Teeth of the Wolf

Teeth of the Wolf ebook-6-2

So he’s content to hover on the fringes of the scene and watch. There’s no longer a voice in his head goading him on to do things he shouldn’t. Hasn’t been since that day at Hanson’s farm. It had been a relief to have Makere depart, but it left Matiu with a gnawing worry as well. He saw Makere walking away, not a shadow but a form, a man. Whatever had happened between the farm and the museum basement where Matiu had stepped into that other place, the ghostly presence who had haunted him since childhood had taken its leave. But he doubts that means Makere is gone. Just changed, somehow.

Released?

In any case, there’s now a new voice in his ear, this one lower, less articulate, and just as insistent. Cerberus growls low and rumbly as they circle the crime scene, moving from one dappled spot of shade to the next. Oddly enough, the cops hadn’t wanted a dog slobbering all over their evidence, but that shouldn’t have upset Cerberus. The Labrador’s got it in his head that he’s Penny’s guardian, and he’s not happy about being taken from her presence. Cerberus seems to have a sense for many of the same things Matiu does; other things, things that lurk in the periphery, stalk the shadows. Things that hunger.

If Cerberus is feeling unsettled, then maybe it’d be wise for Matiu to share that disquiet. If Makere were here, he’d probably be whispering to him, telling him he needs to get closer, needs to see the body, needs to touch it, look into its cold dead eyes and fall into whatever hell the poor homeless guy saw in his last mortal moments. He leans back against a tree, tugging Cerberus’ leash so the dog has to settle by his feet, and closes his eyes. The heat blankets him, thick with the smell of the bloom that fills the harbour, and he just breathes.

Not so long ago, he’d realised that breathing was something he took for granted. He’d lived through moments that would haunt him forever, when his breath had tasted of cold sand and ancient horror. What he’d taken away from those few short, sharp alien breaths was the knowledge that what had gone before was only the beginning. This hot Auckland day, when some folks will be at the coast swimming in between mats of floating algae, while others are firing up a barbecue in the back yard or throwing a ball around the park, is an interlude. A calm before the storm. The deep quiet inhalation of the sea as it draws back its fist in a tsunami rage.

There’s more to come. Does it start here, in the park, with some dead homeless guy? Or is this just another symptom of the sickness that runs through the population like a cancer? Another killing over drug money, or a difference of opinion over the outcome of the latest fiasco on a rugby field taken too far, or something just as ridiculous? Something itches, more than just his healing arm. A sense in the back of his skull, quieter now than it used to be yet somehow more insistent, more precise. Across the crime scene tape, something is screaming out to him to be seen.

He ignores it, keeps his eyes closed, breathes deep, and screams back at it inside his head.

- Pandora -

Making a slow circle about the bench, Penny records her observations on her phone. “January 12, 2046, 8:34am: Little Shoal Bay Reserve, North Shore. Victim is a Caucasian male, estimate mid-thirties, discovered approx. 7:15am by a jogger and phoned in to the station, stop.”

Like a Raggedy-Ann doll dumped in favour of the toy of the moment, the victim is slumped face-down across the park bench, his left hand twisted beneath his hips. It almost looks as if he were holding up his trousers when he’d fallen.

She presses record again. “Jeans, business shirt—a button-down—and missing one shoe. The victim presents prone on a bench at the southwest corner beneath a…” She looks up. “…a kōwhai tree, stop.”

Had he meant to pee against the trunk and lost his footing? Maybe he’d been drunk? He’d have to have been drunk to even think of desecrating a tree as graceful as this.

“Possible fall,” she says. “Question alcohol, stop.”

She lowers her face to the corpse and sniffs gently. She wrinkles her nose: no detectable scent of alcohol, but even over the smell of salt it’s not hard to tell it’s been a wee while since John Doe here enjoyed a bath.

Stepping back, Penny balances her phone on the back edge of the bench, then takes a pair of gloves from her satchel and, snapping them on, checks his scalp for contusions. Nothing obvious. She’ll have to follow up later with the pathologist. Although, looking closer, his jeans appear to be bagging at the waist, and he’s missing his belt, which might explain why he was holding them. Perhaps his tenure on the city’s streets had caused him to lose some weight. A diet of burgers and fries scavenged from rubbish bins can do that. His skin is peeling in places too, evidence that he’s been living outdoors a while. Stepping around the body again, and without touching her phone, she leans in to record the new observations.

Perhaps Tanner’s right: there’s nothing of interest to note. No obvious foul play anyway. Just a sad case of a homeless man taking leave of this life in a suburban park. Penny takes a moment to admire the curve of the mudflats edged with mangrove lace, the gentle slope of the boat ramp as it enters the water, and the flotsam of little craft with their brightly painted hulls in blue and orange. The seaside park is a moment of calm at the edge of the city. There are worse places to check out.

But she can’t stand about day-dreaming. She needs to get on. The forensic pathologist will want the body moved soon, the heat and humidity hastening its decomposition.

Resuming her assessment, she moves closer to examine the man’s face. His chin is perched on the armrest, tipped upwards to meet the sun.

Penny draws in a breath.

This is no yoga sun salutation, and nor has he gone gently into that good night. Instead, the victim’s mouth is slack and gaping, and his eyes, bizarrely, are still open, gazing at her with an expression so haunting, so fearful, that her heart lurches.

If Penny didn’t know better, she’d swear he died of fright.

She exhales gently, letting her pulse slow. “Expression of fear, stop.” As soon as she’s said it, she shakes her head. Tuts.

So subjective, Penny.

Successful scientific consults make objective observations, not wild conjecture based on their emotions. Nothing can be determined from the victim’s facial expression. More likely, Penny’s projecting her own feelings about the poor man’s last moments. Extreme fear is expressed by contracture of the risorius, a muscle only found in two thirds of the population. Which means a significant minority aren’t capable of pulling a frightened face. And even if he possessed the necessary musculature, filaments loosen and slacken in the moments after death and before rigor sets in.

The observation simply isn’t relevant.

Using her knuckle, Penny deletes the comment from her phone. Yet she can’t help but wonder: what would cause a John Doe to look like that? Pain? A bad trip perhaps? It wouldn’t surprise her, not given the garbage drugs are cut with these days, and since he was likely short on cash, well…

Gently, Penny lifts the victim’s free arm, already stiff. Even with the sea breezes conditions are stifling, which is accelerating the rigor process. Penny puts the death somewhere between 3:00am to 7:00am. She records her estimate. Only a ballpark at this stage. The pathologist can take the rectal temperature. She’ll content herself with a glance at the exponential decay curve, thank you very much.

She moves on to examine the inside of the victim’s arm. “No visible needle tracks, or evidence of adhesives,” she says, loud enough to be picked up by the phone’s recorder. Again, the pathologist’s report should provide more detail.

Removing a roll of sampling tape from her satchel, she takes a couple of skin surface samples anyway, in case any residues are wiped away when his clothing is removed. She tucks the samples in her satchel, then lifts the victim’s arm again, pulling away his shirt to look at the skin of his side and back. A tell-tale purple haze is creeping up his side. “Lividity appearing on the torso,” she says. “Suggests victim died in situ.”

“Good morning, Dr Yee.”

Crouched beside the victim, Penny is holding his arm in the air. “Officer Clark,” she says from under the dead man’s armpit. “We have to stop meeting like this.”

Clark gives her a grim smile. “We don’t always meet in the best of circumstances, do we?” He stoops to bag up something that has tumbled in the grass, the movement drawing Penny’s attention. It’s the man’s missing shoe.

Hang on, that’s strange.

Lowering the victim’s arm, she straightens up. “Officer Clark, if you wouldn’t mind, could I take a look at that, please?”

“Of course.” Clark passes her the bag. Penny turns it over, the transparent plastic crinkling. It’s a loafer, in buttery-soft tan leather. She recognises the brand: Saveas. “Pretty posh shoe,” she remarks, handing the evidence bag back to Clark.

“Yes, does seem an expensive choice of footwear for someone living rough,” Clark muses.

“Only $3,000 a pair.”

“You’re kidding.” Clark wipes his forehead with the back of his forearm.

“My mother got Dad a pair for Christmas. I suppose our John Doe could have got them at a charity shop. Someone’s unwanted gift perhaps?”

“Or he could have stolen them.”

“Or he could have stolen them.”

Penny doesn’t like to speak ill of the dead. Clark must feel the same because they’re both quiet for a moment. Behind them, Clark’s colleagues are ushering the onlookers away, their voices carrying over the quiet plop of water on the mudflats.

“At least we have an actual body this time,” Clark says after a minute. He’s your glass-half-full type. “It’s a starting point, isn’t it? Although you have to feel sorry for the poor fellow. You wouldn’t wish it on your worst enemy, would you? Going like that. With no family or friends to see you off.”

Penny nods. As intolerable as her family can be at times, she’d hate to die alone.

“Hey you! Come back!” This time the shouts are coming from the other side of the park. Her heart already plummeting, Penny glances up to see Matiu cross the police line to stride across the grass verge, Cerberus in tow. Speaking of family…

What the heck, Matiu. Stay out of the way!

“That’s your brother, isn’t it?” Clark says.

“Yes, sorry,” Penny says, her face suddenly hot. “It must be important. He wouldn’t cross the police line otherwise.”

Not if he knows what’s good for him.

“I think we’re going to have to wind it up here, anyway,” Clark says, waving the evidence bag towards a vehicle which has just pulled into the grounds. “The pathologist’s keen to move the body, get it out of the heat.”

“But I’m not quite finished—”

Already the van is backing up to the edge of the grass. The pathologist’s staff, dressed in their white paper suits, surge across the site like a posse of abominable snowmen. Penny grabs her phone from the bench and she and Clark take a step back as the men in white converge on the body.

“On two. One, two.”

All clinical efficiency, they flip the body over and place it on a stretcher. They’re about to move off when Penny spots something.

“Wait!” she cries. “Sorry, I won’t be a second. I just need to look at that hand.”

Clark nods at the snowmen and they stop where they are, allowing her to approach. Penny lifts the victim’s hand, the right one, the one that had been squashed under the body, turning it over and peering at the fingertips.

“Look,” she says to Clark. “What do you make of this?” Two of the man’s fingertips are solid blue-black, the border a straight line drawn just below the first knuckle. “Is that ink?”

“Looks like it. Maybe he had a tattoo done recently,” Clark surmises. “Yes, look, there’s one there; just above his wrist.” Penny had nearly missed the tiny motif, the man’s sleeve partly obscuring it.

The snowmen shuffle in impatience. Outside the police cordon, Matiu is signalling to her. Cerberus is riled up too, yanking at the leash and trying to get under the tape.

“Dr Yee…your brother. He seems…agitated.”

She brushes the constable off. “It’s fine. He can wait another minute. This tattoo isn’t recent, but I think it could be significant…”

She looks again at the tattoo. Etched into the skin on the ventral surface of the man’s wrist, it’s circular, about the size of a roll of dental floss. Comprising several concentric central whorls, it could possibly be Māori, a stylised version of the koru, but the outer ring resembles a cog and there’s a dark s***h across the centre of the image which suggests an eyelid. Just an attractive design, or is it a symbol of some sort? Or an emblem? Perhaps John Doe was part of a gang, or a band of musicians? That might explain the expensive shoes but not the ink stains on his fingers. Still, this is good: a mark like this could identify him to friends and family if he doesn’t show up on any fingerprint database. That side of the case isn’t her responsibility of course, but it’s interesting…

Cerberus woofs.

“Dr Yee,” Clark says quietly. “The pathologist would like to leave now.”

Penny drops the wrist, embarrassed. She’d been in la-la land. “Oh, yes, of course.” She catches Matiu’s glower from the side-line. “Um…I might have to head off soon myself.”

She needs more time with the body, but the snowmen are leaving, carrying their prey back to the lair. Quickly, Penny whips out her phone and, running alongside, takes a quick photo of the tattoo. It will have to do.

- Matiu -

“Come on!” Matiu stops short of the crime scene, afraid of what he might find if he gets too close. Cerberus strains against his grip, eager to get to the park bench. Muscles along the dog’s back and down his legs ripple, like he’s on the verge of a fight, though there are no other dogs nearby.

“What’s the problem? I’m trying to work here!”

“It’s Mārama. Mum called, said she’s been admitted to hospital. She had a…” He glances at Clark, bites his tongue. “She’s had a fall. On the bus.”

“The bus?” Penny asks. “What was she doing on the bus? I didn’t think she went out at all.”

“Can we just get out of here?”

Penny’s jaw tightens. She lowers her voice. “Matiu, I know how important she is to you. She’s my aunty too, remember? But I have to finish processing the scene. It’s what I’m being paid for. There could be important evidence and if I rush and miss something—”

“You’ll never know. Guy’s a bum, Penny. Tag ‘em and bag ‘em. We’ve gotta go.”

Penny stamps her foot, just a little. Not so much that Clark might see but enough that Matiu can infer she’s irritated. Her next words come out through gritted teeth. “Is she dying?”

“What?”

“Seriously. Is she dying? Did the hospital call and say, ‘Come quick, she’s dying and you have to say goodbye because she might not be with us much longer’?”

Matiu steps back. Something’s changed in Penny these last few weeks. Not surprising, given what they’ve been through, but still, the acid in her tone is new. “No, they—”

“Then go wait in the car, and I’ll be along as soon as I’m done.”

Matiu tugs at Cerberus, still straining to get a sniff at the bench. He nods slowly. “Righto. But just so you know, you’re right.”

Penny throws out her hands in exasperation. “Of course I am.”

“About the bus.”

She stops, befuddlement replacing the moment of indignant victory she’d allowed herself. “What?”

“Mārama never takes the bus. She doesn’t leave the house unless one of us takes her out. Why was she on the bus, Penny?” He spins away, yanking on Cerberus’ leash harder than might’ve been fair, and stalks back toward the carpark. He should stay, watch her back. Bad things are brewing, and they need each other. But how can she rank the death of some hobo over Mārama’s well-being?

Because something’s not as it seems about this apparently random death. He can feel it, just like Cerberus can, and so can she. Whatever there is to find here, they might be better off not finding it. Ignorance may be preferable to falling down the rabbit hole again. Sure as hell won’t be rabbits down there.

He ducks under the yellow tape and waits.

His phone pings, a photo from Penny. What do you make of this? He opens the image.

An eye stares up at him from the screen, looks into him. Blinks.

He drops the phone with a cry, as something cold burns through his fingers. Cold as a winter river.

Cold as death.