A Certain Malice (12 page)

Cam let out his breath. “I ran a check on him. The kid Angelo was right. He’s never been a club member, not even an associate, though he has been inside. He was convicted for assault during a pub brawl ten years ago and served six months. He’s been squeaky clean since then.” Cam shrugged his shoulders, trying to dismiss his friend’s suspicions. “He sometimes works on their bikes so I guess that’s a good enough reason to know them. In fact, there was a bike registered to an Eric Matthews parked outside the workshop the other day. Apparently it was in for a service.”

“I’m not saying he’s guilty by association. You just need to be aware that one of the outstanding citizens of Glenroyd has bikie connections. Be extra careful.”

Cam sighed. “There isn’t a place in Australia where someone doesn’t have a relative or a mate who’s a bikie.” He looked at his watch and grimaced. “I’m going to be in the Doc’s bad books. Better get to that autopsy.”

“Wait a tick. Have you had a chance to talk to Vince about that file you found over at his place?”

“No, but I’ve re-opened the case and I’ve assigned Pete Dowel to it.”

“Dowel?”

“One of my young constables. A bright lad, though not bright enough to see what was going on under his nose when Vince was acting sergeant. I’m going to pay Vince a visit on my way home this arvo if I have time.”

“Do that. Internal Affairs will be coming to see you next week.”

Cam nodded and made a move towards the lifts.

“Hang on. There’s something else.” Rod hesitated as if unsure how to phrase his next sentence. Cam knew what was coming and felt himself tense.

“You don’t have to attend the autopsy. I can stand in for you.”

Cam chose to focus on an old lady shuffling across the lobby with a walking frame. She was a lot easier on the eye than Rod’s suffocating look of sympathy. He had attended many autopsies in his career, but none since the fire. He’d been regarding this one as a test. Would he pass or fail? That was something he had to find out.

“Thanks, Rod, I’ll be fine.” He clapped his friend on the back.“I’ll catch you later.” He began to move away but Rod reached for his arm, stopping him mid-stride.

“You don’t even know where you’re going,” Rod said.

“The basement.” Cam paused for a beat. “Aren’t they always in the basement?”

“Well, yes, but don’t you want me to introduce you to Dr McManus?”

Cam punched the down button of the lift. “We met at the crime scene.” He watched the lights flicker as the lift descended.

“Oh yes, of course,” Rod nodded. As Cam stepped into the lift, he said,

“Jenny wants to catch up. She’s worried about you. Why don’t you call in for a drink on your way home tonight?”

Cam raised his hand to acknowledge the invitation, though they both knew he wouldn’t show.

14

“Wheel the body in, Igor,” McManus said to a man wearing white overalls and gumboots.

Cam gave a start, but made a conscious effort to keep his face blank. The wheels of the gurney rumbled across the tiled floor as the morgue attendant pushed the body to the autopsy table.

McManus caught Cam’s eye and gave him a wink. The pathologist was covered from head to toe in surgical greens. The only parts of him that showed were his eyes and a pair of the most magnificent eyebrows Cam had ever seen. They twisted and curled across his brow like two great hairy caterpillars, expressing the thoughts and feelings of their owner more effectively than words ever could. Now they were raised, questioning Cam’s reaction to the little joke. Cam attempted a smile, knowing that it would not be reflected in his eyes, sure the caterpillars had not missed the significance of his strained demeanour. He was not only out of practice with morgue humour; he had lost his taste for it too.

McManus took the shoulders and the attendant the legs. With a, “One, two, three, ally oop,” the body was transferred on to the table. The attendant wheeled the gurney back into the corridor and the double doors flapped twice.

Then there was silence.

The pathologist cleared his throat. The phlegmy noise bounced off the tiled walls and stainless steel fittings. He clapped his latex-covered hands and rubbed them together with ghoulish enthusiasm.

“Now then, Sergeant. Exactly what is it we are trying to ascertain here?”

“I have evidence to suggest that this body was deliberately burned. Preliminary examination at the crime scene suggests burning post mortem. Deliberate burning could be an indication that the victim was murdered.”

“But first we have to rule out natural causes,” McManus interrupted. “Maybe he died at home and the grieving loved one decided to eliminate cremation costs?” The caterpillars arched their backs, the brown eyes underneath sparkled.

That was a possibility. Cam thought of the ‘grieving loved one,’ the brother, Toby. He was probably as good at rorting the system as his brother ever had been. Maybe it was a genetic tendency.

McManus turned to the notes he’d spread out on a nearby table. “Body number 0018/2005. External examination revealed the burned body of an elderly male.” He looked up.“How old’s this guy supposed to be?”

“Officially fifty-seven, unofficially sixty-seven.”

McManus seemed nonplussed. “Oh, one of those.” He nodded and returned to the notes. “Well-nourished, weight approximately one hundred and three kilograms, with allowance for fluid loss, height one hundred and eighty centimetres. Extensive charring of skin save for a small strip along left side of the body, presumed to be the side on which he was lying when burned.”

Cam nodded.

“Eyeballs missing, presumed from crow pick.”

“Crow pick?” Cam interrupted.

“If the rest of him is anything to go on, the eyeballs should have still been in situ. The heat would have solidified the protein so they would have been cooked, like hard-boiled eggs, if you will, but still present.” McManus peered at Cam. The caterpillars arched their backs.

Cam remained impassive. This was all part of the test. Be distant. Compartmentalise.

The pathologist continued, “The sockets are still slightly moist. If the eyes were missing before burning, the sockets would have been much more charred. I think you can rule out the notion that our possible killer took them for trophies.

“No sign of external injury or ligature marks, though given the burns at this stage it is hard to ascertain this from a mere external examination.” He pointed to the X-rays on the screen. “No recent evidence of broken bones, though the left humerus shows signs of an old fracture.”

He walked to the screen and pointed out something on the illuminated bone. It looked just like any of the other bones to Cam, but he nodded all the same.

“Any fibres, Doc?”

“Aha, I was getting to that.” McManus was back at the table, shuffling through his notes. He read, “Traces of fibre evident around victim’s mid section.” He explained what Cam had already guessed. “The gut prevented the waist area from getting too badly burned.”

Cam found himself holding his breath.

McManus continued. “The fibres matched the rag found at the scene.”

Cam let his breath out, the glow of a minor victory making him smile beneath the mask. “Yes. That’s what I suspected. Now I can prove that the body was deliberately burned.”

“There’s something else here for you, Sergeant, another puzzle for you to solve. I found traces of sheep’s wool between several of the toes of the right foot. Now how do you think that would that have got there?”

“Shoes?”

“No evidence of footwear.”

Cam rubbed his chin. “Could the body have been wrapped in a wool blanket?” he asked.

“To the naked eye, the wool looked untreated, but it will have to go to the city lab for further analysis. That could take a few days I’m afraid.”

“There were sheep at the crime site. They’d recently been shorn but there were clumps of wool lying around and clinging to the bushes.”

“I suggest you go back and get some then. You might want to send it to the lab so they can compare it to the fibres I found.”

Cam agreed, but he knew what was coming next and felt his body tense. He took a deep breath as McManus walked over to the body. Cam expected him to jerk back the cover like an artist revealing a prize-winning sculpture, and was surprised at the reverential way the pathologist folded back the sheet. He realised then it was only ever he who’d been the butt of the pathologist’s jokes.

But McManus’s respectful manner did little to soften the blow of the body’s revelation. Cam suppressed a gasp. It was so much more horrible out of context. The blackened figure looked like a mummy in its sarcophagus. No longer pugilistic, the arms lay at its side, meaning that someone had had to cut the contracting tendons or break the arms for the X-rays. Cam offered a prayer of thanks that he’d not had to assist in that procedure.

The bony, eyeless dome rested on an unforgiving pillow of steel positioned over an in-built trough at the head of the table. There was a hose to wash away the waste, and near this, still at the head end, a set of scales, very like the ones used by greengrocers. On another table, the tools of the trade were laid out in orderly rows, an incongruous mixture of carpentry and surgeon’s instruments.

And the smell.

Cam took a deep breath of Vicks from his mask, seeing for a moment the head of his wife, then that of his son, lying over the trough. He flashed to a plastic box full of ash. The crematorium had only finished what the murderer had started.

He closed his eyes, trying to shut away the image.
You’re weak; you’re failing
, a voice inside him cried as the hammer of defeat pounded at his temples. Don’t give in, another voice chided. His hand moved up his neck to his ear.

“Sergeant, are you OK? You’re looking a bit peaky.”

Cam drew in a ragged breath and nodded. “Go ahead, let’s get this over with.”

Despite the coolness of the room he could feel the sweat trickling down his back and under his arms. Mustering all his willpower he forced himself to concentrate on what was going on in front of him.

McManus adjusted a mike, talking in a smooth bass as he worked.

First the Y incision, across the chest from shoulder to shoulder, then down the abdomen to the pubic bone. The scalpel crackled through the outer crust of burned flesh; the incision turned quite pink as it penetrated the inner depths.

“A pretty pathetic attempt at cremation, eh, Sergeant?” the pathologist said.

“Yeah, I think the bushfire brigade was more efficient than our guy had hoped.”

McManus reached into the chest cavity, cut through the connecting tissue and removed the heart.

“The heart has retained its shape. It is a deep red colour, on the way to dehydration.” McManus spoke into the mike. Then as an aside to Cam he said, “I’m not sure if I can get any blood samples from this but I’ll give it a go.” He weighed the heart before placing it on the dissecting table and managed to aspirate a small amount of fluid for the lab.

“Does the heart look normal to you, Doc?” asked Cam.

McManus sliced it into a cross section. “Taking dehydration into account, the size and weight appear about normal. Possibly slightly overdeveloped cardiac muscle that could indicate an early congestive cardiac condition, but early days. His arteries are within the range of normal for a man of his age.”

“So we can rule out heart attack?”

“Unless histology shows otherwise, it’s unlikely to have been the cause of death.”

McManus removed the liver, weighed it and put it on the dissecting table. He muttered something unintelligible into his tape recorder. The caterpillars wriggled with interest.

Cam asked him to translate.

“I said, scar tissue indicative of cirrhosis of the liver.”

“Would that have killed him?”

“Not yet, but would have if it remained untreated. Coupled with the weakened heart, he would have been dead within a few years. It’s well on the way to being nicely pickled though.”

He carved off a piece of liver and placed it into a specimen jar.

Next came the lungs. McManus sliced through the connecting tissues, vessels and nerves. Extracted from the pleural cavity, they squelched like gumboots from a mud hole. Cam felt the room began to spin. He grabbed the side of the autopsy table and had to fight the urge to run from the room. He tried to concentrate on his breathing. Get a grip, Fraser, do your job. He was behaving like a rookie. He knew it, and he hated it.

McManus balanced the lungs in both hands and frowned. “These seem unusually heavy.”

His words cut into Cam’s thoughts like a life-saving foghorn. He watched the pathologist place the lungs on the scales then followed the beckoning finger to the recorded weight.

“I’m sure you are familiar with a normal set of lungs, Sergeant.”

Cam grunted an affirmative.

“Now, these are interesting. They are considerably heavier than normal. Proportionally they have a higher fluid content than the other organs, despite being exposed to the same heat intensity. See the lobes?” He pointed with the tip of his scalpel.“These are more dilated than I would expect. Quite swollen, as a matter of fact.”

“So what does that mean?”

“Pulmonary oedema – swelling caused by water retention.”

The pathologist moved the lungs to the dissecting table. He carefully sliced through one of the lobes then aspirated some fluid.

“Of course there are several physical maladies that could cause a lung reaction such as this, congestive cardiac failure for one; though I suspect it would be too early for symptoms such as this to show. But look here, look at the colour of this fluid.”

He held up the specimen vial.

“It’s a lot lighter than the other aspirations,” Cam observed.

“It’s been diluted, that’s why. This man breathed in a lungful of water.”

Cam felt his pulse rate quicken. “He drowned then?”

“Certainly looks like it.” The pathologist shook his head from side to side. “A horrible way to go.” He probed the other lung. “No evidence of smoke or ash. You are correct in your assumption that this man was burned post mortem. Hang on now, what’s this?” He bent closer to inspect the mass of spongy tissue, startling Cam with a sudden yell of, “Eureka!”