Peter Latham spoke into his dictaphone. He could have been reciting poetry as he rhythmically outlined the findings in each system of the body.
Having worked at the Sydney Institute for so many years, Peter was leader of the morgue “sub-culture,” a mini-society in which every member performed tasks that few people understood or really appreciated.
Anya Crichton had gladly accepted an invitation to lunch with her mentor. Even the formalin smell provided familiar comfort. Today, no music played, which meant either the day’s post-mortems were finished, or relatives were due to view a body.
“Ah, my favorite interloper,” Peter declared as he clicked off his recorder. “Just finishing up.” He referred to something in his notes. “Third hit-and-run this month. The police and coroner want the report ASAP.”
On the steel table lay the body of a young male with severe head injuries and bruising to his abdomen. His right leg had almost been severed, with a large section of bone protruding through the front of the thigh.
Anya studied the X-ray attached to the viewing box on the wall. The young pelvis had been fractured, along with the femur. The trauma had to be substantial. Other X-rays showed the growth plates on the bones open, so the child was still growing.
“How old?” Anya asked, examining the skull film.
“Eleven. Witnesses say he was riding his bike when a speeding car hit.”
Judging by the extent of the injuries, the vehicle would have had some damage.
“Helmet?”
Peter shook his head and adjusted his glasses. “If he had, we wouldn’t be here.”
Despite the leg and pelvis fractures, the massive head injury was what had killed the child. Anya could only imagine the parents’ grief, for the sake of a twenty-dollar helmet.
One of the other staff members pushed through the room’s plastic doors. “Family’s in the viewing room, whenever you’re ready.”
The technician covered the body with a fresh white sheet and draped another around the head wound, trying to expose only the undamaged part of the face. Regardless of the cause of death or state of the body, staff went to great lengths to protect the relatives from any further distress at the viewing. Again, it was a task that no one really appreciated, but would cause more unnecessary suffering if they didn’t bother. The final image of a loved one was often the one that lasted the longest.
Once satisfied, the technician wheeled the metal table up to a window. Peter and Anya left the room before he opened the curtain.
“You okay?” she asked as he washed his hands in the corridor sink.
“With the gang shootings, we’ve been swamped, but we’ll have caught up by this afternoon.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I can switch off when we get children, which is why I do them myself,” he said, drying his hands on a paper towel. “That hit-and-run didn’t bother me. I feel sorry for the young constable who had to go and tell the parents.”
Anya had always been amazed by Peter’s clinical detachment. As a mother, she found autopsies on children very difficult. Out of all the pathologists, Peter seemed most skilled at suspending his emotions when work demanded.
He clapped his hands together. “How about some tea?”
“Love one. I’ll meet you in your office.”
Peter arrived shortly after Anya having changed into a lime-green shirt and yellow tie. Brown corduroy trousers complemented the look. He put two teas on the desk and closed the door, something he rarely did.
He moved a pile of papers from the spare chair next to Anya’s and sat.
“What happened to your med student researcher?” Anya asked.
“Ah, Zara Chambers. Did an outstanding thesis. She’s completing her medical degree but something tells me she’ll be back again.”
As they began to sip, Peter seemed somber.
“Rumors are circulating that you’re investigating Alf Carney.”
Anya almost spilt her drink. How many people know?
“I’m not investigating anyone. Morgan Tully asked for a second opinion on some cases and that’s all. It’s nothing unusual. We’ve all been asked to review each other’s work.”
“I suspect there’s more to it than that,” he said, looking up.
“Then you must know something I don’t.” Anya disliked playing word games, especially with her friends.
Peter sat back and put his glasses on top of his head. “Morgan’s placed you in a very difficult position. I’ve known Alf for years, but there have been whispers about him from police for a while now.”
“And you knew his findings were dubious?”
“I just wanted any examination of his conduct to be fair and objective. That’s why I suggested you to Morgan.”
Anya sat back against the desk. “You knew, and you wanted me to review his cases?”
Peter rubbed his salt-and-pepper beard. “It’s not easy to scrutinize a colleague when the consequences could destroy a career. It’ll put you under pressure, but you can definitely handle it, and your expertise is without question.”
“What are you really saying?”
“Alf’s had a long career and has made enemies in the process. We all have, whenever there’s been a controversial decision. He hasn’t had an easy time of it. I’m a little concerned there is a political motive within the College of Pathologists to stop him working, and you could be part of the fall-out.”
Anya didn’t like where this conversation was heading. She suddenly felt uncomfortable and disappointed in her former teacher. Putting down the cup, she said, “Sorry, but I can’t stay for lunch.”
Peter Latham stood. “I’m not trying to influence you, Anya. I’m afraid you misunderstood. If Alf is incompetent, things could become difficult and the implications are enormous, for all of us, and God knows how many convicted prisoners. I’m saying that if you need some support or help, I’m available.”