Down Among the Dead Men (15 page)

This stopped Ed in his tracks and he threw me a look of pure daggers (although I know he didn’t really mean it). Of course, he denied the fact when questioned over coffee after, but I
think I know different and will find out in time what he was discussing with himself. For the rest of the day, Graham and I only needed to catch each other’s eye and we would start
laughing.

That’s the thing about pathologists; they are fundamentally mad. Not in a bad way, though, not in the I-am-psychotic-and-I-want-to-kill-you way. They are merely bonkers. Some of them are
likeable, some of them are a little harder to work with, but they are all firing on less than all cylinders.

While I was walking Oscar and Harvey that night, I kept spontaneously laughing out loud whenever I thought about it.

So, so funny.

TWENTY-SIX

One early afternoon after lunch, which was a soggy sandwich from the canteen, the doorbell had rung and, after the usual banter between Clive and the undertaker, what lay in
front of us was a very smartly dressed elderly lady. Unfortunately she was soaked in blood, from what I assumed was a massive head wound that had caused her face, neck, including a velvet and pearl
choker, and the shoulder part of her blouse and cardigan to be soaked in the red stuff. It had started to dry out and stick to her skin, suggesting that she had been waiting a while to be brought
to us.

Pete, the funeral director who had been to remove her from her home, informed us that it was a crime scene in a small village in the Cotswolds, and there was a lot of police activity going on
including yards of yellow tape and armies of white forensic suits; it was being treated as a murder investigation. Clive let out a big sigh on receiving this information.

‘You know what this means, Michelle?’ I did know. I had been doing the job long enough to appreciate that I would not be seeing my front door until late that evening, probably very
late. It was not my first forensic PM, but it would be my first proper one, all the bells and whistles.

In these circumstances, we check that the body has been properly identified to us and no more. The body is placed in the fridge and we await instruction from the Coroner. To tamper with the body
and risk upsetting any vital evidence is a big no-no. Clive had drummed this into me within my first week of training. As he called them, ‘some vital rules of the mortuary’.

No more than five minutes after Clive returned to the office, the phone had rung and he was informed that the forensic pathologist was just about to leave the scene and would be with us within
the hour. It was at times like these that Clive would have a little inward panic. ‘Set up the PM room for a forensic, Michelle,’ he hollered from the office, and I had to walk around
the PM room like a lost sheep wondering what I needed to do. The dissection bench was fully set up with tools for the pathologist, the eviscerating trays had clean tools and new sharp knives, so
apart from making sure enough needles and syringes were available, a few pens and some paper for notes, pots for various body fluids or stomach contents, there was not much else I could do,
although I was not about to make that obvious to Clive. The body of the elderly lady was already placed on the dissection table, still in the body bag, and I made sure that there were buckets full
of hot water and disinfectant mops at the ready; after that I waited.

In the background, Clive was running around like a headless chicken making sure we had enough tea and coffee and milk for all the people that would be arriving, clearing his desk as this would
be required by the pathologist (something he resented) and quickly phoning his wife to let her know he would not be home till later, just telling her briefly that he had ‘a
forensic’.

Dr David Jones arrived at the mortuary in good spirits, considering the task ahead, and while Clive fussed about making hot drinks, I was secretly in the background feeling very nervous. I had
not worked with Dr Jones before, and therefore did not know his expectations. Clive introduced me to him, and what stood in front of me was a short stocky balding man about thirty-five to forty
years of age. Nothing quite like you would expect, well, what I would expect anyway. He was certainly a world away from Ranulph Twigworth. He was very friendly and shook my hand firmly, telling me
not to worry and that he didn’t bite.

Within half an hour, the mortuary was full of police including scenes of crime officers (SOCOs), detectives and constables. Police radios where lying about everywhere, and for that afternoon I
had a pretty good idea of all the criminal activity going on in the town I call home.

While Dr Jones sat in the office discussing things with the detective in charge of the case, Clive and I were talking to Malcolm. Malcolm was the lead SOCO, a pretty normal-looking guy about six
foot tall, and Clive was firing questions at him left, right and centre about what had happened. It had turned out that the old lady on the middle table waiting to be dissected was a landlady of a
quaint Cotswold-stone bed and breakfast in a quiet village favoured by American tourists. A very glamorous lady, as we saw by a photograph that the police had seized from her property. She had been
having a relationship, although it was not known what sort of relationship, with a long-term lodger. From what they knew, as they had him in custody, he in turn had been having a rather bad
relationship with alcohol, and needed it to function on a daily basis. His landlady had been giving him the cash to fund this need, but had eventually had enough of handing out money, and that
morning refused to give him any. With that, he had taken the frying pan and promptly and very firmly whacked it round the back of her head. Clive commented that she definitely wouldn’t be
able to give him any more beer tokens now, and Dr Jones had gone through to get changed, so we all moved into position in the PM room for the beginning of what would prove to be a very late
evening.

A technician’s job with a forensic post-mortem is very limited for the first few hours. While the forensic pathologist removes the deceased’s clothes and jewellery, handing it all to
the police for bagging up and labelling, and SOCOs take photos, and hair and swabs are collected for various technical tests at forensic centres, a technician is not required and does a lot of
standing around and watching. You may be needed to turn the deceased over, or stand for a long time holding them on their side while the pathologist checks the posterior of the body for any marks
or wounds. This can make your arms and legs ache, but is part of the job. On this particular occasion, I had nothing to do for an hour and a half, but could not leave the room in case I was needed.
Dr Jones had left the removal of the brain until the end of his examination. After I had finished my duty of weighing the organs for him, he asked me if I would retract the scalp and look for the
wounds on the head. I wanted to run away at that point. This was a possible murder case. This was going to require a precise incision around the back of the scalp, one which didn’t go through
any wounds that might be there. And to top it all off, I had an audience. Everyone in the room would be watching me. I would just have to go for it.

I washed down the hair of the dead landlady on the table in front of me and, from the amount of blood that came off it, I thought the task of finding any wounds would be easy. I was to be proved
wrong. I found a very small laceration measuring only four centimetres, but it continued to bleed. Luckily it was going to be above the incision line I was about to make, so I would not mess up any
evidence. I pointed this out to Dr Jones, and then had to wait another fifteen minutes while he ordered photos to be taken and the wound to be swabbed before staring at the wound under the
spotlight. Apparently, flecks of paint or enamel off the offending weapon can sometimes be found in wounds, and if they can match these up at the lab, it can act as strong evidence for the
prosecution.

After he had finished, Dr Jones asked me to go ahead with the incision, but not to remove the skull, as he would do that. After the initial cut, the scalp retracted quite easily, and the smooth
white bone of the skull was exposed. The thought that came into my head was that of a soft boiled egg, just after you have cracked it with your spoon. Whatever had hit this lady over the head, it
had done so with great force, for the skull was cracked in several places. When the scalp was peeled forward, an actual piece of skull fell on to the table, which showed the extent of the
injury.

After a lot more photos, as well as some brilliant bone-saw work by Dr Jones (amazingly, with nobody getting hit or injured by loose flying bone chips), the brain was removed, more photos were
taken. At eight thirty I was finally given the go ahead to start reconstruction on the body. This, though, posed its own problems. I would have nothing to hold the wadding in place in the skull;
the skull cap will usually sit nicely back in its former place after the brain has been removed, and gives the impression of no interference whatsoever, but this was going to be like the hardest
jigsaw puzzle in the world to piece back together. It almost seemed a pointless exercise too, as within the next couple of days she would have a second examination for the defence, when all my work
would be undone. In between, though, there was bound to be a formal identification, and my job was to make her as presentable as possible for that. I managed it with a bit of handiwork, but the
next problem was going to be the small open laceration on her head. In any case where there is need for a defence, the wounds must never be stitched up. This will destroy evidence. It continued to
slowly bleed; I would just have to wait for it to dry out.

My audience finally left around nine thirty, with Dr Jones going half an hour later. He thanked me for my time, and hoped I would be able to get away soon. After he left, it suddenly hit me that
I was totally on my own in the mortuary, because Clive (having overseen me for most of the night) had gone too. Although day in and day out we can deal with the saddest stories, the most horrible
sights, and are surrounded by death, none of this could prepare me for being in the mortuary at ten at night on my own. I have to admit it felt very uncomfortable and I had the radio on very loud
while I was cleaning up.

Occasions like this remind me what an unusual job I have, and also make me understand other people’s reactions when I tell them about it. Believe me, in a mortuary at that time of night,
on my own, knowing full well that there were at least twenty corpses lying in the fridge no more than ten feet away from me, was not exactly where I wanted to be, even though I was getting paid for
it.

TWENTY-SEVEN

The weather had been wonderfully warm and, although the days were now beginning to shorten, I had the feeling that there was still a lot of summer left to be enjoyed, when the
E60 on Mr Martin Walker was faxed through by Bill Baxford. It had been a quiet few days, which was something of a relief because Graham was on leave; not that he’d gone anywhere, because he
never did. Graham’s life revolved around killing things – either by shooting them or by hooking them in the mouth – and, when not doing that, decorating his house. Clive used to
say that Graham had repainted his living room so often, he’d taken a couple of feet off the living space.

Without a word, Clive handed it over to me, his face giving nothing away. When I read what had happened, I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Open-mouthed, I looked up at Clive who
shrugged and said, ‘Agriculture’s a dangerous business.’

I looked again at the request. ‘Even so,’ I said.

Gloucestershire is mostly countryside and a lot of that countryside is farmed but criss-crossed with footpaths and bridle paths. From the information that Bill had supplied, it seemed that Mr
Walker had a dog – Bill didn’t mention what kind of dog it was – and he used to walk it, as he should, every morning and every afternoon. He varied the route, though, and
yesterday, because it was a sunny day, he had walked along a footpath near Tewkesbury, across a corn field. He had had a few pints with his lunch and, it being hot, he had decided to stop for a
rest and let the dog off the lead. Accordingly, he had fallen asleep.

And then they had started to harvest the corn.

It might have been all right – after all, a combine harvester makes a lot of noise – except that Mr Walker was profoundly deaf, and so he had slept on in peace . . .

When Mr Walker entered the mortuary, I was out buying sandwiches for lunch. By the time I got back, Clive had received him and opened the body bag and I didn’t feel like having my sliced
ham and cheese on granary any more.

‘Bet that hurt,’ was Clive’s comment, looking at me with a pinched face and puckered mouth that formed a pained expression while he sucked in some air. I could not argue. Poor
Mr Walker had been caught up by the harvester and dealt with in no uncertain way. He had been pierced, then sliced, then crushed. His left arm had been almost severed, while his legs were so deeply
cut across his thighs that I could see his femurs, which had both been fractured; his chest had been crushed and his abdomen split open, his intestines spilling out. That wasn’t nice, but
what really made me want to dry heave was his head; I say ‘head’, but it wasn’t something I’d have wanted on my shoulders. For a start, Mr Walker’s brain was no longer
inside it; what had subsequently been found now resided in a Tesco’s carrier bag between his legs. It had been forced to leave home because of lack of space, what with the fact that the head
had been crushed and completely flattened; I tried not to, but I kept thinking that with both eyes on the same side, he looked like a bit like a flat fish.

Clive saw my pale face and asked, ‘You all right, Michelle?’

I nodded, took a deep breath, figuring I couldn’t keep on being a girl about it all. Clive, being Clive, just nodded back. He was forever saying, ‘We don’t do burning martyr
here,’ and if I said that I was OK, then, as far as he was concerned, I was OK; end of.