“Any description of the person he disturbed?” Hunter asked
“No, unfortunately not. Well gone before he got to the barn. The guy does say he heard a car or van driving off up the dirt track over there.” She pointed to a small copse of trees several hundred yards away.
Suddenly realising it was warmer than he anticipated, Hunter found himself tugging at the crisp collar of his blue shirt. Before he had shot away from the station he had slung on his jacket. Now he wished he hadn’t and he quickly undid the top button of his shirt and loosened his tie.
“Where does that track go to Grace?” He asked, pointing towards the line of bushes just beyond the old farm buildings.
“It leads up to a B road half a mile away. It brings you out near the village of Harlington. I’ve just got uniform to seal off that area as well.”
“Okay, good job Grace. Are Scenes of Crime here?”
“Just arrived. The Forensic Pathologist and the Senior Investigating Officer are also on route. Everything should be in place in the next hour.”
Hunter realised this was an ideal opportunity to slip off his jacket and make the most of the warm breeze drifting across the fields. Going to the rear of his CID car he sprang open the boot and dropped his coat into the back. Then pulling the sides of his shirt from his sticky and clammy skin he reached into one of the storage boxes within the boot and pulled out a white forensic suit and set of shoe covers. He handed these to Grace and then pulled out another set.
“Come on then, show me what we’ve got,” he said as he stepped into one leg of the protective suit.
Having satisfied themselves that all the relevant evidence sites were secured, DS Hunter Kerr and DC Grace Marshall made their way back to the murder scene, carefully following the police cordon tape past the ruined farmhouse building, and into a tumbledown barn. Streams of light burst through gaps between the old roof timbers where slates had become dislodged or broken, and yet despite the sunlight the interior was cool.
The body of the young girl lay unceremoniously on the dirty stone slab floor, a pool of thick congealed blood around the head and shoulders. The battered and swollen face was caked in the same reddish brown deposit. Where the eyes should have been only two dark sockets crusted in dried blood looked back. At first glance, from the facial injuries, if he hadn’t already been told it was a young girl, he would never have known. The arms were outstretched above the head and Hunter could see that the hands had already been forensically bagged. He also noticed that the girl’s T-shirt had been pulled, along with her padded pink lace bra, up towards the chin, exposing her small pale breasts. A huge gash exposed the breastbone and other less deep cuts covered her abdomen. Her jeans were undone but still around her hips.
In another white forensic suit, bending over the cadaver, he recognised Professor Lizzie McCormack. Slim and petite in her early sixties, with features not dissimilar to the actress Geraldine McEwan she had dutifully earned herself the nickname Miss Marple. She was one of the small number of British forensic experts who had been invited to work with American scientists at the Tennessee body farm studying detection experiments on decomposing murder victims, and had gained national recognition in the location of human remains and the linking of offenders to the scene.
He was pleased that she had been called out. Hunter had first seen her at work a year ago when the remains of a young mother had been found in a muddy ditch just outside town. Being one of only a few forensic botanists in the country she had been able to establish that the pollen found on the shoes of the girl’s partner also exactly matched the type found in the ditch. Not only had this evidence broken his story but also such was her presence in the witness box that the jury had no difficulty in reaching its guilty verdict. It had been a good result.
Her light-grey eyes wandered up from the dead girl and from behind a pair of thin gold-framed spectacles, fixed his. “Detective Sergeant Kerr, long time, no see,” she greeted him in her soft Scottish lilt.
The welcome salutation surprised him. “You’ve remembered me after all this time,” he responded.
“With a fine Scottish name like that, how could I forget you?”
“And there’s me thinking it was because of my good looks.”
She returned a smile, tut-tutted, and gave him a quick dismissive shake of her head. “By the way before I start my examination I think you need this.” The Professor handed him a clear plastic exhibit bag. Inside was a playing card, its reverse side facing him.
He turned it over. The seven of hearts. He returned a quizzical frown.
“My sentiments exactly,” the pathologist responded. “That card was partially covering the gaping wound you can see in the centre of her chest. She dropped her gaze back to the cadaver.
Hunter watched her move painstakingly around the body, her every move captured on video. The samples she pointed to were quickly photographed and bagged by the Scenes of Crime officers and forensic team who followed in her wake. Pausing momentarily she lifted her head towards Hunter and Grace. Glancing over her spectacles, which had fallen onto the bridge of her nose, she enquired, “Has anyone moved the body?”
Hunter gave Grace a questioning look.
Grace responded with a shrug of her shoulders and shake of head. “Not that we know of. The man who found the body couldn’t get away quick enough before he phoned in. Though he has said he heard someone running away from the scene.”
“Well the body has definitely been moved. There are scuffmarks in the matted blood on the floor; clearly where she has been dragged. And also we have the arms outstretched above her head which tend to reinforce that theory.” She slowly rolled the corpse towards her and examined the purple lividity pattern that covered the back and buttocks.
Looking on, Hunter knew that this was the result of the muscles and organs no longer pumping blood around the body, and gravity taking over.
“The lividity is just starting to blanch. Hypostasis is in the early stages and body temperature readings would indicate she has been here for only a few hours. By the drag marks through the blood I would say that someone has attempted to move this body after death.”
“From the bodies general description” interjected Grace, “we’re certain it matches that of a fourteen year old girl who was reported missing only a couple of hours ago.”
“Well my initial findings would suggest she was most probably murdered less than three hours ago. She has multiple stab and incised wounds to her head and as you can see a sharp instrument has penetrated both eyes. There is also the deep wound to the upper chest. Despite the considerable amount of congealed blood I can’t say for sure yet if she was dead before or after the wounds were inflicted because I have also found this.” Professor Lizzie McCormack pulled down the neckline of the dead girl’s T-shirt a few inches below the throat. With a latex gloved hand she pointed to several red weal marks around the front of the neck.
“There is petechial haemorrhaging on the skin which is consistent with some type of ligature being placed tightly around the anterior neck. In other words she has been strangled with something approximately five centimetres wide. And looking at the nip and graze marks on the side of her upper neck my first thoughts are a belt of some type. The post-mortem will give us a better indication.” She snapped off her gloves. “I’ve finished now if you’d like to bag up this once dear creature and remove her to the mortuary for me.”
Lizzie eased herself up gently, her hands clasped around her knee joints. “The arthritis is playing me up today.”
*****
The smell of death was something Hunter Kerr could never get used to. Despite the air conditioning in the white tiled mortuary the stench was a nauseating mixture of decaying flesh and stale blood, which enveloped him, and which he knew would be clinging for many hours thereafter to every article of clothing he wore. He popped an extra strong mint into his mouth in an effort to cover the smell. The mortuary also brought back the memories of the time he had dealt with his f
irst cot death. The baby had been roughly the same age as his own first-born and all he had seen throughout the procedure was the face of Jonathan superimposed on the dead child. For days after he had lain awake at night watching the movement of the Moses basket at the side of the bed, and listening to Jonathan’s breathing pattern.
The girl on the metal slab had now been cleaned up and he could now see clearly the horrendous wounds, which had been inflicted on the head of the girl. The dark mushy sockets, devoid of eyes, gave the face an almost surreal appearance. Throughout his career he had never been squeamish when it had come to looking at dead bodies, whatever state they were in, though as a young cop he had never actually liked having to physically handle the cold flesh. That was always one job he had always faced with trepidation, and wherever possible avoided.
Now in her green Pathologist’s scrubs, Professor Lizzie McCormack moved gracefully around the body, her dexterous hands in an organized routine, measuring and moving limbs, picking up and setting down the many shiny precision instruments, each having its own function to perform, whether it be cracking and cutting bone or slicing through flesh. She probed orifices with swabs and scraped under fingernails, meticulously noting and labelling each sample, whilst speaking with her soft Scottish brogue into a metal microphone hanging from the ceiling, poised above the cadaver.
“The body is that of a normally developed pubescent white female, and appearing generally consistent with the stated age of fourteen years,” she began. Moving to the head, she scrutinized, probed and measured the many and numerous wounds. “There is evidence of multiple sharp-force injury,” she continued in a steady voice. After spending some considerable time counting and detailing each of the head wounds she moved to the neck. She pointed at several marks to the Scenes of Crime Officer hovering around her and then stepped back whilst close-up photographs were taken. Then, taking a small surgical scalpel, she began the process of incising the yellowing flesh at the base of the neck and peeled the scalp and face completely over the head to reveal a glistening white skull.
Inside fifteen minutes the Professor had removed the brain, measured and weighed it, and sliced off small samples of the grey tissue for further analysis. She then began moving down the body, examining the many cuts and gashes inflicted on the upper torso. Within a minute she gave out an elongated “Mmmm,” paused, and caught Hunter’s gaze. “You’re going to find this very interesting, very interesting indeed.”
Hunter’s eyebrows cinched together, furrowing his brow.
“That’s grabbed your attention hasn’t it,” she grinned, and began circling an index finger above the cadaver’s abdomen. “I thought at first these were minor stab wounds,” she continued, dabbing her pointing finger at several regular marks gouged into the flesh. “These cuts are nowhere near as deep as the others. The blade has only penetrated the first subcutaneous layer.”
Hunter moved in closer, bending over Rebecca’s body, focussing on the area Professor McCormick was pointing to. He stared at the series of consistent slashes above the navel, unable at first to make head-nor-tail of them; that was until he followed the slow deliberate movement of the pathologist’s finger; then he did. He could quite clearly make out the letters I I V and a number 3 lined across the stomach. He shot his glance back towards the Professor catching her preoccupied look.
“This is a first for me,” she announced. “Well in the flesh anyway, so to speak, but I must say I have seen photographs of similar marking to corpses and read about this some time ago.” She paused again before continuing. “What you have here Detective Sergeant is the killer’s signature. What you make of it is the same as me at the moment, a series of letters or Roman numerals, and what appears to be the number three.” She took a step back whilst the Scenes of Crime officer moved in with his camera and rattled off a sequence of photographs, its flash highlighting the red marks carved into the marble-like flesh.
“Add to this, the playing card which was found lying across her chest and I can say with some confidence that this is definitely the killer letting you know that this is his or her handiwork. Though given the viciousness of the attack, I am more inclined to favour that a man’s hand is responsible for this.” The pathologist caught Hunter’s startled look.
“I would start by contacting other forces, because it’s my guess that this young girl here is not his first victim.” She returned to her examination of Rebecca and just over an hour later she snapped off her latex gloves and turned to Hunter.
“Many of the wounds to the face and head are regular and suggest a knife of at least ten centimetres in length with an angled blade at its point. Many are stab type wounds, which have penetrated both the facial and muscle tissue of the head, and in places the bone beneath has actually been chipped. The most serious of those are to the eye sockets. Here the knife has actually sliced through into the brain and penetrated to an extent of ten centimetres. The downward slant of these wounds indicates a continued jabbing action. A real frenzied hacking at the face.”
Lizzie emphasized by thrusting her arm up and down several times. “My other findings are death by asphyxia due to ligature strangulation. The hyoid bone and the thyroid and cricoid cartilages are fractured, which would indicate tremendous pressure around the throat. The marks suggest a belt of some type and I reinforce this by a buckle mark where it’s nipped the upper neck. The mark is so clear that if you find the right belt I will be able to confirm a match. This is a particularly vicious and sustained attack. From the lack of defence injuries I would suggest she was strangled first and then as she lay dead or dying she was stabbed numerous times to the face and head. There is no evidence of any sexual interference, though swabs have been taken for more detailed analysis. It never ceases to amaze me just how cruel the human race is,” she finished as she turned towards the shower room.
* * * * *
“Earlier today the body of a teenage girl was found in old farm buildings close to the town of Barnwell. Police have identified her as fourteen year old Rebecca Morris and confirm that she had been brutally murdered.”
The hairs at the back of his head bristled and he could feel his face flush. The rest of the news report became just a jumble of words as he stared at his 32” plasma TV screen, which flicked between scenes showing the regional station’s newsroom and the reporter who was broadcasting a short distance from the derelict buildings which he recognised as the farm from which earlier he had had to flee.
That had been the closest yet to being caught.
Screwing up his face he shuddered, feeling temporarily light headed. He had held his breath for far too long as he focussed on the news item. He exhaled sharply and took in a much needed gulp of air.
In the depths of his mind he recalled the past two-days’ events. The night before last, especially in the early hours, and for most of yesterday morning he had hardly been able to contain his excitement. That fervour had increased ten-fold when he had caught sight of her waiting by the bus stop where he had arranged they should meet. As she had climbed into his car he could feel himself getting an erection. He had to pull the hem of his T-shirt over his lap to hide the bulge.
He could recall the conversation as though it had just happened.
“Didn’t think you were going to come.”
“I promised I’d be here didn’t I?” she’d smiled back at him. “Though I don’t know what I’m going to say when mum and dad find out I’ve skipped an exam.”
“That’s not going to matter once we get this portfolio done. A modelling agency will soon snap you up and the money you’re going to earn will take care of any exam marks,” he’d lied.
In the barn he’d watched her change out of her school clothes, blushing with embarrassment, and he’d managed to shoot several frames of her undressing before she had stopped him. She’d placed one hand in front of his lens whilst strapping the other firmly across her chest, covering her pretty pink cotton bra that hid her small yet firm breasts.
He’d l
aughed and tried to pull her arm away but she’d resisted and got angry.
“I want to go home,” she’d demanded. “That’s it. I’ve had enough.” And she’d put her blouse back on.
That’s when he’d reacted and slapped her across the face. He couldn’t believe it when she’d slapped him back. The surprise of it had made him drop his camera.
He had snatched off his belt without thinking and wound it so quickly around her neck that she had hardly registered what was happening. He had pulled it so tightly that the veins at the sides of her temples had swollen to such prominence that he feared they would burst.
The rest had been a blur and it was over as quickly as it had started. All he could remember was the aftermath. Standing over her body, staring at the bloodied mess he had created.
He also could recollect, as he had surveyed his work, the surge of power, which had shot through him, tightening every sinew in his body.
He had tried to recall if the rush had been the same as before. He had thought that this time it had felt better. His erection had still been there, even when she had breathed her last.
The noise in the background brought him back to the present, and as the vision in his mind blurred he felt his chest burst with a sense of urgency and excitement again and could feel the movement in his groin. He was getting erect just thinking about what he had done.
From the kitchen he could hear the domestic sounds of his mother getting their evening meal ready. He pointed the remote at the TV and switched over to the other local news channel to see if the story was being aired there...
End of free sample
If you have enjoyed the short story and free taster of Heart of the Demon both D.S. Hunter Kerr books are available from your favourite book store or eBook store.
Reap What You Sow: From the case files of D.S. Hunter Kerr (Caffeine Nights Short Shots Book 1) Page 4