Read Online The Turning Tide by Brooke Magnanti - Free Book Online
Authors: Brooke Magnanti
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said to Harriet, who nodded. ‘Dental records probably won’t help much.’
Harriet Hitchin frowned at the body. ‘So, apart from the bag I don’t see anything that absolutely excludes the possibility that the death was natural or self-inflicted . . .’ she said.
Iain raised his eyebrows. ‘You mean apart from the tie on his hands?’
Harriet glanced at it. ‘Could have been an autoerotic accident,’ she said. ‘I’ve seen more extreme.’
‘I don’t doubt it,’ he said. ‘But in a bag?’
‘Remember that spy?’ Harriet said. ‘The one who zipped himself in a locked suitcase in the bath? This guy isn’t even locked in.’
‘Aye, sure. But I’m betting that fellow didn’t also have a cut neck,’ Iain said.
‘What cut neck?’
Iain ran his finger across the stiff’s chin, brushing where a deep gouge spanned the neck from ear to ear. The edges were nibbled just as the lips and eyelids had been, but it was clearly a cut made by a knife. The photographer raised the camera to his face and started snapping.
Iain smirked at the doctor. ‘See? Even the kid can see the cut,’ he said. ‘First day and all.’
‘Uh, well,’ Harriet said. ‘Hard to tell when decomp sets in.’
‘The body’s in bad shape, but not that bad,’ Iain said.
‘It could still be self-inflicted,’ she said.
Iain shook his head. ‘Man ties himself up, cuts his own throat, then zips himself in a bag and throws himself in the sea. Possible? Sure. Likely? Nae chance.’
Harriet crossed her arms. ‘Iain, who’s the pathologist again?’
‘You are, Professor,’ Iain said. She wasn’t a professor any more, not after an inquiry into poor record keeping in Leeds threw her expert witness statements into question. It hadn’t been enough for her to lose her license, but her career would never recover. If she went back to England, it was unlikely the Home Office would have her as one of their pathologists again.
‘It’s Doctor, please,’ she corrected.
‘Of course, Doctor,’ Iain said, and smiled. He hadn’t forgotten. Her reputation for sloppy work preceded her, and even if it hadn’t, a simple Internet search would have revealed it. Harriet Hitchin never spotted the windup. Nae sense of humour.
‘Right, enough of what we can see; now let’s get to what we can’t see. Will you open up?’ she asked.
Iain nodded. The pathologist was meant to do this part but he didn’t mind getting on with it. First he made a y-shaped cut below the neck and down the chest. He loosened the skin and fat from the abdomen by wiggling his finger underneath; the layers separated from the muscle easily. There was no need for the rib shears today. The sternum and fronts of the ribs, softer than they would have been in a fresh body, came away easily using a bread knife.
Iain’s tattooed arms sunk in the opening he had created and freed the organs. He kept a large PM-40 scalpel handy to loosen the connective tissues, but it was unnecessary and they pulled free with ease. Even so, the organs were in better shape than he expected – from the cold water, probably. He took out the heart and lungs together, then the liver, stomach and kidneys in another block. It all went into a washing-up basin.
He went back to the body and prised the skin of the neck away from the muscles, slowly and carefully excising the trachea and tongue. The cause of death was clear: the deep and fatal cuts to the throat. Iain put a white plastic ruler for scale next to the cuts. He guided Dougie to the shredded trachea to make sure there was a photographic record of the damage that had gone deep into the tissue.
‘Oh, now that’s interesting . . .’ Iain wormed his little finger under a thin arch of bone.
‘What’s that?’ Dougie’s voice grew high and thin. Iain hid a smirk. He knew the tone of voice well; by his estimation they would be mopping up vomit or peeling the newbie off the floor in five minutes’ time, ten at most.
‘The hyoid
Harriet Hitchin frowned at the body. ‘So, apart from the bag I don’t see anything that absolutely excludes the possibility that the death was natural or self-inflicted . . .’ she said.
Iain raised his eyebrows. ‘You mean apart from the tie on his hands?’
Harriet glanced at it. ‘Could have been an autoerotic accident,’ she said. ‘I’ve seen more extreme.’
‘I don’t doubt it,’ he said. ‘But in a bag?’
‘Remember that spy?’ Harriet said. ‘The one who zipped himself in a locked suitcase in the bath? This guy isn’t even locked in.’
‘Aye, sure. But I’m betting that fellow didn’t also have a cut neck,’ Iain said.
‘What cut neck?’
Iain ran his finger across the stiff’s chin, brushing where a deep gouge spanned the neck from ear to ear. The edges were nibbled just as the lips and eyelids had been, but it was clearly a cut made by a knife. The photographer raised the camera to his face and started snapping.
Iain smirked at the doctor. ‘See? Even the kid can see the cut,’ he said. ‘First day and all.’
‘Uh, well,’ Harriet said. ‘Hard to tell when decomp sets in.’
‘The body’s in bad shape, but not that bad,’ Iain said.
‘It could still be self-inflicted,’ she said.
Iain shook his head. ‘Man ties himself up, cuts his own throat, then zips himself in a bag and throws himself in the sea. Possible? Sure. Likely? Nae chance.’
Harriet crossed her arms. ‘Iain, who’s the pathologist again?’
‘You are, Professor,’ Iain said. She wasn’t a professor any more, not after an inquiry into poor record keeping in Leeds threw her expert witness statements into question. It hadn’t been enough for her to lose her license, but her career would never recover. If she went back to England, it was unlikely the Home Office would have her as one of their pathologists again.
‘It’s Doctor, please,’ she corrected.
‘Of course, Doctor,’ Iain said, and smiled. He hadn’t forgotten. Her reputation for sloppy work preceded her, and even if it hadn’t, a simple Internet search would have revealed it. Harriet Hitchin never spotted the windup. Nae sense of humour.
‘Right, enough of what we can see; now let’s get to what we can’t see. Will you open up?’ she asked.
Iain nodded. The pathologist was meant to do this part but he didn’t mind getting on with it. First he made a y-shaped cut below the neck and down the chest. He loosened the skin and fat from the abdomen by wiggling his finger underneath; the layers separated from the muscle easily. There was no need for the rib shears today. The sternum and fronts of the ribs, softer than they would have been in a fresh body, came away easily using a bread knife.
Iain’s tattooed arms sunk in the opening he had created and freed the organs. He kept a large PM-40 scalpel handy to loosen the connective tissues, but it was unnecessary and they pulled free with ease. Even so, the organs were in better shape than he expected – from the cold water, probably. He took out the heart and lungs together, then the liver, stomach and kidneys in another block. It all went into a washing-up basin.
He went back to the body and prised the skin of the neck away from the muscles, slowly and carefully excising the trachea and tongue. The cause of death was clear: the deep and fatal cuts to the throat. Iain put a white plastic ruler for scale next to the cuts. He guided Dougie to the shredded trachea to make sure there was a photographic record of the damage that had gone deep into the tissue.
‘Oh, now that’s interesting . . .’ Iain wormed his little finger under a thin arch of bone.
‘What’s that?’ Dougie’s voice grew high and thin. Iain hid a smirk. He knew the tone of voice well; by his estimation they would be mopping up vomit or peeling the newbie off the floor in five minutes’ time, ten at most.
‘The hyoid
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