by G. M. CLARK
Baines works fast; the body still holds a form of rigidity that probably made it easier for the killer to cut off the hands. Baines places his lamp over the stumps; picking up several instruments he measures the length of the cuts, also determining the type of blade that was used. He refers to his old notes to see if there is any forensic evidence left on the body; somehow I know that there won’t be. It’s a well-known fact that trace evidence is crucial in a crime. If the killer had walked into a room he changed it – either by bringing something in, or taking something with him. Usually when two objects come into contact there is a transfer from one object to the other – find it and you can solve the crime. Easier said than done though.
My legs are aching. Mack gets more fidgety with every passing minute, but Baines sticks to his task. Finally he straightens up and pulls off the latex gloves.
‘I’m sorry… no evidence – nothing.’
I sigh. ‘What about the cuts?’
‘From the size I’d say a household saw, the kind you can get in any shop, anywhere.’
‘Great,’ says Mack.
Baines says, ‘He’d have to have been strong, and to know exactly what he was doing.’
‘Why?’ I ask, somewhat confused.
‘His timing. To be able to pick the body when it still held a form of rigidity means that your perpetrator knows something about the stages of death. Plus, in order to slice off the hands, he had to saw quickly through the wrist bones before anyone could have come in.’
I simply nod.
The smell of death is penetrating every pore; I notice a bottle of wintergreen oil and take a quick sniff to clear my nose. Mack just laughs. What happened to the old sayings about coppers in morgues – the bigger the copper, the faster they drop? It had never happened to Mack in all his years – perhaps he should have been an FME instead.
I watch Stacey Bun as she’s wheeled away and I feel utter disgust wash over me; not only had this young girl been brutally murdered in broad daylight, but now she has suffered the indignity of the killer coming back to collect his prized trophy. I silently promise her, right there and then, that I will catch this son of a bitch and I will make sure that he is tormented and locked up with the key thrown away. Killing him is too easy– I want this bastard to suffer.
CHAPTER 23
Mack and I look around, making a rough sketch of each of the entry points in and out of the morgue.
Mack ambles towards me. ‘So what’s your hunch?’ he asks.
‘I think the son of a bitch dressed in scrubs and came down through the rear stairs, easy enough to do.’ I point to where I mean. ‘That door is only ten feet from where Stacey Bun was. He could’ve been in and out in five minutes,’ I say.
Mack measures up the distance and nods.
‘No one would have seen him from the autopsy room, and any morgue attendant would have thought he was just another doctor. Once inside, all he had to do was identify the door number from the list on the wall, pull out the body and complete his handiwork.’
Mack nods again. ‘So how did he leave? Bearing in mind he had two hands to hide?’
‘He could have slipped them into a bag, hidden them in the scrubs, or simply discarded the scrubs in the bin, grabbed the bag with the trophies and walked out the back way with some fake ID.’
‘So which scenario is it?’ asks Mack.
‘Realistically, he wouldn’t have ditched the scrubs, that would’ve given us forensic evidence, and he’s too damn careful for that; my hunch is he went back out the way he came in. With the hospital at overload, no one would’ve noticed another doctor walking out the door; plenty of them leave in their scrubs.’
‘So why come in and take the hands? Why take the chance of being caught?’ Mack looks perplexed.
‘To prove to us that he can do what he likes, whenever he likes, and get away with it.’
‘We’d better call in the Agency,’ mutters Mack.
‘I’m never calling them – ever,’ I say, and I mean it.
I hear heavy footsteps behind me, and know that they’re already here. Reeves is backed up by the rest of the twats in suits. He marches up to us, the black tie flapping behind him.
‘So which idiot decided to disobey orders?’ His eyes glint like black coals.
I glance at Mack and shrug my shoulders. ‘I didn’t, did you?’
Mack shakes his head. ‘I’d never do a thing like that.’
I turn and place my best smile on my mouth. ‘That wouldn’t be us then.’
‘You two are like the goddamn Keystone Coppers,’ he growls, the suits gathering behind him.
‘Flattery will get you nowhere.’ I wink.
‘I want to know just what the hell has been going on, and I want to know now.’ He inches closer to me, aching to see my response.
‘I’ll put it all in my report,’ I say, lying through my teeth.
His face is millimetres from mine, and I can see another six suits crowding around us, trying to trap us in. He obviously likes to play safe, chickenshit.
‘You know Downey, this is a hell of a lonely road you’re walking,’ he spits.
Mack sidles up beside me and throws one of his great arms around me.
‘It’s not lonely. We’re a team, that’s why we walk it together.’
He’s momentarily startled. ‘I could get you kicked off this case today,’ he snarls.
‘Please feel free,’ I smirk. ‘I could really do with a holiday.’
He brushes past me, pushing me out of the way on purpose; I resist the temptation to stick out a foot. His time will come, and boy I am going to make damn sure I’m there to watch it unfold.
We’re outside heading to our vehicles when my bloody mobile phone starts rapping again.
‘Holy God,’ says Mack. ‘What the hell is that bloody noise?’
‘Some rap tune from hell that I can’t figure out how to get rid of.’ I flip open the phone.
‘Yeah?’
‘Grimes here.’ Shit, we’re going to get bollocked for holding up the suits.
‘Yes… sir.’ I wait for the tirade.
‘Get yourself over to the Samson buildings at Piccadilly; we’ve got a fresh one.’
‘Sir.’ I fold the phone and slip it back into my pocket.
‘We’ve got another body.’
Mack kicks the side of his car. ‘Bloody hell, can’t we catch a break?’
‘Perhaps this time we’ll get lucky,’ I say, not believing a single word of it.
‘We need more than goddamn luck – we need a bloody miracle.’
We both drive separately, each screaming through the traffic, sirens blaring at full blast. Mack takes the lead, and almost hits about ten vehicles that are annoying him to distraction. I know his frustration, I understand it and feel it too.
The building is relatively old; historical I think is the terminology used nowadays, an elegant building that had stood testament to the ages and wealth of time. Today it’s used mainly by small businesses, each scattered haphazardly through the floors, with no semblance of real order.
Police cars again surrounded the scene, and I see that the FME’s van is already here. I wonder if it will be my lovely lady again; a guy can only hope. Out the corner of my eye I see media vans screaming in our direction and quickly propel Mack through the heavy oak doors.
First things first; I scan reception for CCTV – nothing. Jesus, doesn’t anyone use cameras these days? Or perhaps the killer only picks places that don’t have them? Probably.
We flash our cards and I pray the suits are still occupied down at the morgue; the last thing I need is Reeves charging in, messing up my crime scene.
Mack and I walk along the ancient marble floor, the tapping of our shoes in perfect rhythm. From the little that we heard downstairs this is going to be the worst so far – if that’s possible.
The door to the upstairs hallway is taped off, and the police tape flickers from the gust through a cracked window. Why is it that
the tape never stays still? This place already feels like a morgue, the deathly silence, the heavy stench of blood in the air. I’m seriously thinking about changing my job – well, I think about it for all of ten seconds.
Two coppers stand guard outside the office, their faces a shade of pale green and their hands quivering in shock. The FME’s assistants are standing nearby with a trolley, laughing and chatting as if this is yet another normal daily occurrence in their mundane lives. Perhaps for them it is; I guess when you’ve been brutally murdered you don’t have much to say about how you’re treated. We don our protective suits and snap on our gloves. Just as we are about to enter the scene, we’re told to immediately put on masks. I don’t like the sound of this one little bit, and feel the hairs on the back of my neck prickle, tension knotting up the old stomach muscles again.
The FME, my favourite lady, is back again. Hell, we’ve gotta stop meeting like this; you never know, my girlfriend might get jealous. Fat chance of that at the moment, I think. The body of Preston Law lies decapitated in front of the filing cabinet. The head is positioned above his body, leaving a gap where his neck should have been. The cut is in a V shape, is that another sign? V for victory – against what? Against me? Who knows? The walls are a sea of red, bright crimson red. Blood actually drips from the ceiling; I can see small spots fall onto the carpet below – oh, holy Christ.
As I walk towards the body, my feet squelch in the bloody carpet, the blood seeping up the sides of my enclosed shoes, bright sticky red against the white protective coverings. The stench is almost unbearable. I feel like I’m desecrating his grave somehow; as I walk I am uncomfortably aware that I am swimming through the very soul of the man.
Mack begins to walk in then abruptly stops. ‘Oh shit,’ yelps Mack, his face ashen and going even paler by the minute.
I stand and stare at the body, my face expressionless. My favourite FME glances up at me.
‘Well, as he’s missing his neck I don’t suppose you can tell me whether or not he was choked to death?’
Breathe, Downey, breathe.
‘No,’ she replies, holding steady with my eyes; we both know sarcasm is sometimes the only way of keeping our emotions in check and getting on with the job.
‘Is it likely?’ I ask.
She takes a moment to ponder. ‘Probably,’ she says. ‘As I can’t see any visible skull markings to show that he was hit with anything, no bullet wounds or single blow, and I’m guessing he didn’t just lie down for the killer.’
‘Great, now the son of a bitch is removing his signature.’
‘Give me time to do the cut and I’ll see what else I can find out.’ She tries to reassure me.
‘You got an estimate for time of death?’ I ask.
‘Yeah, about two hours maximum.’
My brain shifts up a gear. It’s now 9 p.m.; if the killer was here two hours ago, add time for traffic from the morgue, and that means he’d been at St Josephs at the latest around 6:30 p.m. That bastard, we were so close to him. At least I can get the hospital staff canvassed for a clear time. It also means that the son of a bitch is on a spree – the mere thought of that word brings back nightmares which I can’t afford to be thinking about right now. Focus, everything is a living clue.
‘Downey… I’ve never ever seen anything like this before.’ Mack’s voice is strained.
‘I’m going to need two body bags for this one,’ the FME shouts outside, and continues examining the body.
I glance at Mack. ‘Me neither pal, me neither.’
‘There’s so much blood, God it’s everywhere, it’s like the very life of him seeped out and flooded the whole damn place.’ Mack’s brow is covered in perspiration.
I know exactly what he means, Preston Law had been killed quickly and while his heart was still pumping its final few beats, the killer had slashed open his neck, causing a massive blood spurt which had now saturated the entire floor and sprayed onto the ceiling. I actually feel like I’m standing on Preston Law’s spirit.
The crime techs are in their element. ‘You got anything?’ I ask.
‘No prints, he was obviously gloved up as usual. We’ll need to get the clothes and samples back to the lab, see if we can turn anything up.’
God, every murder is like running up a dead end; no forensic evidence, not even a trace, the autopsies turn up nothing we don’t already know. The family background checks show that they were all good citizens, no major enemies, no family problems; no one heard or saw the killer get in or out, and yet we know he was stalking his victims – so how come no-one noticed? Is he an expert in this field; an ex-copper with a grudge? An ex-con with a point to prove – had he planned all this from a jail cell? Why send the riddles to only me – what is the connection? It’s like banging your head off a brick wall.
‘Get it finished… now!’ I shout. The FME bags the head separately into one body bag, and the rest of him is zipped up into another; each heaved onto a trolley which rattles down the hall. I feel physically sick as I watch them go.
The crime tech guys seem to have multiplied in force for this one; they’re everywhere, photographing and videotaping it all – nothing escapes the camera’s eye.
‘What I don’t understand, is how nobody sees this soddin’ guy covered in blood. I mean he must’ve been dripping in the stuff.’ Mack shakes his head in disbelief.
‘There’s no blood outside the room – that means he’s either wearing something over his clothes, or he’s changing afterwards.’
My pretty FME is just about to instruct the crime techs.
‘Hey,’ I shout.
She glances up. ‘Yes?’
‘Any signs of sexual gratification?’ I ask.
‘He sodomised him.’
‘Bleedin’ sicko,’ Mack says.
‘Well Grimes is just going to love this one. Now the shit’s really gonna hit the fan, there’s no way in hell he can keep this one quiet,’ I say.
I look out the nearest window and can hear vans screeching up outside. The media are already setting up camp as the suits squeal to a halt, tumbling out of their cars.
‘Looks like our favourite people have already arrived,’ says Mack. ‘Time to go.’
Reeves storms into the room about three minutes later, he looks such a tosser in his white protective suit. Three others follow close behind.
‘You’re stepping on my crime scene,’ says the FME, with no hint of a smile.
‘I think you’ll find this is my crime scene, dear,’ he sneers.
She stands up and doesn’t take her eyes off him, her tone level but firm. ‘I think you’ll find it’s mine. I am in sole charge of any crime scene until I’m finished – and I’m not.’ She almost dares him to challenge her, and stands her ground. You go, girl, I think to myself.
He moves closer to her, his feet plopping through the carpet.
‘I’m Inspector Reeves from SOCA, and you would be?’
‘I would be Susan Oakes, the Chief Forensic Medical Examiner.’ Still she doesn’t move.
Hell, I’m impressed, I didn’t know she was the chief. Not only that, but now I know her name – Susan, yes, it seems to suit her.
‘I want to know exactly what happened here,’ barks Reeves.
Christ; same old, same old.
‘Preston Law, aged forty nine, was murdered. His neck was slit open with a hunting knife; the killer knew exactly where to strike to sever the artery in mere seconds. He suffered massive blood loss, and quite probably a fatal heart attack with the shock, but I would say slicing through the neck killed him.’ Her tone is firm yet subtly sarcastic. I’m beginning to like her even more.
‘What else?’ He’s rattled but trying not to show it.
‘Time of death, approximately two hours ago, and his neck has been removed. I’ve had a really good look – but I just can’t find it, be a dear and see if you can.’
She turns her back on him, winks at me, finishes instructing the crime techs, picks up her bag and
leaves Reeves with a scarlet face. I’m loving it.
‘Search the fucking place for fibres, I want something found. Don’t give me excuses, just do it,’ snaps Reeves, embarrassment written all over his face.
The teams simply carry on working, ignoring the high and mighty Reeves; he’s making friends real fast.
He nods to Mack and me. ‘You two wise guys get out, you’re not needed.’
Mack turns to me. ‘I’m hurt man, hurt.’
I smile. ‘Grates right to the bone, if you know what I mean.’
Reeves moves closer to us. I see Mack’s fist clench; hell, who am I to stop him?
‘I’m warning you pair of arseholes, you get any information, you call me first. Is that clear?’
‘Absolutely crystal,’ I say, grabbing hold of Mack’s arm. Sod it, he can punch him later.
As I turn to leave, I have the pleasure of watching a drop of blood drip slowly from the ceiling and plop right on Reeves’ head; too bad he’s wearing that hooded suit.
‘Goddamn it,’ I hear him shout as we leave.
The second we walk out of the building, flashbulbs go off, and microphones are plunged once again in our faces; we’re lit up in the night like two rabbits caught in headlights. I can see Hilda Corwin elbowing her way through the pack of media wolves, her faithful camera crew following in her wake. She is right up at me, almost nose to nose. As I try to ignore her, she simply pushes further forward. Jesus, any moment now and she’ll be on top of me… and take it from me that wasn’t a pleasant thought.
‘Inspector Downey, this is the seventh killing in only a matter of weeks; are you any further forward in apprehending the serial killer?’ Her large nostrils, as hairy as any man’s I’d ever met, flare like a bull’s in heat.
I feign ignorance. ‘No comment.’
We try to move forward and once again she blocks our path. Jeez, just give me an excuse, any excuse to snap some handcuffs on those wrinkly wrists – please.
‘The people of Manchester and the whole of Britain have a right to know! Are you depriving us of the truth, how can we protect ourselves… Inspector?’