'Not that one.' Doc Fraser slid the body back into the fridge. 'Filthy Freddie we used to call him: just another poor homeless bastard. It's the same every year - soon as the weather starts to turn, they get high or drunk, go to sleep in a shop doorway and don't wake up. That's the trouble with care in the community - nobody does.' The pathologist pulled out another drawer. 'Marcus Young. It's fascinating to see the remains so intact, thought we were going to be stuck with slabs of meat and bags of mince on this one.' He had a brief scratch at the sides of his stomach. 'Fascinating.' 'Care to define 'Fascinating'? Faulds wants an update.' Doc Fraser sighed and slipped his socked feet back into his morgue clogs. 'If he'd bothered turning up for the PM he wouldn't need an update.' 'High-powered lunch.' 'Ah, how the other half live. I had a cheese and pickle sandwich with no bloody pickle in it.' He slid the refrigerated drawer shut, then shuffled out of the cutting room, down the corridor and into the pathologists' office. Logan followed him, making the tea while Doc Fraser climbed into a pair of grey trousers and a stripy shirt, then pulled a V-necked jumper over the top. 'Two and a coo for me,' said the pathologist, settling in behind his desk. 'I'd offer you a garibaldi, but someone's eaten them all.' He picked up a pad of A4 and started scribbling on it. 'Marcus and Vicky Young were almost certainly killed by the same knife: approximately eight inches long, extremely sharp. The husband was beaten unconscious, then his throat was cut vertically from here to here ...' He demonstrated by running a finger from just beneath his chin all the way down to his clavicle. 'And then from side to side, severing pretty much every major vein and artery north of the heart. He'd have bled out in seconds, especially if he was upside down. Head was removed from the back - which is pretty unusual - in a single cut.' 'Here you go,' Logan plonked a mug of tea on the desk,'milk, two sugars.' 'Ooh, lovely. Anyway, we're looking at someone who's had a lot of practice. It's a remarkable piece of work, very skilled. The skinning alone ...' He took a sip of tea. 'I'd say our victim probably went from being a living, breathing human being to lumps of meat in about thirty minutes. No hesitation marks around the joints, no false starts, just clean, economical cuts.' 'What about the woman?' 'Hmm? Oh, she's a different kettle of fish. Same knife, but there's no precision: her throat was slashed, not cut. This wasn't the Flesher's best work. Educated guess: our killer was disturbed.' 'Disturbed?' said a voice from the door. 'That's a bit of an understatement, isn't it? Bug-shit crazy's more like it.' Jackie Watson stood on the threshold, the smile slipping from her face as she spotted Logan. 'My guvnor wants an update on the post mortems.' 'See?' Doc Frazer stuck a biro in his tea and gave it a stir. 'No one wants to attend the things any more, they just want the edited highlights. What happened to professional pride?' Jackie looked long and hard at Logan. 'If you like I can come back later.' 'Don't be silly.' The pathologist pointed at the visitor chairs. 'Sit your bum down and DS McRae will make you a nice cup of tea.' And so began one of the most awkward half hours Logan had endured for a long time. At one point - while Doc Fraser was going on about blood patterns - Logan's leg accidentally touched Jackie's. She actually flinched. Then, when it was finally over, and the pathologist had shooed them out of his office, they stood in the corridor, not looking at each other. Logan:'I was--' Jackie:'It's not--'
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