Read Online So Say the Fallen (Dci Serena Flanagan 2) by Stuart Neville - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Stuart Neville
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swabbed what remained of Mr Garrick’s genitalia. Then she began the slow crawling external examination of the body, starting at the head, working down the left side, then up the right. Occasionally, McCreesh paused to lift her magnifyingglass and look closer at some hair or fibre, before nodding and putting it back.
Eventually, she said, ‘All right. I concur with Dr Barr, no external sign of trauma.’
She looked to her assistant, who immediately acted on the unspoken command, wheeling a trolley laden with tools to the table.
Flanagan leaned in close to Murray. ‘How are you holding up?’
‘I’m okay, ma’am,’ he said. ‘So far.’
McCreesh checked Dr Barr’s notes once more. ‘The FMO mentions that the morphine granules were to be swallowed whole, not chewed, so the dose would be released gradually in the stomach.’
‘That’s right,’ Flanagan said.
McCreesh took a small penlight from her pocket and leaned over Mr Garrick’s still open mouth. She shone the light inside, peering into the back of the throat.
‘Hm,’ she said and reached for a clear plastic tube containing a swab stick. She removed the stick, and inserted the swab into Mr Garrick’s mouth, moving it around his back teeth. When she was done, she examined the swab with her magnifying glass.
‘I’ve got a mixture of a pink substance, the yogurt presumably, and crushed granules. I’d say that’s the morphine he chewed to get it to release more quickly. Tests will confirm.’
She returned the swab stick to its tube, sealed it, and handed it to her assistant, who wrote on the tube’s side with a permanent marker. Then McCreesh turned to her trolley and selected a scalpel.
Murray nodded towards her. ‘Is she going to . . .?’
‘Yes, she is,’ Flanagan said.
Murray exhaled and said, ‘I’m okay. I’m okay.’
His breathing deepened as the Y-shaped incision was made from the body’s shoulders to its groin. He did not speak again until McCreesh began to saw away the ribs and clavicle to remove the breastplate, the grinding noise resonating between the tiled walls.
Murray leaned in and said, ‘Ma’am, may I be excused?’
‘Can’t you stick it out a little longer?’ Flanagan asked. ‘The organ examination’s where the real work gets done.’
‘Oh, Christ,’ Murray said, and rushed past her to the doors, where he slapped at the green button with his palm until they swung open.
McCreesh looked up from her work. ‘He didn’t do too bad.’
‘No,’ Flanagan said. ‘Not too bad at all.’
Two hours later, Flanagan sat at McCreesh’s desk, opposite the pathologist. She had sent DS Murray back to Lisburn to chase up the searches made of the Garricks’ MacBook and iPad, as well as the notes from the door-to-door inquiries carried out in Morganstown by the two detective constables under his command.
‘I’m reporting death by suicide to the coroner,’ McCreesh said. Her blonde hair now flowed free of the cap she’d worn during the autopsy.
‘All right,’ Flanagan said, nodding.
‘You don’t seem convinced,’ McCreesh said.
‘I’m not disputing your assessment.’
‘But?’
‘But there’s something . . . details, really, just details.’
McCreesh rested her elbows on the desk. ‘Go on,’ she said.
‘I spoke with the nurse who came in to help Mrs Garrick with her husband, change his dressings and so on. She thought he’d been doing well, or as well as could be hoped for. She said his mood was generally good, that he had his faith, that he was strong-willed.’
‘Is that so unusual?’ McCreesh asked. ‘Haven’t you ever seen a suicide that came out of the blue, that baffled everybody around the deceased?’
‘Of course, but this seems . . . different.’
‘Different,’ McCreesh said. ‘You’ll have to do better than “different” to sway the coroner.’
Flanagan swallowed, considered letting it go, then she said, ‘It’s the photographs.’
McCreesh sat back.
Eventually, she said, ‘All right. I concur with Dr Barr, no external sign of trauma.’
She looked to her assistant, who immediately acted on the unspoken command, wheeling a trolley laden with tools to the table.
Flanagan leaned in close to Murray. ‘How are you holding up?’
‘I’m okay, ma’am,’ he said. ‘So far.’
McCreesh checked Dr Barr’s notes once more. ‘The FMO mentions that the morphine granules were to be swallowed whole, not chewed, so the dose would be released gradually in the stomach.’
‘That’s right,’ Flanagan said.
McCreesh took a small penlight from her pocket and leaned over Mr Garrick’s still open mouth. She shone the light inside, peering into the back of the throat.
‘Hm,’ she said and reached for a clear plastic tube containing a swab stick. She removed the stick, and inserted the swab into Mr Garrick’s mouth, moving it around his back teeth. When she was done, she examined the swab with her magnifying glass.
‘I’ve got a mixture of a pink substance, the yogurt presumably, and crushed granules. I’d say that’s the morphine he chewed to get it to release more quickly. Tests will confirm.’
She returned the swab stick to its tube, sealed it, and handed it to her assistant, who wrote on the tube’s side with a permanent marker. Then McCreesh turned to her trolley and selected a scalpel.
Murray nodded towards her. ‘Is she going to . . .?’
‘Yes, she is,’ Flanagan said.
Murray exhaled and said, ‘I’m okay. I’m okay.’
His breathing deepened as the Y-shaped incision was made from the body’s shoulders to its groin. He did not speak again until McCreesh began to saw away the ribs and clavicle to remove the breastplate, the grinding noise resonating between the tiled walls.
Murray leaned in and said, ‘Ma’am, may I be excused?’
‘Can’t you stick it out a little longer?’ Flanagan asked. ‘The organ examination’s where the real work gets done.’
‘Oh, Christ,’ Murray said, and rushed past her to the doors, where he slapped at the green button with his palm until they swung open.
McCreesh looked up from her work. ‘He didn’t do too bad.’
‘No,’ Flanagan said. ‘Not too bad at all.’
Two hours later, Flanagan sat at McCreesh’s desk, opposite the pathologist. She had sent DS Murray back to Lisburn to chase up the searches made of the Garricks’ MacBook and iPad, as well as the notes from the door-to-door inquiries carried out in Morganstown by the two detective constables under his command.
‘I’m reporting death by suicide to the coroner,’ McCreesh said. Her blonde hair now flowed free of the cap she’d worn during the autopsy.
‘All right,’ Flanagan said, nodding.
‘You don’t seem convinced,’ McCreesh said.
‘I’m not disputing your assessment.’
‘But?’
‘But there’s something . . . details, really, just details.’
McCreesh rested her elbows on the desk. ‘Go on,’ she said.
‘I spoke with the nurse who came in to help Mrs Garrick with her husband, change his dressings and so on. She thought he’d been doing well, or as well as could be hoped for. She said his mood was generally good, that he had his faith, that he was strong-willed.’
‘Is that so unusual?’ McCreesh asked. ‘Haven’t you ever seen a suicide that came out of the blue, that baffled everybody around the deceased?’
‘Of course, but this seems . . . different.’
‘Different,’ McCreesh said. ‘You’ll have to do better than “different” to sway the coroner.’
Flanagan swallowed, considered letting it go, then she said, ‘It’s the photographs.’
McCreesh sat back.
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