by Neil White
‘Because we’ve got a post-mortem to attend,’ he said, and then pointed towards the door.
When Laura looked around, she saw Carson beckoning them over. She took a deep breath. The queasy feeling in her stomach told her that it was too early in the day to watch a young woman sliced open.
Chapter Eighteen
Jack threw his car keys onto the table. Bobby was safely at school, and so he headed to the kitchen to make a coffee, just pausing to switch on his laptop. He needed another kick-start, the booze still hanging heavy from the night before.
The steam from the cup bathed his face as he stood over his computer, and his hands paused over the wedding brochures that cluttered the table. Not today, he told himself, and pushed them to one side.
Once the computer had finished booting up, Jack started his day as he always did, by quickly surfing the newspaper websites, just to check for the headlines of the day. He was looking for something extra this time though, for the Jane Roberts story, trying to find anything that would shed light on what was in the emails from the night before. Gorged on the floor and He’ll stuff your jaws till you can’t talk.
He went to the nationals first, but it was what he expected: nothing much. The media had turned out for the press conference but it hadn’t translated into column inches. It was the out-of-London syndrome, that it had to get really bad to be noticed by the London press, and so he trawled the northern dailies instead. The murder was featured more prominently, but it was still lacking in detail, and some had just lifted the report from the Blackley Telegraph.
Jack went to the Blackley Telegraph website again, checking for updates, but nothing had changed. The comments section had grown though, so that reading the news was like being caught in an argument. Some of the comments echoed the vitriol of the emails, hatred spewed out under the cover of anonymous usernames, and some criticised the police, saying that they couldn’t catch a serial killer because they were too wrapped up in form-filling.
But no one mentioned anything about something being in the victim’s mouth.
He brought up the second email and read the poem again.
He’ll stuff your jaws till you can’t talk,
He’ll bind your legs till you can’t walk,
He’ll tie your hands till you can’t claw,
And he’ll close your eyes so you see no more.
Those words were specific. Jane must have been bound and gagged, there could be no other conclusion, but there had been nothing in any of the newspapers, no rumours or hints at the press conference the day before. So if the gorging reference had some truth, the emailer must be close to the investigation.
Then something occurred to him. There had been a niggle the night before, that there was something he wasn’t seeing, but as he thought more about it, it revealed itself, and it made him sit back and stare at the sceen. What if the emails were from the killer himself, trying to use the press as a platform?
He took another drink of coffee and thought about that. It wouldn’t be the first time. Then, right on cue, he was interrupted by the arrival of another email. The title grabbed his attention: Another one bites dust.
Bites dust?
Jack clicked on the email, and then as he read he realised that it wasn’t about the woman found yesterday, but about the victim from a few weeks earlier, the copper’s daughter, Deborah Corley.
You’re slow, Jack. I find the newspaper not writing all the details unamusing. I know those boys in blue think they have to keep secret all that goes on, that people will get scared, but I think people should know. How else do they catch the killer? Ha ha.
Think of charming little Deborah, blessed by life’s opportunities. Sunday school, pony lessons, pretty in the press picture, and so she should be, with everything life had given her. But no more. Deborah has smiled one last time, silenced forever, her laughs muffled. She tried to cry out but couldn’t.
Write about it, Jack. Find the real story. Tell the world everything. Because if it’s not you, it will be someone else.
He sat back and rubbed his eyes. That was strong stuff again. And what about her laughs muffled?
He took another sip of coffee and pondered on his reply. What if he was reading too much into it, and it was just some weirdo trying to make him print some untruths by hinting that he knows things? Jack wasn’t going to wreck his reputation on anonymous hints.
He put his cup down and typed a reply.
I can write the stories if you have proof that you know things. What do you have? Jack.
Jack drummed his fingers on his knees as he waited, his eyes fixed on the screen, the house enveloped in silence. Then there was another ping. Another reply.
Ask them about Emma was all it said.
But who was Emma, and who was them?
Chapter Nineteen
Carson was first into the mortuary, pushing the door open with a thump, Laura and Joe trailing behind him. It was really just the basement of an old hospital building, lined by cracked green and cream tiles, with a sign over the door in Latin – Hic locus est ubi mors gaudet succurrere vitae. This is the place where death rejoices to help those who live.
She took a breath as she went in, the swinging door wafting the odour of cleaning fluids and stomach gases. She reached into her pocket for the small tub of Vicks she carried in her bag for moments like this, a quick smear under the nose taking away the worst. She could never get used to the smell of a freshly-opened stomach, like stale food mixed with vomit and gas.
Joe Kinsella was different. He was quiet, but there was an intellectual detachment about him, like he was there to spot something, not just get through the ordeal.
Laura could deal with post-mortems, but only just, because they were different to finding a body or being puked on by a drunk at the custody desk, where you deal with the moment, adrenaline driving the action. Post-mortems were cold and calculated, the exposure to death by appointment, and so there was too much time to think about it. She wasn’t one of those who could eat their sandwiches over the body, and it was the jokers that always made her wary. That was usually a front, their own way to deal with the difficulty of the situation.
Carson wasn’t like that. He was uncomfortable, worried about keeling over or feeling faint but was too macho to admit it, although he seemed determined to get the job done and get out.
When they walked in, Jane Roberts was already on the table, which was nothing more than a sloping tray with raised edges, built so that the blood could be sluiced into the drains without dripping onto the floor. Jane was uncovered, although there were plastic evidence bags over her hands, and she bore little resemblance to the attractive young woman who had gone missing. Her stomach was distended, with her skin showing a green tint and her face swollen, the sharp cheekbones and pouting mouth Laura had seen in photographs now gone forever.
The pathologist, Doctor Pratt, was walking round the body, trying to form a snapshot view before he started slicing. He was in a green scrub suit and what looked liked a Perspex welding helmet, although the visor was still up and over his head. He played the fool and the flirt, wide around the stomach, with grey hair sticking up wildly on top of his head, but he was the best there was, and that was all that mattered.
He gave Laura a smile as he looked towards them. ‘Ah, the cavalry. And McGanity. So good to see you. I heard they had you shoved into a uniform for a while.’
Laura smiled her greeting and went directly to the head-end of the mortuary table. It was nearer to the action, but could be a grim spot to be at when the Stryker saw shrieks into the skull and the scalp gets peeled forward like a swimming cap. The only saving grace was that the cooling fans were always at the top of the table, so that the smells were blown down the body, not up. It was always the ones at the feet who fainted. And Laura knew that this was going to be a bad one because the body had been lying outdoors for a few days, with plenty of time for the gases to start bubbling inside.
‘So you want to know what I t
hink so far?’ Doctor Pratt asked, as he pulled his pen from the pocket of his green smock. ‘Step closer,’ and when Carson was by his shoulder, he said, ‘Look here,’ and used the pen to point to Jane’s wrists, just visible above the plastic evidence bags. Laura joined them, and saw brown marks on the edges of the forearms, the signs of abrasions. She knew what that meant: ligatures.
‘Tied up, just like last time,’ she said.
‘Not tied,’ the doctor said.
Carson frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Cloth or leather ligatures would give a more even ring around the wrists,’ Doctor Pratt said. ‘These marks seem more abrasive, as if it was something rigid against her wrist bones.’ He pointed to the right wrist. ‘What do those grazes remind you of?’
Laura looked closer. The scrapes on the wrist bone were typical of post-arrest injuries, where the cuffs had to be tight to restrain, but sometimes they caused grazes when they rubbed against the prisoner’s skin.
‘Handcuffs,’ Laura said.
The doctor smiled. ‘Just like handcuffs.’
‘So something has changed,’ Laura said. ‘The first girl was bound using something softer. Maybe it is someone copying?’
‘Possibly,’ Joe said, pulling at his lip, ‘but it will also make the killer harder to find.’
‘What do you mean?’ Laura said.
‘If she was cuffed, there won’t be much to find in those,’ he said, and pointed towards the evidence bags placed around the hands, there to collect any debris that may have fallen out of the fingernails or from the palms as the body was transported. ‘When people are strangled, both the killer’s hands are being used, and so they can’t fight off the victim, who will scratch and fight and gouge, and so you often get hairs in the victim’s fingers. If some of the skin comes with the hair, you can get the DNA. Or there might be skin under the fingernails. But if she was cuffed, there will be none of that.’
‘Was she strangled?’ Carson asked, looking at Doctor Pratt.
‘I can’t be too sure just yet, not until I open her up, but that would be my guess,’ he said. ‘Look at her cheeks. Do you see those little black specks.’
Laura peered closer, trying to see through the discolouration and bloating from being left outdoors for a few days. Then she saw them, like tiny dots.
‘They’re called petechiae,’ Doctor Pratt said.
‘Burst blood vessels?’ Laura said.
‘Pretty much so,’ the doctor agreed. ‘The pressure around the neck increases pressure in the veins and capillaries, and so they just pop when they reach the surface. I haven’t looked under the eyelids yet, or inside the nostrils, but there’ll be some there, I can guarantee it. And do you see that dried blood around her nostril?’
Laura nodded.
‘Again, more likely due to the strangulation than a punch.’
‘Is it manual strangulation?’ Carson asked.
Doctor Pratt breathed out noisily and then nodded. ‘My first guess is that she was throttled by a left-handed person.’
Carson looked surprised. ‘How can you tell?’
‘Look at the bruising on her neck.’
They all took a step closer. Laura could see some brown marks just under the jaw.
‘You can see her colour,’ Doctor Pratt said. ‘Lying outdoors since the weekend hasn’t done much for the poor girl’s looks, and so the marks could be due to putrefaction, that sometimes happens, that bruise-type marks are formed. Once I dissect the marks, I’ll be able to tell whether they were bruises inflicted before death.’
‘There are quite a few bruises,’ Laura said.
‘Yes, but they are mainly on her right side,’ Doctor Pratt said. ‘Or, as you might prefer it, the killer’s left. There are only two bruises on the left side of the neck. Think of a left-hand around the throat. That would be where the thumb would go. There are a lot more on the other side, where the fingers go. That is a left-handed grip. There are a lot of bruises though, and so he must have changed his grip.’
‘What if the killer was above her head when she was on the ground, looking down her body?’ Carson said. ‘That would make it a right-handed grip.’
Doctor Pratt shook his head. ‘Look how the bruises are just under the jaw. That shows the pressure was towards the jaw. If he had been over her head, the pressure would have been away from the jaw. And it was a one-handed grip too. The hand ends up under the jaw when you use one hand, whereas a two-handed grip tends to go around the neck.’
‘I don’t agree with the part about him being left-handed,’ Joe said.
Doctor Pratt looked round, surprised. ‘What do you mean?’
‘She will have cuts and bruises in the small of her back,’ Joe said.
‘Go on, Sergeant, enlighten me.’
‘The cuffs,’ Joe said. ‘We didn’t have those in the last murder. They are hard, uncomfortable, and if she was on her back, they would have dug into the skin as she struggled.’
‘But why is that important?’ Doctor Pratt asked.
‘You are assuming that he used his left-hand because that is his preferred hand?’
The doctor nodded.
Joe raised an eyebrow. ‘I’m thinking that he used his left hand because he was doing something else with his right. We thought at the scene that she was still alive when that debris was rammed between her legs, and so if he wasn’t raping her when she died, I reckon he was satisfying himself as he throttled her. It would have been much easier if she had been on her back rather than pushed against a tree or something, as it would have been easier to push down.’
‘And so the cuffs would dig into her back more,’ the doctor said.
Joe nodded. ‘That was my thinking.’
‘There’s only one way to find out,’ Doctor Pratt said, and then he waved at his mortuary assistant, who had been skulking in the corner. ‘Diener!’ he shouted. ‘Come here.’
Laura looked over to the young man sporting a ponytail and beard, his black T-shirt visible under his scrub suit. He looked like he spent his evenings on the internet fighting fantasy battles. And he didn’t look happy.
Doctor Pratt leaned towards Laura and whispered, ‘That’s their job title, dieners, but it is really just German for servant. Those who know that hate it.’
‘You could always call him by his name,’ she said.
The doctor’s eyes twinkled as he smiled. ‘This is much more fun.’
As the diener joined them, Doctor Pratt pointed to the body. ‘We just need to lift her, to check her back.’
The diener nodded but didn’t say anything in response. He scowled at Doctor Pratt and then grabbed hold of Jane’s arm and gave it a hard yank; there was no need to be gentle with her anymore. As Jane was rolled onto her side, Laura and Joe bent down to check her back.
Her shoulders and buttocks were pale, but the small of her back was dark from the lividity, where blood had settled as she lay there, undiscovered. Laura knew that the pattern meant that Jane hadn’t been moved recently to the spot where she was found. She had either been killed in that spot or been dumped there not long after her murder. There was an indentation in her back from the body block, a square piece of hard plastic placed under the body to make the chest jut out and the head tilt back, to make incisions easier. Just below that though, in the small of the back, just about visible in the purplish-blue of her skin, Laura could see the path of scrubbed and ragged skin, just as Joe had guessed.
‘Looks like you were right,’ Laura said to Joe, who just shrugged.
‘And her shoulders there,’ Doctor Pratt said, pointing to grazes and bruises on her shoulder blades. ‘Another sign that she was throttled on her back, those being where she was in contact with the ground.’
‘That doesn’t mean that he was masturbating though,’ Carson said. ‘It could just be that the killer throttled her using his strongest hand. And what about Don Roberts? Is he left-handed?’
‘Are you still going with that theory?’ Joe said.
>
‘Not as the main theory,’ Carson said, ‘but I’m not going to rule it out until we have to.’
Joe looked at Doctor Pratt. ‘Can we be sure it was strangulation?’ he said.
‘As opposed to what?’
‘Her mouth was jammed full of leaves and dirt,’ Joe said. ‘Perhaps she suffocated?’
The doctor pointed at the dead girl’s neck again. ‘She was probably alive when those were inflicted, and so my best guess would be strangulation. Also, it would have looked worse when you found her, because her tongue and lips will have swollen as she rotted in the woods, and so it might not have been quite as jammed in there when she died. It’s possible that the hand marks on the neck are from when he restrained her, but we won’t know until we open the neck and check whether the hyoid bone is fractured. If not, then yes, she probably suffocated.’
‘Does it make a difference, Joe?’ Carson asked.
Joe thought about that. ‘I think it makes it less likely to be a random sex attack if she suffocated,’ he said. ‘Throttling is an aggressive, sexual act. It isn’t uncommon for it to be a turn on for sociopaths. Gorging? It doesn’t have the same hands-on feel to it, if you know what I mean.’
Doctor Pratt chewed on his lip for a moment, and then he pointed at Laura. ‘Could you just pop onto the spare table.’
Laura looked at the other steel table further along in the room. ‘Do I have to?’ she said.
‘Will it help the investigation?’ Carson asked.
‘It could do,’ the doctor replied.
‘McGanity, get on the table,’ Carson said, and moved towards it, waiting for the show.
Laura took a deep breath and closed her eyes. ‘All right,’ she said, and then gripped the side of the mortuary table as she clambered on. The table was cold through her suit and her feet clanged loudly. She tried not to think of all the others who had been there before her. As she put her head back, her hair spread out over the metal.
‘If my left hand was my strongest, and the victim was on her back,’ Doctor Pratt said, ‘which side would I go to in order to throttle her?’