A fragrant cocktail of strawberry and sanitiser lingers in the morgue waiting room. Somehow I’ve beaten Everett here, and I wonder if he’s gone a different way just to fuck with me. I used to come here regularly, especially when my friend Anna was the local medical examiner, but it’s almost a year since my last visit. An attempt to redecorate gives the impression of lipstick on a pig. The orange cushions, freshly painted white walls and colourful fake flowers do little to distract from the tatty carpet and cracked windowsills. At least the former aesthetic was consistent.
A compact woman with dyed red hair bustles in from somewhere and plonks herself on the chair behind the reception bench. ‘Dr Mattingly will be with you in a minute,’ she says, without looking at me.
‘Thanks. I’m waiting for my colleagues.’
‘Mmm.’ The receptionist tugs her impressive mane loose from its messy topknot and holds a red plastic clip between her teeth while she rearranges it. ‘Want a coffee?’ she asks around the hairclip. ‘Going to make myself one, so it’s no trouble.’
‘I’m fine, thanks.’
She turns on the radio and disappears into another room. A talkback caller is complaining about receiving coathangers as a present from her sister-in-law.
I check for new emails but I don’t have any. Normally when I’m working, I’m inundated with updates and requests, along with a seemingly infinite pile of paperwork. Not having these peripheral tasks is making me feel untethered and exposed. I’m relieved when the front door pushes open, and Holdsworth and Everett walk in.
He screws up his face childishly. ‘God, this place stinks. Why do they make it smell like this?’
‘Better than the alternative,’ I say.
‘Have you seen Mattingly yet?’ he asks.
‘Not yet.’
He swaggers to the front desk. ‘Excuse me, hello?’
The woman returns, sipping from a mug. She lifts her head and eyeballs him.
‘Can you let Mattingly know we’re here?’
‘Please.’
‘I’m sorry?’ says Everett.
‘Can you let Dr Mattingly know we’re here, please?’ the woman says as if talking to a child. ‘That’s what you should say.’
I smile and notice Holdsworth trying to hide her own grin.
Everett has the decency to blush. ‘Is Dr Mattingly here, please?’ he mumbles.
‘Yes, he is. Please wait here while I get him for you.’ She beams at us and disappears into another room.
‘Jesus Christ,’ mutters Everett.
Moments later the door to the morgue swings open. ‘Good morning!’ Boyd Mattingly enters the waiting room in full scrubs, brown eyes sparkling. ‘Lovely weather today. A shame we’re stuck inside doing god’s work.’ He gestures for us to enter the morgue. ‘After you.’
‘Hey, Boyd,’ I say, ‘can I grab you for a minute?’
‘Sure,’ he says affably. ‘You two go ahead and keep our friend company.’ He holds out his hand like a tour guide.
Everett glares at me and stalks into the morgue, Holdsworth trotting behind.
‘You’re back on the payroll now, I assume?’ Boyd says. ‘That was quick.’
‘I’m just helping out on this one.’
‘Good. Like I said, they could use your help.’
‘Thank you.’ I hope my tone conveys how much I appreciate his vote of confidence.
‘You wanted to chat about something?’
I nod. ‘I didn’t get the chance to ask you yesterday.’
‘Crime scenes do have a habit of getting in the way of a good old-fashioned Q&A,’ Boyd quips.
I laugh. ‘Especially with me being a bit out of practice. It was just about the woman that went missing from the hospital—the corpse.’
‘Sadly, we never met.’
‘I know. I just wanted to know what the process is. You were alerted about her on Sunday night … ?’
‘Actually, I wasn’t rostered on this weekend: Claire was. Claire Messenger is the new assistant ME. Marvellous woman! She started just after you went on leave. You’ll love her.’
‘So Claire got the call about the body on Sunday?’
‘Yes. But I’d already heard about the accident from a friend. We were having dinner at that lovely new place, Finch, on Rawson Street near the old bakery. Have you been?’
I shake my head.
‘You must! It’s very good and quite reasonably priced, too—Asian, but not with all that awful sauce that’s usually loaded onto everything. Anyway, my friend got a call from his brother, who’d driven past the crash on his way home, and I had a feeling someone would be turning up on my table. I get a spidey sense about these things sometimes.’
‘But would you have done the autopsy on Monday morning?’
‘Not unless Claire called me to assist. I wasn’t scheduled to work again until yesterday.’ He sneaks a glance at his watch. Morgues run on a tighter schedule than most airlines.
‘Have you ever had an issue with collecting corpses from Smithson Hospital?’
‘No issues.’
‘Body parts haven’t gone missing, or corpses, for that matter … ?’
Tilting his head, he asks, ‘Are you thinking this isn’t a one-off?’
‘I’ve heard of people selling organs on the black market or even using them for scientific purposes, so I’m exploring possibilities.’
‘A few years ago, there was a morgue assistant in Sydney who helped himself to body parts and sold them online, but I haven’t come across anything suspicious here. It’s all very low-key, and everyone knows everyone.’ He checks the time again. ‘We should join your friends and make sure they aren’t getting started without us.’
I nod.
‘I have to say, I felt a little guilty when I heard what had happened. I mean, it’s standard for us to leave a corpse at the hospital overnight, but if Claire had collected her that evening, we’d have a chance of working out who she was.’
‘Maybe,’ I say noncommittally. I know better than to play the what-if game.
He asks the receptionist to hold his calls, then we enter the morgue. On the far side of the room, a white sheet is draped over a body on a metal table. There are several bare tables in a row down the centre, and on our left is a wall lined with drawers. Every surface gleams—with the exception of the glass jars containing human organs on a shelf near the sink, the room could moonlight as an industrial kitchen.
Everett and Holdsworth watch me pull on scrubs and put on a hairnet, then we form a little huddle as Boyd gives us a quick preamble. His style is inclusive—I get the sense it’s for his benefit as much as ours. He likes to narrate his autopsies, and we are being treated to the prologue.
He steps his legs apart in a sporty stance and looks at each of us in turn. ‘Now, even though I saw the body at the scene, I have no preconceived notions. Today I’m on a fact-finding mission to work out how and why this person has found themselves on my table. I consider likely possibilities as I go, but my mind is open. Cause of death is the key question to answer, of course, but there might be other revelations, too. He might be able to tell me what was going on in his life, in his head and within his body before he died. With any luck we’ll discover all sorts of things.’ Boyd sanitises his hands and pulls on some surgical gloves. ‘Polly!’ he calls over his shoulder. ‘We’re about to start.’
A young woman enters the room. Her cheeks and nose are dotted with a constellation of freckles, and her wavy blonde hair is pulled back and captured in a net. Blue eyeliner makes her hazel eyes glow. She nods politely. ‘Hi, I’m Polly. Nice to meet you all.’
‘Pol’s the best in the business,’ adds Boyd.
She grins as she places several tools on a tray and hands it to him. ‘I’m learning from the best. Does anyone want a seat?’
We shake our heads.
Boyd hooks on a face mask and strides over to the table. Removing the sheet with a flick of his wrists, he reveals Roger’s body. Its nakedness is jarring, and the deep wounds on the chest and torso are shocking against translucent skin. That blank stare makes me shudder. I’ve seen enough bodies to know we’re all more similar than different in the end, and I’ve witnessed dozens of autopsies over the years, but the recency of seeing Roger in full flight is making his decline particularly shocking. Although I didn’t know him well—and I suspect I wouldn’t have liked him much—I feel sad at the waste of a life cut short.
Boyd begins the examination, murmuring observations to Polly, who studiously takes notes.
‘How many stab wounds?’ I ask.
‘Half a dozen—and all of them penetrated the skin. There are no misses. This could indicate he knew his attacker, who was close when he was caught off guard. Or it could suggest the killer easily overpowered him. There’s some bruising on his upper right arm, perhaps caused by someone grabbing him with their left hand while stabbing him with their right. The wounds indicate a solo right-handed assailant.’
‘Hardly narrows things down.’ Everett holds up his right hand.
‘It’s narrowed down to less than fifty per cent of the population, though,’ I say.
He looks confused.
‘The killer is unlikely to be a woman, even if they caught Kirk off guard.’
‘I’ve already said I never thought it was a woman,’ Everett says dismissively.
‘We know Kirk was having marriage troubles,’ I press, ‘and there’s a chance he was having an affair, so there might be an angry woman or two out there. But, based on the physical evidence, maybe we’re looking for an angry husband.’
‘I actually can’t rule out a woman, but it was definitely someone quite tall,’ Boyd says, examining the wound at the top of Kirk’s chest. ‘The weapon used was incredibly sharp, which might have compensated for physical strength, but the position of the wounds indicates the assailant was taller than the victim. See how all the cuts are above the bottom of the rib cage?’
‘Are we sure we can rule out Jack Barnes?’ I ask Everett. ‘He’s tall, and he had access and possible motive if they were working together.’
‘His story checks out,’ says Everett. ‘And he has an alibi for earlier in the morning—several people saw him walking his dog. When you factor in the cafe visit, his movements are accounted for.’
I refrain from reacting to his patronising tone.
‘What’s your estimated time of death?’ I ask Boyd.
‘Based on his temp and the condition of the body at the scene, we’re talking anywhere between six-thirty am and eight-thirty am. Once I examine the stomach contents, I’ll be able to be more precise, but the cereal bowl suggests he was killed in the hour or two before he was discovered.’
‘Do we know what Barnes was doing the night before?’ I ask Everett and Holdsworth. ‘Perhaps he argued with Kirk and arranged for someone to attack him. Him discovering the body might be part of his alibi.’
‘The team are interviewing him again this morning,’ says Holdsworth, ‘so I’ll make sure they check that.’
‘Thanks. And can we confirm Roger Kirk was currently Barnes’s client, and that he didn’t owe him any money? We need to explore every aspect of their relationship, especially because he was trusted enough to have keys to Roger’s house.’
‘His teeth are in good nick,’ says Boyd, his gloved fingers probing Roger’s mouth. ‘Consistent with being wealthy.’
Everett ignores Boyd’s attempt at humour. ‘We haven’t got all Barnes’s account info yet, but rest assured it will be covered off, Woodstock.’
‘I know you checked his communication records,’ I say, ‘but I still think we should be digging into a possible affair. Kirk was probably used to getting whatever he wanted. Maybe he didn’t want to wait to be single before he had some fun—his credit cards might provide clues. Or the affair might have ended badly, and he was paying someone off. We could ask Barnes about it. Perhaps it’s the kind of thing Roger shared with a friend.’
Everett is sceptical. ‘Pretty risky, someone like Kirk having a secret relationship around here. Smithson’s not that big.’
I raise my eyebrows at his naivety. I know firsthand how the risk of being caught having a clandestine affair is often no match for the pull of desire. ‘Hasn’t stopped anyone before.’
Holdsworth pipes up. ‘My neighbour is sleeping with my friend, and they don’t think I know. Sometimes I see her leaving his house really early in the morning.’
We all laugh, except for Everett.
‘There might be some DNA coming your way,’ Boyd says, examining Roger’s hands.
I remember something. ‘Yesterday you mentioned his finger is damaged.’
‘It is, but it’s not from a knife wound. He might have tried to punch his attacker or been warding off a blow. So there might be some goodies for us under his nails.’
‘How long will that take?’ I ask.
‘At least a few days, I’m afraid. You’d think Smithson was New York City, the way the lab carries on. Full tox reports are taking roughly seven weeks at the moment.’
I clench my jaw, even though I knew it was unlikely to be any quicker. I’m desperate to narrow things down—it all feels far too loose for my liking.
‘Commencing act two, team,’ says Boyd as he slices Roger’s body from chest to groin, exposing his insides.
This is the moment, for me, when the dead transition into an inanimate object, their body becoming an artefact. My empathy for the loss of life is still high, but to do my job effectively I need to separate their humanness from the investigation. Emotion blurs clues and complicates theories. I need to do what the loved ones can’t.
Boyd busies himself removing Roger’s organs so he and Polly can measure and weigh them. I fade in and out of his narrative as I focus on forming a mental list of all the things that need to be followed up, trying to arrange them in priority order. Contrary to what the general public might think, there’s no handbook for a murder investigation. There’s process and precedence, and the practical realities of access and the law, but the structure of an investigation is ultimately down to the lead detective. There’s a surprising amount of autonomy—on the downside, if things are missed, they are missed forever. We’re all chasing the legendary breakthroughs and love hearing about the gut feeling that nailed a bad guy, but it’s the grunt work that tends to pay off.
‘I can confirm he died very quickly,’ Boyd says, ‘within five minutes of the first wound being inflicted.’
Everett’s phone lights up, and he excuses himself, the door swinging shut behind him with a metallic click.
I ask, ‘Can you tell us anything else about the knife?’
Boyd’s eyes meet mine. ‘Well, as I said, it was extremely sharp. There was zero resistance in any of these lacerations. I’ve seen similar on other vics, and that was from chef-grade knives. I’ve got a contact I could send some photos to for an opinion. She’s good with knife wounds.’
‘Yes, please.’
Polly makes a note.
Everett returns, his face alert with news. He gestures to Holdsworth to go to him, then tells her quietly, ‘We need to leave.’
‘What’s happened?’ I ask, joining them in the corner.
‘Dominique Kirk’s at the station, demanding to speak to me. She wants to make a confession.’