the visitors’ list.”
Kate knew Anya well enough to understand why she would want to check in on Sophie now and again.
“How’s the patient doing?”
“Not too well. Still on a ventilator. Urine output’s poor, she’s on dopamine and noradrenaline infusions and just maintaining blood pressure. Our intensivist thinks she’s oozing from one of the abdominal wounds so she may have to go back to theater.” The nurse lowered her eyes. “Still critical condition, I’m afraid.”
Anya thought of the parent she had seen outside casualty and the hell he must be going through.
“How is her father coping?”
“As you’d expect. Poor, poor man. He’s devastated and just sits holding his daughter’s hand. We can’t get him to rest or take a break.” She touched Anya’s arm. “Maybe if you’re here he will take a few minutes. I’ll go tell him.”
“No. Please don’t. I can’t stay.” The truth was, even if she had time, Anya had no idea how to deal with a grieving father whose life had been ripped apart by senseless killing. “We didn’t actually meet.”
The nurse nodded. “Can I at least tell him you stopped by?”
“No need to bother him. I’ll check back later.”
Medical school taught facts and formulae, but not how to handle grieving relatives, many of whom were angry and had every right to be. Pathology had the advantage of being clinical and removed from the emotional fallout of death, while helping family to get answers and achieve closure.
But even that hadn’t been completely satisfying. Frustrated by the lack of expertise in sexual assault injuries, Anya had decided to train physicians in examinations and specific wound interpretation. In the process she had become more expert than anyone else in the state and therefore in high demand by police and prosecutors. It had given her an avenue into specialized private practice, and enough income to pay maintenance to her ex-husband and support their son.
The worst aspect about dealing with sexual assault was that she was thrown back into dealing with victims, relatives and their emotional distress. Anya never felt more inadequate than when dealing with people’s emotions. No amount of experience could make her feel adept in the role of comforter. She would be of no possible help to Mr. Goodwin.
Maybe that was because she’d seen her parents in a similar position after losing Miriam. Nothing anyone said helped, and often comments proved upsetting and insensitive, despite being well intentioned.
She followed the path to the lifts and headed to the lowest level. The secretary buzzed her in and informed her that Jeff Sales was already in the autopsy suite.
Down the corridor, with a plastic apron and shoe covers to protect her clothes, she entered the familiar suite. The smell of formalin filled her nostrils. Four of the eight stainless steel tables were in use, which meant a slow morning in this part of the city.
Liz Gould had “babysitting duty.” She and Shaun Wheeler stood just past arm’s reach from the remains of Rachel Goodwin.
“Didn’t expect to see you here,” Liz blurted, seemingly grateful for the distraction.
Anya had never known a member of the police to enjoy attending post-mortems. Kate was habitually late for the event, timing her arrival for the summary at the end.
“Remember Shaun?”
Anya nodded.
The young detective uncrossed his arms and raised a hand but failed to speak. His cheeks had even less color than at the crime scene. She gave him a sympathetic glance. Sqeamishness was something only experience would help him overcome. Or he’d soon be out of Homicide.
“Here’s something interesting.” Jeff looked up through round rimless lenses.
Blood no longer obscured the multiple, varied stab wounds and they were prominent on the clean skin.
The pathologist had a probe in the throat and moved the overhead light for a better view. “The larynx is oedematous, or swollen, as is the epiglottis.” He
Kate knew Anya well enough to understand why she would want to check in on Sophie now and again.
“How’s the patient doing?”
“Not too well. Still on a ventilator. Urine output’s poor, she’s on dopamine and noradrenaline infusions and just maintaining blood pressure. Our intensivist thinks she’s oozing from one of the abdominal wounds so she may have to go back to theater.” The nurse lowered her eyes. “Still critical condition, I’m afraid.”
Anya thought of the parent she had seen outside casualty and the hell he must be going through.
“How is her father coping?”
“As you’d expect. Poor, poor man. He’s devastated and just sits holding his daughter’s hand. We can’t get him to rest or take a break.” She touched Anya’s arm. “Maybe if you’re here he will take a few minutes. I’ll go tell him.”
“No. Please don’t. I can’t stay.” The truth was, even if she had time, Anya had no idea how to deal with a grieving father whose life had been ripped apart by senseless killing. “We didn’t actually meet.”
The nurse nodded. “Can I at least tell him you stopped by?”
“No need to bother him. I’ll check back later.”
Medical school taught facts and formulae, but not how to handle grieving relatives, many of whom were angry and had every right to be. Pathology had the advantage of being clinical and removed from the emotional fallout of death, while helping family to get answers and achieve closure.
But even that hadn’t been completely satisfying. Frustrated by the lack of expertise in sexual assault injuries, Anya had decided to train physicians in examinations and specific wound interpretation. In the process she had become more expert than anyone else in the state and therefore in high demand by police and prosecutors. It had given her an avenue into specialized private practice, and enough income to pay maintenance to her ex-husband and support their son.
The worst aspect about dealing with sexual assault was that she was thrown back into dealing with victims, relatives and their emotional distress. Anya never felt more inadequate than when dealing with people’s emotions. No amount of experience could make her feel adept in the role of comforter. She would be of no possible help to Mr. Goodwin.
Maybe that was because she’d seen her parents in a similar position after losing Miriam. Nothing anyone said helped, and often comments proved upsetting and insensitive, despite being well intentioned.
She followed the path to the lifts and headed to the lowest level. The secretary buzzed her in and informed her that Jeff Sales was already in the autopsy suite.
Down the corridor, with a plastic apron and shoe covers to protect her clothes, she entered the familiar suite. The smell of formalin filled her nostrils. Four of the eight stainless steel tables were in use, which meant a slow morning in this part of the city.
Liz Gould had “babysitting duty.” She and Shaun Wheeler stood just past arm’s reach from the remains of Rachel Goodwin.
“Didn’t expect to see you here,” Liz blurted, seemingly grateful for the distraction.
Anya had never known a member of the police to enjoy attending post-mortems. Kate was habitually late for the event, timing her arrival for the summary at the end.
“Remember Shaun?”
Anya nodded.
The young detective uncrossed his arms and raised a hand but failed to speak. His cheeks had even less color than at the crime scene. She gave him a sympathetic glance. Sqeamishness was something only experience would help him overcome. Or he’d soon be out of Homicide.
“Here’s something interesting.” Jeff looked up through round rimless lenses.
Blood no longer obscured the multiple, varied stab wounds and they were prominent on the clean skin.
The pathologist had a probe in the throat and moved the overhead light for a better view. “The larynx is oedematous, or swollen, as is the epiglottis.” He
Similar Books
