Read Online A Journal of Sin by Darryl Donaghue - Free Book Online
Authors: Darryl Donaghue
Ads: Link
only a well-worn track, became harder to see the further she walked into the woods. She wondered if murders in nice, comfortable hotels had gone out of fashion, or whether they only happened in stories. She shook the torch. Amy’s map said the body was straight ahead, if she’d stayed on the right path. It felt as though she’d been pushing through branches and stepping over tree roots for far longer than the map’s short line suggested.
He lay face up in the sludge. Sarah held her arm in front of Sam.
‘Are you sure you want to see this?’
‘Well, I’ve come all this way, haven’t I?’
‘That doesn’t answer my question. I know I asked you out here, and I appreciate you coming, but I wouldn’t think any less if you changed your mind.’ Handling a freshly murdered body was entirely different to examining a morgue’s clean cadaver or looking over a nasty rash in a doctor’s office. The small talk on the way here had covered the weather, the government’s attitude to the sector and what to expect at the crime scene - standard emergency services topics. They’d briefly discussed their work history; he’d become a GP as soon as possible after graduating.
‘I’ll be fine.’ He didn’t sound confident, but there was only one way to find out. Sarah passed him a pair of gloves and put on her own.
‘The killer made a poor effort to bury him.’ She looked back in the direction of the path. ‘He’s only twenty metres or so from the path.’
‘He’s hardly even been buried.’ Father Michael lay under a layer of mud, the flatness of which suggested a shovel had been used.
‘His head and legs are on show and he’s been placed, or dumped, between two tree trunks.’ Sarah crouched above his head. His eyes stared towards the sky and his soft, flabby face leant to one side. Dark blood pooled along his jawline and neck. ‘It’s unlikely the killer wanted to leave him here. It’s too far from the path if he for some reason wanted him to be found, and if you want to genuinely bury someone, you’re not going to try between two trees; the roots will only let you dig so deep.’ The wind picked up, chilling her fingers through her gloves, but easing the smell wafting from the body. Sam nodded along with her observations, holding his hand over his nose. ‘There are no visible injuries to the face or neck. Take a look and see what you think.’
He crouched on the other side of the body. ‘It’s hard to tell without moving too much. Certainly nothing on the face.’ He stood up quickly and took a stumbled step back. She looked up, but didn’t ask if he was okay again.
Father Michael wore a cassock, long black vestments rarely seen as far west as England. Priests in the West preferred black shirts with the clerical ‘dog’ collar or even simple plain clothes, something Father Michael hadn’t been short of. She removed the mud from his chest as best she could.
‘Four puncture wounds to the stomach.’ Best practice suggested that every touch, every movement had the potential to erase essential forensic evidence. Her situation didn’t allow for best practice and she knew she’d have to move the body at some stage. His clothes were thick with blood and she pulled them back further, below the waist, and saw the most gruesome injury of all: stab wounds to the genitals.
She sprung back, stumbling nto a thick tree trunk, as a powerful queasy sensation built in her stomach. She turned one-eighty, covering her mouth, expecting a surge of bile to reach up any second. There were dead bodies and there were dead bodies. This would shock an officer with a lifetime of service; this would turn the stomach of the old school crowd and those tough as nails cops she’d read about and trained under. She held it in. Sam, however, was bent over, hand on a tree supporting him as he violently vomited.
She took a couple of deep breaths to settle her nerves. ‘You should stay over there while I look over the body.’
He lay face up in the sludge. Sarah held her arm in front of Sam.
‘Are you sure you want to see this?’
‘Well, I’ve come all this way, haven’t I?’
‘That doesn’t answer my question. I know I asked you out here, and I appreciate you coming, but I wouldn’t think any less if you changed your mind.’ Handling a freshly murdered body was entirely different to examining a morgue’s clean cadaver or looking over a nasty rash in a doctor’s office. The small talk on the way here had covered the weather, the government’s attitude to the sector and what to expect at the crime scene - standard emergency services topics. They’d briefly discussed their work history; he’d become a GP as soon as possible after graduating.
‘I’ll be fine.’ He didn’t sound confident, but there was only one way to find out. Sarah passed him a pair of gloves and put on her own.
‘The killer made a poor effort to bury him.’ She looked back in the direction of the path. ‘He’s only twenty metres or so from the path.’
‘He’s hardly even been buried.’ Father Michael lay under a layer of mud, the flatness of which suggested a shovel had been used.
‘His head and legs are on show and he’s been placed, or dumped, between two tree trunks.’ Sarah crouched above his head. His eyes stared towards the sky and his soft, flabby face leant to one side. Dark blood pooled along his jawline and neck. ‘It’s unlikely the killer wanted to leave him here. It’s too far from the path if he for some reason wanted him to be found, and if you want to genuinely bury someone, you’re not going to try between two trees; the roots will only let you dig so deep.’ The wind picked up, chilling her fingers through her gloves, but easing the smell wafting from the body. Sam nodded along with her observations, holding his hand over his nose. ‘There are no visible injuries to the face or neck. Take a look and see what you think.’
He crouched on the other side of the body. ‘It’s hard to tell without moving too much. Certainly nothing on the face.’ He stood up quickly and took a stumbled step back. She looked up, but didn’t ask if he was okay again.
Father Michael wore a cassock, long black vestments rarely seen as far west as England. Priests in the West preferred black shirts with the clerical ‘dog’ collar or even simple plain clothes, something Father Michael hadn’t been short of. She removed the mud from his chest as best she could.
‘Four puncture wounds to the stomach.’ Best practice suggested that every touch, every movement had the potential to erase essential forensic evidence. Her situation didn’t allow for best practice and she knew she’d have to move the body at some stage. His clothes were thick with blood and she pulled them back further, below the waist, and saw the most gruesome injury of all: stab wounds to the genitals.
She sprung back, stumbling nto a thick tree trunk, as a powerful queasy sensation built in her stomach. She turned one-eighty, covering her mouth, expecting a surge of bile to reach up any second. There were dead bodies and there were dead bodies. This would shock an officer with a lifetime of service; this would turn the stomach of the old school crowd and those tough as nails cops she’d read about and trained under. She held it in. Sam, however, was bent over, hand on a tree supporting him as he violently vomited.
She took a couple of deep breaths to settle her nerves. ‘You should stay over there while I look over the body.’
Similar Books
