“I’m not at liberty to say much right now,” said Trowbridge. “If it is, in fact, Emma Schiller, I shall be able to tell you more.”
“Okay. I hope,” I said, “I can do a positive ID. I’d hate to have my daughter or Vicky see this. . . .”
“I agree completely,” said Trowbridge. “Do you think your friend will be all right?”
“Carson? I dunno. . . .” And I continued to look at the corpse. “Are those goose bumps on the upper arms and thighs, do you think?”
“I think so,” said Trowbridge. “Please step back now. We don’t want any chance of contamination . . .”
“Sure. Any idea how long, postmortem, goose bumps will form?”
“You mean goose flesh? I’ll ask,” said Trowbridge. “Can’t say that I know.”
“Me, either,” I said. “It could be interesting. She sure as hell had to be flexible when she went in there. And from the marks on the edges of the buttocks, it looks like she was in soon after death. Lividity. . . .”
“Indeed.” He moved toward the door, determined to get me out. I followed.
“I’ve dealt with frozen bodies on a couple of occasions,” I said, “but they’ve always been outside in the winter. We call those corpse sickles.”
Trowbridge snorted, and I thought it might have been a laugh.
“Does it get really cold, then, where you’re from?” asked Richards.
“Coldest it’s ever been on a night I worked, was minus forty-seven, Fahrenheit, I think.”
“Good Lord,” said Trowbridge. “I thought only Canada reached those extremes.”
“It was a blast of air they sent our way,” I said. “Called an Alberta Clipper.”
“Do you know what that would be, Centigrade scale?” asked Richards.
I looked at Trowbridge. “Not sure . . . about the same, though, I think. Don’t they sort of converge about minus forty-five or so?”
“I think that’s right,” he said.
“But I’ve never seen one artificially frozen before,” I said. “I think it’d take longer, in a freezer, because it’s not as cold.”
“The freezer had been unplugged for a bit,” said Richards.
“Not good policy to jump to conclusions,” said Trowbridge. Richards took the hint and shut up.
We continued the discussion as we emerged from the autopsy area and back into the hall. Carson was sitting on a bench, his head back against the wall, and breathing deeply. His eyes were closed.
“Carson, how you doin’?”
“I’m never going to be able to forget that . . .” he said, weakly.
“Oh, sure,” I said. “Don’t worry. It’s gonna fade. Eventually.”
We all sat or stood around, and I thought we were just waiting for the other doctor.
“One thing,” I said to Trowbridge and Richards. “She sure didn’t put herself in that freezer. You’ve got a case one way or another.”
“Oh, indeed,” said Trowbridge.
“Well,” I said, “not to be asking questions out of turn, but if you’ve got the remains, got the freezer, there’s an excellent chance that either you’ve got a suspect in custody, or at least you have a suspect.”
“No more discussion until Inspector Whitcomb arrives,” said Trowbridge. I couldn’t help noticing the smile on Richards’ face.
It did occur to me that Carson and I were the only ‘civilians’ in the area. Either the other missing persons had no relatives, or Trowbridge and company were pretty damned sure that this was Emma. I figured the odds were in favor of the latter.
It was after one am before the doctors and a couple of nurses came back to the autopsy area. Before they’d arrived, we’d peered inside twice, and both times the body seemed to be unfolding. It was just too weird. The last time I’d looked, whoever she was had sort of slowly assumed the appearance of a four-legged spider, with her limbs just beginning to touch the surface of the table. The unfolding forearms were nearly vertical, and the knees were at about a forty-five degree angle. The feet were staying flexed for some reason, so that her heels were touching the surface, but her toes were still pointed back up toward her shins, with the soles facing inwards at a very unnatural angle.
“I’m Doctor Mallampalli,” he said. “Rama Mallampalli. This is Doctor Barrington, and these are nurses Barnett and Wellesley.”
He was clearly addressing Carson and me. We introduced ourselves.
“From the American heartland, I understand,” he said, with a hearty handshake. “Well, we are honored. What brings you all this way? Our frozen guest in there?”
“If it’s the one we’re afraid it might be, yes, that’s it.”
“Well, let us go see just who she is,” he said, and walked briskly into the autopsy room. “I think we can reduce the heating now,” he said, and Nurse Barnett moved into a corner and adjusted the thermostat.
“Ah, yes, we’re somewhat supine now,” he said. “Come here, Deputy, and see her face. It’s quite exposed. . . .”
I walked over, took one look, and was certain. “It’s Emma,” I said. “No doubt.” I inhaled deeply. “Son of a bitch.” You always find yourself hoping, right up to the last moment.
“You sound very sure,” said Trowbridge.
“See that little scar, above her right eye . . .” I pointed. “I was present the night she got that.”
“You are certain, then?” asked Dr. Mallampalli.
“Yes.” I peered more closely. “Do you think that’s a ligature mark on her neck, there, or do you think it’s a fold line?”
“I shall have to make a determination on that point when I can see it more clearly,” he said. He slipped some latex gloves on, reached out, and put pressure on the left knee of the thawing victim. There didn’t seem to be much free movement in the joint.
“I would estimate another eight hours,” said Dr. Mallampalli, “before we can commence the autopsy. I do not wish to damage any of the tissues.” He turned and smiled at the rest of us. “Nor do I wish to freeze my hands once I am inside.”
He looked directly at me. “You knew the victim, then?”
“Yes,” I said. “My wife and I were friends of her parents, and she was a very good friend of our daughter. They’re about the same age.”
“My condolences,” he said.
“Thank you.”
“You will be attending the autopsy, then?”
“I’d think not,” said Trowbridge. “Attendance will be limited to two officers who are officially on this case.”
That was fine with me, and I said so. I hate autopsies of people I know. It really screws up your memories of them.
“And the results?” asked Dr. Mallampalli. “Just for the same officers?”
“I believe so,” said Trowbridge. “If Deputy Houseman receives a copy, it should be from the investigative team.”
I had no objection that, either. It was the same way we’d do it back home. I looked at my watch. It was nearly one in the morning. “I’m going to have to make a couple of notification calls . . . to the US,” I added, quickly, forestalling an objection from Trowbridge. “And then I’m going to have to tell my daughter and her roommate.”
“I’m afraid that’s not going to be possible for a while,” said a voice behind us.
I turned around. The speaker was a man in his late fifties, over six feet, thin, and dressed in slacks and a sweater. He showed Trowbridge his credentials. I didn’t get a good look at them, and probably wouldn’t have been able to tell the difference between a police badge and a public works icon unless I’d read the printing. But Trowbridge popped to like a rear rank private.
“Sergeant Trowbridge, sir. I’m the case officer present.”
“Is there somewhere we can talk a bit?” asked the man.
“Yes sir,” said Trowbridge.
“I’m Dr. Mallampalli, and this is Dr. Barrington.” I thought Dr. Mallampalli had also reacted slightly when he saw the man’s credentials. “I’m rather surprised to have y
ou here.”
The man ignored that. “You’re a . . . Deputy Houseman, from the US?” he asked. It sounded rhetorical.
“Yes.”
“Why don’t you come with us, too.” It wasn’t a question, but more of a very polite order.
“Sure.” I had a feeling that this was something I really didn’t want to miss.
“I’m Carson Hilgenberg,” said Carson. “Prosecuting attorney, Nation County, Iowa, USA”
“Indeed,” said the man. “And you’ll be waiting in the hall for us.” He addressed Nurse Barnett. “You’ll see that he’s provided for? Coffee and the like. . . .”
She looked at Dr. Mallampalli. He nodded, vigorously.
“Yes,” she said.
He then spoke to Constable Richards. “Would you be kind enough to stay with Mr. Hilgenberg, here? No telephone calls, now, either of you.” His voice was gently admonishing, but somehow he brooked no arguments. “The autopsy room will be out of bounds, and there will be nothing regarding this unfortunate woman discussed until further notice.”
Dr. Mallampalli said, “This way . . .” and we walked a short distance down the hall to a physician’s conference room.
The tall man addressed me as soon as the door had swung shut. “The name’s Adrian Blyth,” he said. “MI5. I believe we have an agent Pollard of the FBI in common?” He stuck out his hand.
I shook it. “You’re the one George talked to about Skripkin. . . .” I was thinking, MI5? No shit? I’d thought he was Special Branch. That had been important enough for me. But it wasn’t the sort of thing you’d actually say. I was very impressed.
He smiled. “None other. I’m sorry we have to meet under such circumstances.”
We sat around the small conference table. Dr. Mallampalli spoke first.
“This is quite extraordinary,” he said. “Will the protocol regarding the distribution of our report change?”
“Oh, yes,” said Blyth. “Dr. Haworth will be over shortly, to assist you. He may well have an assistant of his own in tow. Your report will be made to us, with a copy to Special Branch only. SO13. There will be no information given the press until we clear it.”
“Ah.” Dr. Mallampalli nodded. “Would you rather we typed or dictated it?”
“Regretfully, typing would seem in order here.” He smiled.
“You trust my spelling more than I,” said Dr. Mallampalli, with a grin. “It is good to see you again.”
“Always a pleasure working with you,” said Blyth. “All forensic samples and evidence shall be filed with Sergeant Trowbridge here, under a case number I shall provide.”
“Not to worry,” said Trowbridge.
Dr. Barrington spoke. “Is there anything in particular we should have the laboratory screen for?”
“Anything that would seem indicated,” said Blyth. “She was a hostage . . . she may have been given something that would make her more pliable.” He shrugged. “It’s so hard to tell with the little we know. Now if you men of medicine would excuse us, we’ve some very pedestrian business to conduct amongst ourselves.”
When just the three of us were in the room, Blyth sat on the corner of the desk. “Sergeant,” he said, “would you check in that refrigerator and see if there is anything for us to drink? Water, preferably.”
As Trowbridge handed him a bottle of water, and I nodded that I’d like one, too, Blyth seemed to relax his guard. “First of all, you have my sincerest apologies. If I had been notified somewhat earlier,” and he glanced at Trowbridge, “I would have spared you the identification process.”
“That’s okay,” I said. “It’s one of the reasons I’m here. Besides, I’d really prefer being the one to do it, rather than my daughter.” What I think he meant was that he wouldn’t have let me get involved in any way, but as long as I was here, he’d make the best of it.
“You also have my sympathies. I understand you knew her?”
“Pretty much. It’s a small town, we all know each other.”
“Indeed. This is a very interesting case,” he said. “Let me begin by saying that MI5 is not a police agency. We don’t make arrests or such things. We rely on Sgt. Trowbridge, here, for the real work.” He smiled at Trowbridge, who just blinked back. “We are merely good citizens, who gather intelligence.”
Right, I thought. Sure. But I just said, “Okay. Kind of like the NSA, then. The real one, not the movie version.”
“Exactly. And like them, we also do not assassinate people.”
“Bloody shame,” said Trowbridge.
“Well, yes, on occasion,” said Blyth, with another smile. “Nonetheless . . . we do get on somehow. Now . . . Deputy?”
“Carl is just fine. Really.”
“Right. Well, Carl, as long as you’re in up to your elbows, I’m going to ask you to cooperate with us for a bit.”
“Sure.”
“Unofficially. Has to be that way. Right, then, here we go. Nothing we say here goes elsewhere, you understand? Good.” He sighed. “We’ve received a second tape. Or, more properly, the BBC has done. Again, it’s from a group calling themselves the “London Reform Movement for the Freedom of Khaled al Fawwaz and Ibrahim Eidarous and Lions of the Front for Jihad in Britain.” Again, the wan sort of smile. “With such a clumsy title, I believe we have some true amateurs here. This time, however, there is a clear demand, although still not with any audio enhancement. They are demanding the release of all political prisoners being detained under ATCSA in Belmarsh, or they say they’ll kill her. I have to tell you that from their title, we expected no less.”
“But now that she’s dead? I mean, it’s totally meaningless.” He didn’t answer immediately. “Isn’t it?” I asked.
“Well, one would certainly think, wouldn’t one. Not that we’d actually release prisoners, you understand, regardless of her state of being. But they also refer to a forthcoming tape and additional set of demands, and we’d just as soon not let anyone know that we know she’s dead. Not just yet.”
I don’t know if he thought I’d ask a question or not, but I had absolutely no idea what was going on and I didn’t want to look any dumber than I was. I think Trowbridge felt the same way. Finally, I said, “Okay. Just so I have some idea, can I assume that Belmarsh is some sort of jail or prison, and those letters you mentioned before it stand for what?”
“Ah. Yes. Pardon me. Belmarsh is a prison,” he said. “A very secure detention facility. And ATCSA is an acronym for the Anti-Terrorism, Crime and Security Act, put in place in 2001, shortly after September 11th. It expanded arrest and detention powers.”
“Oh.” I twisted off the cap on my water bottle. “We’re way out of my league, here.”
“Indeed,” said Blyth, “and I apologize. But I’m afraid I’d like to have you do something for us.”
I must have looked very curious, because he smiled. “Not to worry. You’d be very nearly un-involved,” he said. “I’ve told you this much because of the incident you and friend George of the FBI lived through two years ago. What we ask of you this time is your fullest cooperation.”
“You’ve got it,” I said. I meant it.
“You aren’t to be allowed to tell anyone that Emma Schiller is dead.”
I considered that for a second. “Oh, boy. Well, sure, okay, but . . .” A whole lot of stuff was going through my head. “This is gonna mean that I’ve gotta go back to my daughter’s flat . . . and they’re gonna be all concerned about her being held hostage, okay. And I’ve got to sit there and not tell them that she’s dead?”
“Yes.”
“Some of her relatives are coming over, to see what they can do to obtain her release,” I said. “I can’t tell them, either?”
“No. No, I’m afraid not. I know it’s asking a lot.”
“No shit,” I said. I inhaled, held it, and then let it out with “Then there’s my boss. I’m gonna have to lie to him, at least by omission.” I chewed my lower lip for a few seconds. “He can’t know?”
“No. Not yet.”
“So, for how long? Any idea?”
“No. None.”
“A guess?”
He shook his head. “No idea. Not forever, surely. But just how long depends on too many variables.”
I waited a second, hoping to get a partial list of variables from him. None were forthcoming. This was going to be a tough one.
“Okay. I mean, sure. Of course. It’s gotta be done, it’s gotta be done.”
“Good. Speaking of your boss a moment ago . . . just why is it you’re here?” He sounded like somebody had told him, and he just hadn’t been able to believe it.
I explained everything to him, as quickly as I could. I think he just pretended to understand.
“Ah. Well, then, I’m glad we understand our respective positions.”
“Yeah.” I turned my palms up. “Yours is easier to state. For mine . . . I’m absolutely not in any position to do much about the situation. But can I at least have your best guarantee that these bastards will get what’s coming to them?”
“I think I can say that, yes. Special Branch will certainly see to that. I do apologize, about you’re being dragged into it like this and all. But I wasn’t told about the body recovery, or about the call to you to assist in identification, until it was too late to do anything about it.” A little exasperation crept into his otherwise laid-back voice. He looked at Trowbridge again, as he said it, not so much to place blame, but to let him know that they’d be discussing something along those lines shortly.
“That’s okay. I sure understand that.” I took a big gulp of water. “Are you familiar with this particular group?”
Blyth pulled his PDA from his pocket. “The London Reform Movement for the Freedom of Khaled al Fawwaz and Ibrahim Eidarous and Lions of the Front for Jihad in Britain?” He closed it. “Not the faintest glimmer of recognition. It does sound as though someone had combined two or more groups. . . . But given the little we do know about them from their activities, I’d say more of an amateur enterprise.”
“Would you be able to give me some more background on ’em, when you get it?”
I think he started to automatically refuse, and then caught himself. “Ah. You’re looking for some connection to the group you and Agent Pollard encountered in the US, aren’t you?”
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