you see how pointed those rib ends look?” She lifted one from the table and showed them both the point on the end of the curved bone. “This puts our victim closer to the age of seventy, but evidence shows that the older the rib the greater the room for error, so I’d have to say between sixty and eighty, looking at the ribs.”

  Jimmy whistled. “Still a pretty big gap, doc.”

  “That’s why I’m waiting for the results of the bone density analysis to come back. I’ll be able to get you a five- to ten-year range then.” She put the rib bone back.

  “Okay, thanks. How long will the results take?” Kate asked.

  Ruth shrugged. “Before the end of the day, but not by much.”

  “Got it. What about the skull and the facial reconstruction?”

  “I’ve had the skull through the scanner and sent the data file to Grimshaw. He said he’d have the results for you in a couple of hours.”

  “Thanks, that’s great.” She looked down at the remains. “Any clues as to how he died yet?”

  “Actually, yes.” Ruth picked up the skull and turned it to show them the back. “See that?” She pointed to a series of cracks along the clean bone.

  “Looks like a fractured skull,” Kate said.

  “Yes. A stellate fracture of the cranium, to be exact.” She turned the skull upside down and pointed ins
ide. “See that inside?”

  “Looks like a dirty mark.”

  “Intracranial bleeding has stained the inside of the cranium.”

  Kate had heard that phrase before. “So a massive cranial bleed inside the skull.”

  “Very good, Detective. You’ve been doing your homework.”

  “Nah. I’ve been watching that TV show that you hate again,” Kate said referring to the popular American series about a forensic anthropologist and her crack team of nerds helping the FBI solve case after case.

  Ruth scowled. “I’m not sure we can be friends any more.”

  Kate laughed out loud. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. So you keep saying.”

  “Does that mean he was killed by a blow to the head?” Jimmy asked.

  “An injury to the head like this, if left untreated, would have undoubtedly killed him. But not immediately.”

  “An injury?” Kate asked. “Not a blow to the head?”

  Ruth frowned. “It’s not impossible that it was from a blow, but it would have to be with something quite flat and heavy.”

  “Like the bottom of a frying pan?” Jimmy asked.

  Ruth smiled. “More like a breeze block. Whilst a frying pan is not impossible, the shape of this fracture is more consistent with hitting your head on the floor after falling downstairs or something like that.”

  “A fall?”

  “That’s one possibility.”

  “And the others are?” Kate asked.

  “You’re the detective, not me.”

  “I know, but I’m asking for your medical opinion on what could have possibly caused this kind of injury.”

  Ruth sighed. “Fine, but I will not swear to any of this.”

  “Understood.” Kate nodded solemnly.

  “A fall downstairs is highly likely, but the other possibility is banging it into a wall. With significant force.”

  “So not just stumbling and banging it against the wall?”

  “No. I mean more like someone slamming the victim against the wall. But as I said, the fall downstairs is more likely.”

  “Yes, you did say that, doc. Why?”

  “Do you see how these lines don’t cross over those ones?” Ruth traced her nitrile-covered finger across the faint lines on the skull.

  “Yes. What am I looking at?”

  “They’re from a secondary fracture. The first one caused the stellate fracture and the cracks that radiate out from it, but the secondary fracture lines can’t cross what is already broken matter.”

  “So you’re saying if it was from someone slamming him against a wall, it had to have been done more than once.”

  “Correct. Hence why the stair falling is more likely. The victim could have easily hit his head multiple times on the way down the stairs.”

  “I understand what you’re saying, but in my experience, one shove against a wall very often leads to another.”

  “You said it wouldn’t kill him right away,” Jimmy said. “How long would he have lasted?”

  “Good question, Detective Constable Powers, and I’m afraid that’s difficult to tell. I’d say more than an hour, but less than four from the time of the injury.”

  “Are any of the other bones broken?” Kate asked.

  “No, none. There are signs of arthritis and historic skeletal damage. Some old cracked ribs, a broken arm, and it looks like a fractured collarbone at some point too, but nothing else at time of death.”

  “That sounds to me like a tick in the box against a fall down the stairs.” Kate ran her fingers through her hair. “Wouldn’t you expect there to be other bone fractures and breaks if he’d done that much damage to his head?”

  “Not necessarily. If he was falling, leading with the head, then it’s possible that the rest of his body may have suffered only bruises and scratches. Given his age, a fall is much more likely than a fight, Detectives.”

  “Fair point, doc, but are both possible explanations for his injuries?”

  “Yes, definitely.”

  “Okay, good. So cause of death is the head injury, cause unknown at this time.”

  Ruth shook her head. “I can’t say that.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I said this kind of injury would have killed him, but without the flesh I couldn’t rule out that something else killed him before this had the time to.”

  “I don’t follow, doc,” Jimmy said.

  “Given where he was found, and what we know happened on that night, I couldn’t rule out that he drowned or died of hypothermia. So while the head injury would have killed him, I can’t say that it was the cause of his death at this point.”

  “That sounds like an exercise in semantics to me, doc.” Jimmy crossed his arms over his chest and frowned.

  “I don’t mean to be pedantic, Detective, and I’m not trying to make your job more difficult. But I wouldn’t be doing mine if I were to let you chase down something for which I have no definitive supporting evidence.”

  “But you said the head injury could have killed him.”

  Ruth nodded again. “Yes, but think about this scenario for a moment. Our victim here falls down the stairs and causes himself a serious injury. One that would not have left him thinking clearly. Perhaps he was at home alone when the accident occurred, and he went outside to look for help. In the bad weather and his growing confusion, somehow he ends up wandering to the beach and into the bunker where he gets sealed in and dies of hypothermia or drowns when the bunker filled up with water.”

  “There was no water in the bunker,” Kate interjected.

  “No, it seeped away over time, through the cracks in the brick, the sand, and the concrete. But it was filled with water shortly after our victim went in there.”

  “How do you know?”

  “The silt that was covering the floor and the body had microorganisms in it that came from the ocean.”

  “This bunker was on the beach, couldn’t that account for the microorganisms?”

  “No, these little buggers are only found in the water. Not just from being close to it. Also, it was the water in there that stopped the sand from filling the rest of the bunker and not just the entrance tunnel. If the water hadn’t acted as a counter then the sand would have just filled the entire space.”

  “I’d been wondering about that,” Kate said. “Why we weren’t digging the remains out of sand, rather than them just sitting in there.” She looked at Ruth again. “So you’re thinking accidental death?”

  Ruth shook her head. “No. It’ll be an open verdict. There isn’t enough evidence to support accidental or suspicious death in this case.”

  Kate stared down at the yellowed bones. What a piteous end. She couldn’t imagine anything worse. To die alone, anonymously. To remain that way. She shuddered.

  “You okay?” Jimmy asked.

  “Yeah, just feel sorry for the poor old bugger.” She looked over at the doctor again. “Anything else you can add to help us find out who he is and let his family know what happened to him?”

  Ruth shook her head. “I’m afraid not. I sent all the scraps of cloth and the dentures over to your crime scene guys. Len Wild is taking a look at them.”

  “Right.” She turned to Jimmy. “Let’s go see what Len’s got to tell us then. Thanks, doc,” she said and led Jimmy out of the door.

  Male. 5’9”. Bashed-in head. Not much for a gravestone.

  CHAPTER 6

  The crime “lab” was housed in the basement at King’s Lynn Police Station. It had a total of three windows. All three were too high for anyone to reach, and looked out on to the ankles of the good people of King’s Lynn.

  Kate had walked past those windows so many times and paid the four-inch square blocks of thick glass no attention whatsoever. Today there was a tiny shaft of light filtering through them as the sun went about its business of setting in the middle of the December afternoon.

  Jimmy tapped her shoulder and pointed back at the door behind them. “Is that for real?”


  Kate chuckled. Someone had crossed out the carefully-stencilled “SOCO” that decorated the door for as long as the crime lab had been down in the dungeon, and taken a Sharpie to the glass. The newly-christened CSIs were hard at work, ignoring their curiosity at the new appellation.

  “Some creative nit has decided that we’re dinosaurs and in need of a little ‘Hollywood’ flair,” Len Wild said, curling his fingers in quotation marks.

  “I don’t know, Len. I can see you on a red carpet.”

  “Yeah, collecting particulates maybe.” He grinned at her. “How’re you doing, hoppy?” he asked, referring to the leg injury she’d sustained jumping from the smouldering wreckage of a houseboat in the last case they had worked together.

  “Better than you will be if you carry on like that,” she said with a grin as she reached over and gave him a quick hug. “I never did get to properly thank you for taking care of me that day.” Len had driven her from the hospital to pick up her written-off car before spending a few hours with her going over case details, and finally driving her home.

  At six-foot-four he was a good head taller than Kate. His greying hair gave him the distinguished look she knew many women would attribute to a silver fox. She smiled to herself as she suspected how Len would react to such a descriptor.

  “No need to thank me. What’s that Mona Lisa smile for?”

  “Can’t a girl just be pleased to see you?”

  “Some girls, maybe. You? Not so much.” He winked and leaned in a little closer. “How is the lovely Gina these days?”

  Kate felt her cheeks warm, pushed her hair over her shoulder, and wondered exactly how to answer the question. Things had been going well with Gina. Romantic dates, lots of talking, lots of hand-holding, some kissing, but nothing more. She could hardly blame Gina for taking it slowly. After all, it had been Kate who’d said that she wanted more than just a long weekend after Gina had told her that was all her previous relationships had ever been. But Kate thought that in the six weeks since they’d met, there should have been a little more forward traction than they’d had. She was beginning to wonder if Gina was as interested as she’d said she was, or if it was more a case of Gina knowing very few lesbians and Kate being “handy”.