Jeff Sales was performing Rachel Goodwin’s post-mortem and invited Anya to attend. It wasn’t necessary, but she felt as though she should be there. She could comment if there were any similarities to the sister’s injuries.
Beforehand, there was just enough time to check on Sophie in intensive care. Anya stood outside the double plastic doors and buzzed. Through the doors, she made out the figure of a uniformed officer, guarding the victim in case her attacker returned. A nurse appeared in corporate uniform with a white plastic apron on top.
“How can I help you?”
“I’m Doctor Crichton, forensic physician. I examined Sophie Goodwin yesterday.”
“Detective Farrer said you might pop in and put you on 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 reached for a pair of tweezers. “There’s something on the back of the left tonsil.”
He reached in and retrieved two small fibers-pink.
“From the pink top?” Anya offered.
“Something was used to gag her and may have even caused some degree of asphyxiation. Taking an educated guess, it could well have been the shirt from the scene.”
“Hang on,” Liz Gould interrupted. “What do you mean, asphyxiation? She was stabbed-multiple times.”
“Yes, but it’s not uncommon for attackers to use gags to silence victims, even if they don’t intend for them to die. The nose can become congested and, after a short while, impossible to breathe through. If the gag makes its way toward the back of the throat, it can obstruct the posterior larynx, causing asphyxiation. I grew up thinking gags were harmless, can’t think how many times they were used on The A-Team without anyone getting hurt.” He smiled to himself. “Reality is far different.”
Liz scratched her head. “Did she suffocate on the gag or not?”
“Once the lab compares the fiber with that of the shirt we’ll know if it was the one used inside the mouth. Without any markings on the skin around the neck, I’d suggest that something internal caused the swelling in the throat, but not enough to cause death. Given the degree of blood loss from the other wounds, she was still alive when she was stabbed.”
Anya thought back to the scene. Someone gagged Rachel and maybe removed it while she was still alive, or as she lay dying. She had seen crimes in which a gag had been removed, but only to heighten the thrill of the attack. If that were the case, Rachel’s killer either wanted to hear her scream or beg for mercy. If screaming wasn’t the reason for the gag, its intent must have been to torture the victim even more.
Anya felt a wave of cold. Sophie may have heard what was happening to her sister in the bedroom. She might have even witnessed it. In a way, the longer the young girl stayed sedated and ventilated, the more time she had to recover before reliving the nightmare.
Jeff turned his attention to the skin on the dead girl’s chest and abdomen. The shapes of the six wounds varied but the distribution was evenly divided between the chest and abdomen.
Liz Gould cleared her throat. “Can you tell us anything about the weapon, or are we looking for more than one knife?”
“Different sized and shaped wounds don’t imply more than one weapon, although I can’t exclude that yet. The shape of the wound isn’t only dependent on the shape of the blade, but also on the properties of the skin and location of the wound. It’s quite possible that all of these were made with the one instrument.”
Shaun Wheeler had begun taking notes, but paused, looking at two of the skin incisions-one narrow, the other wider. “How can there be that much variation if the blade is just one size-one length and one width?”
“The force needed for the knife to perforate the skin depends on a number of other things, like the sharpness of the blade’s tip. The sharper that point, the easier it is to penetrate skin.”
To demonstrate, the pathologist poked his metal probe in one of the wounds. “Once the skin has been cut, the blade slides easily into the body, readily passing through organs.” Most of the metal probe disappeared beneath the skin. “Even a blade driven its entire length can have been inserted without a great degree of force.” He withdrew the probe. “However, if the blade hits bone, the distance it tracks can be much shorter than the length of the blade.”
“So how can you tell the size of the blade?” Wheeler seemed to have forgotten his queasiness.
“By examining all of the wounds,” Anya replied. “the blade length can be either less than, equal to or greater than the depth of the wound.”
“Hold on, how can it be deeper than the blade length?”
Liz clenched her fist and faced Wheeler. “Say this is a knife. If you are moving toward me and I use a fair amount of force…” She slowly pressed her fist into his upper abdomen until he flexed at the waist.
Anya continued, “Because your skin is being pushed backward. Once it recoils to its normal position, the end depth of the wound is going to be longer than the blade. It depends on the degree of force used.”
Wheeler’s face brightened. “That makes sense.”
“I always say you have to see these things to understand them.” Jeff Sales seemed to enjoy the demonstration. He preferred interaction with staff, or classical music if no one else was around, and reveled in any chance to educate police.
“Similarly, the length of the skin wound can be equal, less than or greater than the width of the knife.”
“I must be thick. You’ve got me again,” the younger detective mumbled.
“Always admit when you’re unsure or don’t understand. There’s no such thing as a stupid question.” Liz patted Wheeler on the back. “Mistakes come from not asking. And don’t care what anyone thinks of you. Chances are, if you want to ask it, so do others.”
Wheeler put the notebook in his back pocket and folded his arms. “Okay. How can the entrance wound be longer than the blade is wide?”
“Another good question.” Jeff was in his element. “If the blade has one cutting edge, it can slice through the skin, lengthening the incision. Skin is also elastic and that can make the wound shorter than the blade’s width.”
Liz frowned. “There’s something I don’t quite get. The pink top had a bloodied fingerprint in it. You think it might have been used to gag her, but before she was stabbed, given the amount of blood she lost.”
“Correct.”
“Then why does it have bloodstains on it?”
“Maybe she screamed at the first stab wound and that’s why it was put in,” Jeff suggested.
“Her hands were tied to the bed, she wasn’t going anywhere. So he stabs her, then stops, with bloodstains on his hands, to stuff her shirt down her throat. We know she’s still alive because of the swelling you mentioned. Then he goes back to stabbing her.”
“Or moves on to the sister. He could have immobilized Rachel, then attacked Sophie and cut her throat. Thinking she’s dead, he goes back to finish off his first victim,” Wheeler suggested.
Liz shook her head. “The sadistic bastard would have had blood all over him at that stage.”
Anya recalled that the house didn’t show signs of someone traipsing through back and forth, with blood on them.
“Maybe he’s organized,” Wheeler suggested.
“Or there was more than one killer,” Anya said.
The prospect of two people combining to commit that degree of violence was even more disturbing. She needed to know more about the pattern of genital injuries.
“Jeff, what do you notice about the vaginal area?”
“There’s marked purpuric bruising inside the thighs, as you can see.” He moved one knee to face outward and a series of large purplish bruises was apparent.
Anya moved closer. “There’s tearing of the fourchette and a large hematoma.”
The lab assistant arrived with a digital camera and without speaking began to photograph the injuries Jeff described.
“We’ll need closeups, thanks. I’ve taken some swabs,” the senior pathologist added, “but we’ll have to wait and see. There were a couple of darker pubic hairs, none with roots, I’m afraid.”
Jeff concluded the gross examination with photos of the probe through each incision. Then began the long process of internal examination.
Anya’s mind wandered to the scene. “Were any of the locks damaged?”
Liz shook her head. Whoever it was walked in the front door, or pushed their way in once it was open. The girls could have known their attacker or attackers.
“Do you have any suspects yet?”
The female detective frowned and waited for the stryker saw to stop.
“Still canvassing the neighbors, who don’t seem to have seen or heard anything. We’ve had only a few calls after a media appeal for witnesses to come forward, but nothing helpful as far as we know.”
Anya had once assumed that people would feel so disgusted by what had happened to victims like the Goodwin girls that they would willingly volunteer information. She had learned over the years that many people were too scared to get involved with the police, or too busy to be aware of what appeared on the news or in papers.
Jeff Sales looked up from his task. “What about an angry ex-boyfriend? Nothing like a disturbed lover who’s been spurned. The worst examples of violence against women are by men who claim to love them more than anyone else.”
One of Anya’s first pathology cases was the massacre of an ex-girlfriend and seven of her family members. The former boyfriend had gone to the home and blown off the mother and little brother’s faces with a shotgun, then casually driven to the family business and killed the remaining members, leaving his ex-girlfriend until last. Even in prison he still claimed that he loved her more than anyone else ever had.
“I can do without that sort of affection,” Kate Farrer said as she entered the suite. “Did I miss anything?”
“Just tracking the chest wounds internally,” Jeff replied. “One of them just missed the aorta by millimeters.” He probed more. “Aha. She’s had a tamponade. This wound nicked the pericardium.”
“Meaning?” Liz moved forward for a better look.
“The tip of the blade pierced the outside portion of the heart, where there is a potential space between the cardiac muscle and a lining we call the pericardial sac. It’s like the lungs being surrounded by the pleura. I doubt our victim would have felt any pain for long after this.”
Anya could see that with the volume of blood in the sac, death would have been within seconds to a minute after the knife entered her chest that time.
“When blood rushes into the sac around the heart, it can’t escape. It constricts the heart and stops it from beating effectively. Pretty quickly the heart can’t supply blood to the body.”
“So that was the official cause of death-stab wound to the heart.” Wheeler was scribbling notes as they spoke.
“Whoever did this wasn’t messing around,” Kate said. “Anya, can I have a quick word?”
Jeff Sales had removed the heart and was placing it on the scales as Anya and the detective excused themselves.
In the corridor Kate spoke quietly. “I’ve just come from Giverny’s PM. It’s why I’m late.”
“Please tell me they found evidence of homicide.”
Kate stood, hands in her trouser pockets, and scuffed one shoe on the lino floor. “Unless you can confirm whether those facial hemorrhages were there before you started cardiac massage, there’s no way of proving she was murdered…Sorry, but I didn’t want you hearing this from anyone else.”
Anya swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry. “What about the paint in the garage?”
“Without a pathologist being able to confirm homicide, we can’t investigate the death. The coroner’s likely to come back with an open finding and we’re all hamstrung.”
“The Harbourns had a reason to stop her testifying.”
“Yeah, and the four with the best motive were in prison that day. The only better alibi would have been having breakfast with the police commissioner. Sure, anyone else in the family could have been at Giverny’s house, but we don’t even have enough for a search warrant. The most we’ve got is vandalism for the paint job and maybe trespass. But none of the neighbors saw a thing, and neither did Giverny’s father.”
Anya could barely believe what she was hearing. Giverny hadn’t just been raped, she had been tormented for the duration of the trial, and on the morning of the retrial had received a death threat. In blood red.
“What about the threat?” Anya raised her voice. “Die Slut isn’t just vandalism. It’s a direct threat to a key witness.”
A technician scurried past and the pair waited until he was out of sight.
Kate folded her arms. “Look. Unless we can prove she was murdered, that’s just a case of graffiti. I’m sorry, I know exactly how you feel.”
Anya doubted that. She felt ill in her stomach. What she felt was the erosive, gnawing ache of guilt and incompetence.
By trying-unsuccessfully-to resuscitate Giverny, she had effectively destroyed the crime scene. Her actions meant that the Harbourns wouldn’t just get away with gang rape, they’d probably get away with her murder too.
In bed that night, Anya’s mind fought sleep and she tossed about restlessly. As a distraction from her racing thoughts, she opted for some relaxation music on her iPod. But tonight, Mozart’s flute and harp concerto may as well have been screeching tires for all the good it did.
She sat up, switched to a podcast of a lecture on cranial nerves. The lecturer’s voice grated more than the topic.
Seeing the drum kit in the alcove of the room made her realize how much she had missed music on her trip.
She pulled on her cotton dressing-gown and headed for the stool, picking up a pair of drumsticks. She switched the iPod to a salsa rhythm, counted in and began playing along.
With the hi-hat locked to minimize noise, she gently accented the beat using her left foot. For some reason, coordinating her left hand with the snare drum and cymbals was a struggle. Even with the sound-dampening skin covers, it sounded like a cacophony.
She checked the grip. Palm facing up, stick between the middle and ring finger. Maybe it felt awkward because she was out of practice. Switching the music to “Rock and Roll High School” by the Ramones, she counted one, two, three, four. One, two, three, four.
By the fifth line she was out of time. She tried again and tightened the grip on both hands. The rhythm kept repeating through her arms and her body was beginning to perspire.
For once she didn’t care if the neighbor next door complained. The woman feigned deafness whenever Anya spoke to her, so the favor was about to be returned.
She unlocked the hi-hat, then began an improvised solo, accentuating every second beat with a hit to the snare or cymbal. At first softly, then louder as sweat moistened the hair on the back of her neck, and her fingers.
Crash, bang, roll, crash. Anger released with every downward movement.
The right foot pounded on the kick drum pedal as her arms raised higher between beats, accelerating the rate and increasing volume to culminate in a prolonged drum roll, finishing with frenzied assaults on the snare, base drum and crash cymbal.
The sound left her ears ringing.
When the pounding of her heart slowed, she slid off the stool onto the floor, puffing from shortness of breath.
Damn it! Why couldn’t she remember what Giverny had looked like when she found her? She’d pictured the girl’s face so many times, she was more confused than ever.
Both hands were in a tremor when she finally relaxed her grip on the drumsticks.