“You gentlemen might want to step back beyond the yellow line,” the pathologist suggested, indicating a line on the floor by the entrance to the washroom area.
“Good idea,” Dillon said, dragging a protesting Copeland back with him. Although there was nothing to indicate that Tracey had any conditions that might make her a health hazard, they were not wearing masks and there was a risk of unwittingly breathing in airborne blood in the fine spray the saw generated.
“I find this the most interesting part,” Copeland said from behind the line.
“You’re sick in the head, you know that?” Dillon told him.
“I agree with George,” Ned said. “This is all so fascinating.”
“You should seek professional help,” Dillon advised him.
The buzz of the saw was uncomfortably loud in the tight confines of the mortuary, and it seemed to go on forever. Eventually, her task completed, Emma stood aside and the pathologist pulled off the cap of the skull in preparation for removing the brain.
“You can come back over now,” Emma told them, smiling happily.
Anyone would think she was doing us a favour, Dillon thought, noting with some disgust that George Copeland and his buddy, nerdy Ned, were heading back to the body before she had even finished speaking.
“I suppose we had better take a look, too,” Sam Calvin said.
“I suppose so,” Dillon agreed, forcing himself to take a step closer, and then another, and then another, until he was near enough to see the dura matter, the tissue covering the dead girl’s brain. He watched the pathologist cut that away and lift the brain out of the cranial cavity. Claxton weighed and inspected it, and recorded his findings.
Save for the various tissues that Sam and George had packaged as samples, the extracted organs were placed together in a single plastic bag and deposited back inside the body cavity, which was sewn up by Emma.
The autopsy was finally over and the pathologist confirmed that the cause of death was a single cut to the neck, which was carried out anti-mortem. This had severed the windpipe and led to arterial bleed out or exsanguination. The vaginal injuries were inflicted peri-mortem and would have proved fatal had she not already received the terminal neck injuries. The incisions to her abdomen and the partial extraction of her intestine were all done post-mortem. “An interesting piece de resistance, wouldn’t you say?” Claxton said.
“I’m sure the Psychobabble people would think so,” Dillon agreed.
Four long hours after it started, the SPM was finally over, and Dillon had hated every painful minute of it.
After collecting the exhibits and exchanging the usual pleasantries they made their way out to the front of the building as quickly as they could. It was raining heavily and the air was thick with diesel fumes, but compared to the oppressive atmosphere inside the mortuary it was pure heaven.
“Those places always give me the creeps,” Dillon said, dodging puddles as they walked towards the Vauxhall Astra pool car.
“You shouldn’t let it get to you, guv,” Copeland said. “You have to be completely detached and think of the body as a machine we’re examining for mechanical defects. You can’t let yourself be drawn in by who the person was or anything like that.”
Dillon failed to see how anyone could avoid being drawn in, especially when the victim was young, like this one. Even after having seen it with his own eyes, he still couldn’t quite believe the extent to which this woman had been defiled. How could anyone not be disturbed by seeing a sight like that?
“What do you think about the pathologist’s suggestion to revisit the body in a few days to see if any further evidential bruising comes out?” Copeland asked. These had been Claxton’s parting words. He’d pointed out that bruising isn’t always apparent on fresh cadavers. Sometimes it takes several days for marks to appear and even longer for them to become fully developed.
“Not sure if it’s going to give us anything more than we’ve already got, to be honest, George. We know how she died. Logging some additional bruises won’t take us any closer to her killer.”
“Suppose so,” Copeland said, wondering if Dillon really believed that or was just trying to avoid a return trip to the mortuary.
“Anyway,” Dillon said, “it can always be checked during the second PM.” If someone was arrested and charged, their defence team would be able to instruct an independent pathologist to carry out a second PM to verify the findings of Dr Claxton. If no one was charged by the time the Coroner was ready to release the body to the family, the Coroner’s Office would have to arrange a second PM anyway. And the good thing about second PMs, they both knew, was that they didn’t require a DI to attend.
Dillon checked his watch and was surprised to see it was gone four already. “George, I want you to complete a lab form tonight and get the nail scrapings up to the FSS at Lambeth first thing tomorrow morning. There’s a good chance that whatever trace material was recovered from under her nails belongs to our killer.” He pictured Winston’s badly gouged face from last night and thought about the flesh under Tracey’s nails. What were the odds that these two events were unconnected?
A simple comparison of two samples – the DNA profile recorded on Winston’s file and the findings from the skin found under the victim’s nails – would provide all the answers they needed, but the results would take the best part of two days to come back, even though the Forensic Science Service would fast track the submission.
It was definitely looking like Winston had killed her, but why had he left the message? And what had driven him to mutilate her body like that? He was still trying to fathom that last one out when the telephone rang.
It was Jack.
“The drug squad has housed Winston for us. I need you to get back to
