“Was she wearing makeup?”
“A little lipstick and eyeliner.”
“I need to sit down for a while and read the postmortem report.”
“I’ll find you an empty office.”
Ten minutes later, alone at a desk, I stare at a stack of ring-bound photograph albums and folders bulging with statements. Among the pile is the postmortem report and results from blood and toxicology analysis.
CITY OF WESTMINSTER CORONER
Postmortem Report
Name: Unknown —— Postmortem No: DX-34 468
DOB: Unknown —— Death D/T: Unknown
Age: Unknown —— Postmortem D/T: 12 December 2002, 0915
Sex: Female
Anatomical Summary
1. Fourteen lacerations and incised wounds to the chest, abdomen and thighs, penetrating to a depth of 1.2 inches. They range in width from 3 inches to half an inch.
2. Four lacerations to the upper left arm.
3. Three lacerations to the left side of the neck and shoulders.
4. The direction of the sharp-force injuries tends to be downward and are a mixture of stabbing and incised wounds.
5. The hesitation marks are generally straight and accompany the deeper incisions.
6. Heavy bruising and swelling to the left cheekbone and left eye socket.
7. Slight bruising to the right forearm and abrasions to the right tibia and right heel.
8. Oral, vaginal and rectal swabs are clear.
Preliminary Toxicology Study
Blood ethanol— none detected
Blood drug screen— no drugs detected
Cause of Death
Postmortem X-rays reveal air in the right ventricular chamber of the heart indicating a massive and fatal air embolism.
I scan the report quickly, looking for particular details. I’m not interested in the minutiae of how she died. Instead I look for clues that relate to her life. Did she have any old fractures? Was there any evidence of drug use or sexually transmitted diseases? What did she have for her last meal? How long since she’d eaten?
Ruiz doesn’t bother to knock.
“I figured you were milk no sugar.”
He puts a plastic cup of coffee on the desk and then pats his pockets, searching for cigarettes that exist only in his imagination. He grinds his teeth instead.
“So what can you tell me?”
“She wasn’t a prostitute.”
“Because?”
“The median age of girls becoming prostitutes is only sixteen. This woman was in her mid-twenties, possibly older. There are no signs of long-standing sexual activity or evidence of sexually transmitted diseases. Abortions are common among prostitutes, particularly as they’re often coerced into not using condoms, but this girl had never been pregnant.”
Ruiz taps the table three times as though typing three ellipsis dots. He wants me to go on.
“Prostitutes at the high-class end of the scale sell a fantasy. They take great care with their appearance and presentation. This woman had short fingernails, a boyish hairstyle and minimal makeup. She wore sensible shoes and very little jewelry. She didn’t use expensive moisturizers or paint her nails. She had her bikini line waxed modestly…”
Ruiz is moving around the room again, with his mouth slightly open and a puckered brow.
“She took care of herself. She exercised regularly and ate healthy food. She was probably concerned about putting on weight. I’d say she was of average or slightly above average intelligence. Her schooling would have been solid; her background most likely middle class.
“I don’t think she’s from London. Someone would have reported her missing by now. This sort of girl doesn’t go missing. She has friends and family. But if she came to London for a job interview, or for a holiday, people might not have expected to hear from her for a while. They’ll start to get worried soon.”
Pushing back my chair a little, I lack the conviction to stand. What else can I tell him?
“The medallion— it’s not St. Christopher. I think it’s probably St. Camillus. If you look closely the figure is holding a pitcher and towel.”
“And who was he?”
“The patron saint of nurses.”
The statement concentrates his attention. He cocks his head to one side and I can almost see him cataloguing the information. In his right hand he flicks open a book of matches and closes it again. Open and then closed.
I shuffle the papers and glance at the full postmortem report. A paragraph catches my attention.
There is evidence of old lacerations running the length of her right and left forearms and inside her upper thighs. The degree of scarring suggests an attempt at self-suturing. These wounds were most likely self-inflicted and point toward past attempts at self-harm or self-mutilation.
“I need to see the photographs.”
Ruiz pushes the ring-bound folders toward me and in the same breath announces, “I have to make a phone call. We might have a lead. An X-ray technician has reported her flatmate missing in Liverpool. She matches the age, height and hair color. And how’s this for a coincidence, Sherlock? She’s a nurse.”
After he’s gone I open the first folder of photographs and turn the pages quickly. Her arms had been along her sides when I viewed her body. I couldn’t see her wrists or inner thighs. A self-mutilator with multiple stab wounds, all self-inflicted.
The first photographs are wide-angle shots of open ground, littered with rusting forty-four-gallon drums, rolls of wire and scaffolding poles. The Grand Union Canal forms an immediate backdrop but on the far side I see a smattering of well-established trees and the headstones in between.
The photographs begin to focus down onto the banks of the canal. Blue-and-white police tape has been threaded around metal posts to mark out the area.
The second set of photographs shows the ditch and a splash of white that looks like a discarded milk container. As the camera zooms closer it reveals it to be a hand, with fingers outstretched, reaching upward from the earth. Soil is scraped away slowly, sifted and bagged. The corpse is finally exposed, lying with one leg twisted awkwardly beneath her and her left arm draped over her eyes as though shielding them from the arc lights.
Moving quickly, I skim over the pages until I reach the postmortem pictures. The camera records every smear, scratch and bruise. I’m looking for one photograph.
Here it is. Her forearms are turned outward and lying flat against the dull silver of the bench top. Awkwardly, I stand and retrace my steps along the corridors. My left leg locks up and I have to swing it in an arc from back to front.
The operator buzzes me into the secure room and I stare for a few seconds at the same bank of metal crypts. Four across. Three down. I check the label, grasp the handle and slide the drawer open. This time I force myself to look at her ruined face. Recognition is like a tiny spark that fires a bigger machine. I know this woman. She used to be a patient. Her hair is shorter now and slightly darker. And she has put on weight, but only a little.
Reaching for her right arm, I turn it over and brush my fingertips along the milky white scars. Against the paleness of her skin they look like embossed creases that merge and crisscross before fading into nothing. She opened these wounds repeatedly, picking apart the stitches or slicing them afresh. She kept this hidden, but once upon a time I shared the secret.
“Need a second look?” Ruiz is standing at the door.