Read Online A Long Time Dead (The Dead Trilogy) by Andrew Barrett - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Andrew Barrett
Ads: Link
Haynes.
* * *
Roger’s work consisted of photographing the features of the body as a whole and those of the wounds it had sustained to the abdomen and throat, before and after cleaning. Under Wainwright’s instruction, they paid particular attention to the depth of the cuts, the angles at which they were made and the damage each wound had caused. When Roger had taken all the external shots, he stepped away to the back of the room, avoiding Haynes’s occasional glances, and waited for Wainwright to take all the necessary hair samples and intimate swabs, keeping DC Clements busy with sealing up bags and noting down times and exhibit numbers.
Using a scalpel, Wainwright made a ‘Y’ incision beneath the corpse’s throat, and slit through the soft skin between her breasts and down, through a constant and thin layer of fat, towards her pelvis, avoiding the stab wound just below her rib cage. It appeared that he was drawing with a thick red pen, leaving a crimson trail as the flesh parted. He peeled the skin aside, using the scalpel to sever the link between it and the flesh beneath. And that was when something more powerful eclipsed the smell of disinfectant.
“Roger,” Wainwright said, “photograph, please?”
Roger closed up to the body; felt the cold steel of the table against his thigh, felt the abnormal coolness of Sally Delaney’s blood-splashed arm against his plastic apron as he leaned over to where Wainwright’s bloodied glove pointed.
“There,” he said, “the incision into the small intestine.” And then quietly, as if to himself, “Through into the ileum.”
The smell was noxious, and Roger’s throat closed up. “Right,” he said, aiming the flash. Then the camera’s bellows floated outwards until the image of the wound was sharp on the ground-glass screen. Regaining his composure, he knocked the f-stop down to 5.6, pressed the shutter release, and then exhaled.
“Thanks,” Wainwright said.
“Another, with a scale?” Roger asked.
“Please.”
Later, Roger photographed the body’s organs to indicate the damage caused to them by the attacker’s blade or simply by over exuberant living, forcing himself to ignore the smell of the gutted corpse. They always said the only way to get used to the smell was to breathe it in deeply as you would the air in a rose garden or a freshly mown meadow. Never worked for him; they always smelled just like someone else’s shit.
Wainwright collected blood samples for toxicology and forensic analysis by severing the femoral artery, and ran his hand along the inner thigh to force the coalescing blood into a plastic bottle, which he handed to DC Clements. Using a syringe, he took a urine sample from the bladder and filled another plastic bottle. DC Clements cringed each time a bottle of body fluid or a smeared swab came her way.
Firth looked away from the carcass and said, “Stinks like one of your farts, Roger.”
“Strange that, Lenny, I was just thinking that about your breath.”
Shelby looked on impassively, arms folded; there in the role of deputy, he gathered pertinent information for Detective Superintendent Chamberlain.
Wainwright rinsed and dried his gloved hands and diligently updated his notes. Then, he stripped away the skin around the neck wound, scaled it, and called for more photographs. And then Roger watched as he carefully sliced away the surrounding muscle until—
“There’s our fatal wound.”
Shelby stepped forward, leaned in, and noted the partially severed artery.
The flash fired. Mumbles among the CID.
Much to Roger’s relief, Wainwright signified the end of the examination, and gave permission for Ann to dump the black plastic bag containing sectioned organs back into the cadaver’s abdominal cavity. She then packed the brainless skull with cotton wool, pulled the scalp back into position and began sewing. Quietly, she whistled.
Roger took a deep breath and took the dead girl’s fingerprints. With fine
* * *
Roger’s work consisted of photographing the features of the body as a whole and those of the wounds it had sustained to the abdomen and throat, before and after cleaning. Under Wainwright’s instruction, they paid particular attention to the depth of the cuts, the angles at which they were made and the damage each wound had caused. When Roger had taken all the external shots, he stepped away to the back of the room, avoiding Haynes’s occasional glances, and waited for Wainwright to take all the necessary hair samples and intimate swabs, keeping DC Clements busy with sealing up bags and noting down times and exhibit numbers.
Using a scalpel, Wainwright made a ‘Y’ incision beneath the corpse’s throat, and slit through the soft skin between her breasts and down, through a constant and thin layer of fat, towards her pelvis, avoiding the stab wound just below her rib cage. It appeared that he was drawing with a thick red pen, leaving a crimson trail as the flesh parted. He peeled the skin aside, using the scalpel to sever the link between it and the flesh beneath. And that was when something more powerful eclipsed the smell of disinfectant.
“Roger,” Wainwright said, “photograph, please?”
Roger closed up to the body; felt the cold steel of the table against his thigh, felt the abnormal coolness of Sally Delaney’s blood-splashed arm against his plastic apron as he leaned over to where Wainwright’s bloodied glove pointed.
“There,” he said, “the incision into the small intestine.” And then quietly, as if to himself, “Through into the ileum.”
The smell was noxious, and Roger’s throat closed up. “Right,” he said, aiming the flash. Then the camera’s bellows floated outwards until the image of the wound was sharp on the ground-glass screen. Regaining his composure, he knocked the f-stop down to 5.6, pressed the shutter release, and then exhaled.
“Thanks,” Wainwright said.
“Another, with a scale?” Roger asked.
“Please.”
Later, Roger photographed the body’s organs to indicate the damage caused to them by the attacker’s blade or simply by over exuberant living, forcing himself to ignore the smell of the gutted corpse. They always said the only way to get used to the smell was to breathe it in deeply as you would the air in a rose garden or a freshly mown meadow. Never worked for him; they always smelled just like someone else’s shit.
Wainwright collected blood samples for toxicology and forensic analysis by severing the femoral artery, and ran his hand along the inner thigh to force the coalescing blood into a plastic bottle, which he handed to DC Clements. Using a syringe, he took a urine sample from the bladder and filled another plastic bottle. DC Clements cringed each time a bottle of body fluid or a smeared swab came her way.
Firth looked away from the carcass and said, “Stinks like one of your farts, Roger.”
“Strange that, Lenny, I was just thinking that about your breath.”
Shelby looked on impassively, arms folded; there in the role of deputy, he gathered pertinent information for Detective Superintendent Chamberlain.
Wainwright rinsed and dried his gloved hands and diligently updated his notes. Then, he stripped away the skin around the neck wound, scaled it, and called for more photographs. And then Roger watched as he carefully sliced away the surrounding muscle until—
“There’s our fatal wound.”
Shelby stepped forward, leaned in, and noted the partially severed artery.
The flash fired. Mumbles among the CID.
Much to Roger’s relief, Wainwright signified the end of the examination, and gave permission for Ann to dump the black plastic bag containing sectioned organs back into the cadaver’s abdominal cavity. She then packed the brainless skull with cotton wool, pulled the scalp back into position and began sewing. Quietly, she whistled.
Roger took a deep breath and took the dead girl’s fingerprints. With fine
Similar Books
