Imperfect Killing

by Luke Delaney

  ‘Because if it’s a dum-dum bullet gone wrong then I’m probably looking for a professional hit-man, and every second I waste is another second for him to make good his escape back to wherever it is he came from.’

  ‘And if it’s a homemade bullet gone wrong?’ Canning asked.

  ‘Then maybe we’re looking for a boyfriend we don’t know about yet – one who as we speak is scrubbing the firearms residue from the exposed parts of his face and burning the boiler suit and balaclava. This is going to be a very high-profile case, doctor. If the news media find out we wasted a day at the most critical stage of the investigation they’ll be like a dog with a bone. It won’t reflect well on any of us.’

  Canning blew out deeply through pursed lips. ‘Very well, if you insist. But this is most certainly not the usual procedure.’

  ‘I understand,’ Sean assured him, ‘but I don’t need a full post-mortem – I just need the bullet.’

  ‘So be it.’ Canning called across the large clinical room to his assistant. ‘Justin, can you prepare the operating table for a new cadaver, please. I need to examine Miss Evans here.’ Justin just shrugged and set about removing the body already on the operating table and preparing it for the next – his well-practiced hands working quickly and efficiently.

  ‘He shan’t be long,’ Canning promised. ‘He doesn’t say much, but he knows his job inside out.’

  ‘I’ll take your word for it,’ Sean answered.

  ‘I think we’re about ready,’ Canning said after a few minutes. ‘Justin, if you could grab the digital camera, please. We’re not performing a complete post-mortem, but I still need to have everything documented. Just photograph what I tell you to.’ Justin nodded without speaking. ‘Very well,’ Canning told the room, turning on his trusty Dictaphone before taking a new scalpel from the tray of surgical tools and leaning over the body. ‘Take a photo of her face before my initial incision please, Justin.’ He duly obliged, the camera flashing and whirring twice, after which Canning took hold of the victim’s forehead with one hand and cut through the skin in two directions across where the main bullet had entered, forming a cross pattern. Very little blood seeped from the wound – her heart having long since stopped pumping it around her body. Next he used the scalpel to separate the skin from the facial muscles and peeled it back with a pair of surgical tweezers to reveal the damage underneath. Sean could see that the muscle around the entry wound had been turned to pulp and knew from previous cases that the deeper the bullet travelled, the worse the damage to the muscle would be.

  ‘Another photograph, please,’ Canning asked, Justin following his commands without question. After the camera’s flash Canning cut deeper with his scalpel until he hit bone and began to shake his head. He swapped the tweezers for a long, thin pair of forceps, using them to extract pieces of bone that had shattered and splintered as the bullet had passed through the upper part of the victim’s maxillary bone before travelling under the orbital socket and sending out shock waves that ruptured the blood vessels in both eyes, causing the haemorrhaging that had turned them a dark maroon colour.

  Canning pushed the forceps through the pulped muscle and bone deeper inside the skull into the brain, trying to follow the path of the bullet as best as he could. ‘Dear oh dear,’ he shook his head. ‘The damage to the skeletal structure of the victim’s face is significant, as is the damage to soft tissue surrounding the entry point.’ He pushed the forceps still deeper. ‘The bullet I suspect was a fairly large calibre to have caused so much damage – .38 inch at least.’ Again he shook his head. ‘The damage to the right side of the brain is also very significant. On first examination I would estimate at least one quarter of it has been totally destroyed, with further significant damage being caused by the shock waves that would have been emitted by the projectile. Death would have been almost instantaneous. Even if the Critical Care Team had been able to keep her body alive, her brain was already dead. She couldn’t possibly have survived long term.’

  ‘Then we should thank God for small mercies,’ Sean told him.

  ‘Indeed we should,’ Canning replied.

  ‘And the bullet?’ Sean asked.

  ‘Give me a minute,’ Canning insisted. ‘With this amount of damage to the soft tissue the bullet could have moved significantly from where one might expect it to be.’

  Sean waited impatiently as he watched the pathologist nimbly and diligently working the forceps inside the victim’s skull. ‘Ah ha,’ Canning suddenly smiled. ‘Be ready with the camera,’ he warned Justin, before slowly pulling the forceps clear and holding them closer to the lights. He spoke to Sean without looking away from the small, bloody object held firm in the tiny teeth of the surgical instrument. ‘I believe this is what your heart desires, Sergeant.’

  Sean leaned in for a closer look, but the bullet was still in too much of a mess to see anything clearly. ‘Can you clean it?’ he asked.

  ‘Of course.’ Canning carefully dipped it into a small stainless steel bowl of water – very gently moving it back and forth until he was satisfied it was clean enough to be examined and then placed in an evidence bag. He lifted it from the bowl and again held it to the light. ‘Not much to see,’ he declared, twisting the shapeless metal object so he could see it from all angles. ‘Looks like lead.’

  ‘A manufactured bullet wouldn’t lose its shape that badly,’ Sean told him, ‘and it’s definitely no dum-dum bullet.’

  ‘Homemade then,’ Canning deduced.

  ‘That would be my guess,’ Sean agreed.

  ‘If the bullet was made,’ Canning surmised, ‘then the gun probably was too – a re-commissioned replica no doubt.’

  ‘Most guns out there are,’ Sean explained, ‘but we won’t know for sure until ballistic forensics examine it. I need to take it with me.’

  ‘Of course. Do you have an evidence bag?’ Sean produced a small plastic bag from his pocket and handed it to Canning. ‘I see you came prepared.’ The pathologist took the bag and filled in the required details with a pen he’d pulled from underneath his apron as if it was a magic trick. He used his initials and the fact it was his first exhibit to label the bag: RC/1. He signed it, sealed it and handed it to Sean. ‘Good luck,’ he told him with a slight raising of his eyebrows. ‘I think you’re going to need it.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Sean told him and headed towards the exit without ceremony. ‘I’ll let you know what ballistics find.’

  Canning watched him disappear through the plastic swing doors. ‘An interesting fellow, don’t you think?’ he said to Justin, who just pulled a face of disinterest and shrugged. ‘I’ve got a strange feeling we’ll be seeing a lot more of DS Corrigan.’

  ***

  When Sean arrived back at the Murder Investigation Team’s office, Featherstone was already briefing the rest of the unit as to what they’d discovered so far. Images of the CCTV covering the car park played on a large roll-down screen behind Featherstone, who provided a commentary of the events that led to the death of Sue Evans. Sean used the relative darkness of the room to approach unnoticed and stand at the back of the gathered detectives. Featherstone used a long wooden ruler to point at the things he wanted his audience to pay attention to.

  ‘Now we see the victim’s car approaching the entrance,’ he continued. ‘She swipes her ID card to raise the barrier and drives in. Here we can see she drives around to her named bay and parks up. There’s a delay for a few seconds while she does something inside the car – we don’t know what – probably gathering up her bits and pieces.’ He swept the ruler to the top of the screen. ‘While she’s still in the car the suspect appears from around the side of the studio building and jogs across the car park.’ Sean watched the small figure of the man dressed all in black as he headed towards the victim’s car. Where had he been hiding before he appeared from the corner? Or had he simply walked along the Southbank in the boiler suit, putting the balaclava on just before he came into view?

  ‘He stands slightly to the re
ar of the car,’ Featherstone explained, ‘presumably so the victim can’t spot him and waits a few seconds until she climbs out and sees him, by which time he’s already pointing the handgun at her head …’

  ‘She says something,’ Sean found himself saying too loudly before he could stop himself.

  Featherstone hit pause and searched in the dark for the source of the question until he squinted in Sean’s direction. ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘I think she says something,’ Sean repeated sheepishly.

  Featherstone looked at the screen and then back to Sean. ‘And if she did?’

  ‘Must have been a hell of a shock – to step out of your car and see a man pointing a gun at your face. Yet she still managed to say something. As if she …’

  ‘As if she what?’ Featherstone pushed him.

  ‘As if she knew him,’ Sean finished. ‘If she knew him, maybe she tried to appeal to him – asked him not to pull the trigger. I don’t think she would have spoken if she didn’t know him.’

  ‘Interesting,’ Featherstone tried to play along, ‘but how could she have recognized him? He was completely covered.’

  ‘Not his eyes and mouth,’ Sean pointed out. ‘She recognized his eyes. She recognized his lips. Maybe she said his name.’

  There was a silence in the room for a few seconds before Featherstone spoke again. ‘Maybe. Let’s get a lip reader from somewhere and see if they can’t tell us what she said. If we’re lucky DS Corrigan may be right and she said this bastard’s name. Make life easier for us. Any more questions?’ The room was silent. ‘Good. And if we could hold our thoughts until the end of the footage that would be helpful.’ Sean felt the eyes of the room burning into his skin as Featherstone pressed play. A split second later a bright flash burst from the end of the revolver, but also from the front and back of the chamber, accompanied by a huge smoke cloud that momentarily obscured both figures until it drifted away in the light breeze, by which time Sue Evans was already lying on the ground breathing her last breath. A few moments later the shooter ran off in the direction he’d come from, disappearing around the corner of the studio.

  ‘As I’m sure you all noticed,’ Featherstone told them, pausing the footage, ‘that was a hell of a flash and a shitload of smoke for a revolver. My guess is it’s a re-commissioned replica, just like every other gun out there, and it couldn’t handle the charge in the cartridge.’

  Sean cleared his throat self-consciously, remembering he was supposed to keep his thoughts to himself, but needing to share what he had learnt.

  ‘Something else to add that couldn’t wait, DS Corrigan?’ Featherstone asked.

  ‘Sorry,’ Sean apologized. ‘It’s just I went to see the victim at the mortuary and …’ he cleared his throat again, ‘managed to persuade the pathologist to recover the bullet.’

  ‘You did what?’ Featherstone asked, his back stiffening.

  ‘I didn’t think we could wait until the post-mortem,’ he tried to explain. ‘With all the media attention I thought we needed the most important piece of evidence immediately.’

  ‘And what did you discover – if anything?’

  Again Sean could feel the eyes of the room boring into him. ‘That the bullet’s homemade too and not very well. Forensics have promised to get back to us as a matter of urgency.’

  ‘A homemade bullet and a re-commissioned replica or poorly made blank-firing revolver,’ Featherstone spoke his thoughts out loud. ‘I guess we can rule out a professional hit then.’

  ‘Maybe it was all the hit-man could get?’ one of the gathered DCs suggested.

  ‘Maybe,’ Featherstone half-heartedly agreed, ‘but his approach and escape are all wrong too. No decent hit-man is going to risk covering that sort of ground to the victim. A shooting out in the open – why isn’t he riding pillion passenger on a motorbike, or at least riding one himself? That’s the norm these days isn’t it? Ride up, pull the gun out, fire the shots and speed off. Simple. Clean. This is all too much of a mess.’

  ‘She was very attractive,’ Sean changed the direction of their communal thinking. ‘Beautiful, even and a celebrity. She must have attracted her fair share of unwanted attention.’

  ‘The flame that drew the moth, eh?’ Featherstone nodded. ‘I’ve already got DC Benton checking it out. Will someone turn the bloody lights back on please? Can’t see a damn thing.’

  A few seconds later bright light from the overhead fluorescent tubes flooded the room just as DC Zack Benton hurried in looking like a man who’d made a great discovery. Featherstone noticed it immediately.

  ‘You got something for us, DC Benton?’ he asked.

  ‘Looks like we have a possible suspect,’ he announced to the listening detectives.

  ‘Possible suspect?’ Featherstone queried.

  ‘She had a stalker,’ Benton explained.

  ‘And does this stalker have a name?’ Featherstone pressed.

  ‘Yes sir,’ Benton told him. ‘She reported him for harassment about four months ago and had a restraining order issued preventing him from approaching her in person or by letter, email etcetera – the usual stuff. Suspect’s name is Ruben Thurlby.’

  ‘And what do we know about Ruben Thurlby?’ Featherstone demanded.

  ‘IC1,’ Benton began, using the police racial code for white/European, ‘six foot three inches tall, heavy build, forty-two years old with some learning difficulties. Apparently he likes to dress in combat clothing and has a generally unkempt appearance. He has no previous convictions other than the harassment charge, although he was arrested for breaching the restraining order only a few weeks ago. Home address is a council flat on the Rockingham Estate, SE1. He lives alone.’

  ‘So,’ Featherstone nodded, ‘he just couldn’t stay away from our victim eh?’

  Sean could already see Ruben Thurlby in his mind – sitting alone in his council flat, dressed in filthy combat clothes, surrounded by cuttings from magazines and newspapers of Sue Evans as he made the homemade bullets to fit the reactivated replica or blank-firing revolver he’d probably had for years. He could almost hear Thurlby mumbling to himself as he prepared the weapon he’d use to take his revenge on the woman who’d so cruelly turned down his love and betrayed him to the police.

  ‘What do you reckon, Sean?’ Featherstone sought his opinion, dragging him back to the real world. ‘Sound good to you?’

  ‘Sounds like we need to speak to him,’ he agreed.

  ‘Good,’ Featherstone confirmed. ‘Put a team together and let’s have him nicked, but use SO19 to take him down. As far as we know he’s still armed. The shooting was only hours ago so he’s probably still a forensic goldmine. The sooner we have him in the better chance we have of preserving the evidence that’ll convict the bastard. I’m beginning to smell an early result people, so let’s get on it.’ He rubbed his hands together with glee. ‘As soon as he’s nicked let me know.’

  Sean nodded and turned to Benton. ‘Grab four people you trust – full body armour, just in case. You never can tell which ones want to go out in a blaze of glory.’

  ***

  Sean and Benton sat in the unmarked car parked in Tiverton Street on the Rockingham Estate in Southwark – a sprawling, brown brick monstrosity built in the 1950s to replace bombed-out housing from the war. They were far enough away from Thurlby’s fourth floor flat so as not to be too obvious, but close enough to be able to see him if he came out of his front door and onto the communal balcony-walkway that led to the stairs and lifts. Several of the local youths had already clocked them as police – keeping a watch on them from a distance like a group of meerkats tracking a snake in the grass. Sean hoped that Thurlby’s learning difficulties meant he wouldn’t be as alert as the local neighbourhood police watch. But even they hadn’t noticed the nondescript satellite-dish installation van and another disguised as a self-drive rental. Each contained half a dozen heavily armed SO19 officers who were just waiting for the word that the target was out and in the open from the observati
on point in an empty flat in the block opposite Thurlby’s. As soon as that happened all hell would break loose.

  ‘D’you think he’s our man?’ Benton asked.

  ‘Looks about right,’ Sean shrugged, ‘but I won’t know for sure until I see him – until I speak to him.’

  ‘You mean until we interview him?’ Benton thought he’d corrected him.

  ‘Yeah, sure,’ Sean lied. ‘Until we interview him.’

  ‘You were a DC on an MIT too weren’t you?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Sean answered sounding uninterested.

  ‘Were you on any decent cases?’ Benton continued.

  ‘No,’ Sean lied again, not keen to discuss the past. ‘Just the usual run-of-the-mill stuff.’

  ‘Oh,’ Benton replied looking disappointed, before perking up. ‘This is my first murder case.’

  ‘You don’t say,’ Sean mocked him.

  ‘Yeah,’ Benton missed it. ‘Quite an interesting one, I suppose. Not your usual domestic is it?’

  ‘I guess there’s more to it than most,’ he consented, ‘or at least there appears to be.’

  ‘Only appears to be?’ Benton asked.

  ‘Assume nothing.’

  Benton pulled a face, but didn’t argue. ‘I hate surveillance,’ he confessed.

  ‘Better get used to it,’ Sean warned him.

  ‘Christ. Why don’t SO19 just sneak up the stairs and kick his door in?’

  ‘Too tight,’ Sean explained. ‘If he hears or sees them coming he could do some serious damage to them in the stairwell or the flat itself – not the sort of place you want to be searching for an armed suspect. Better to catch him in the open. Get as many guns as possible on him at the same time.’

  ‘I guess,’ Benton shrugged and tried to stretch the stiffness from his neck and shoulders, ‘but anything’s better than …’

  ‘Quiet,’ Sean suddenly told him, automatically stretching a protective arm across Benton’s body and pushing back into his seat. ‘He’s coming out.’

  ‘Fuck,’ Benton cursed. ‘D’you think SO19 have seen him?’