The Coterie

Chapter 4

Chapter Four

There were a few police officers, perhaps more than were willing to admit, who found a morbid fascination with morgues and the procedures which took place within their walls. Chapman Bouttell was not one of them. Death in itself did not bother him unduly. He had seen more than his fair share of it and he had, he believed, become inured to it and thereby somewhat detached from the emotions it can, and often did, evoke in others.

The dissection of a corpse, however, was an entirely different matter. Post mortems were procedures that did bother him. It was not the body so much that unsettled him. The body was, after all, dead; an unthinking, unfeeling mass of flesh and bone and it was never going to do anyone any harm. The difficulty for Chapman was in maintaining that perspective, and he often found himself in awe of those who were charged with this unenviable task. To these folk, it was all so clinical, and so impersonal, to be almost matter-of-fact. To perform this kind of work every day took a certain type of character and he wondered if it was easy to switch off after spending all day slicing and dicing, up to their armpits in the blood and gore of what were once living, breathing, feeling human beings. He was certain he would never be able to mentally detach himself from the grisly task.

Mostly, it was the combination of the sickly, sweet smell of formaldehyde and body fluids which accompanied a dissection that got to him. It was a smell he had never become accustomed to and, after all his years on the job, he doubted he ever would. As a homicide investigator, his attendance at autopsies was a requirement of the job, and one which he undertook with no small amount of reluctance. Today was no exception. In truth, today was as bad as any of those he could remember. He was uncomfortable. His clothes were still damp, and he was tired.

He arrived at the city morgue directly from the crime scene, where he had left his team combing the grounds of Heywood Park in search of evidence. Morgues always seemed to be located in basements or lower ground floors of the buildings that housed them. Chapman often wondered about that—underground, but not quite underground, buried, but not quite buried. There were, he assumed, a number of perfectly logical reasons for them being situated where they were, accessibility and privacy being only two. Those morgues he ever had occasion to visit all had vehicle access ramps leading down to a discreet entrance, away from public scrutiny. It simply wouldn’t do to wheel the hapless deceased through the corridors of the building, in full view of unsuspecting members of the public and staff alike.

And then, perhaps an oddity, perhaps not, morgues were all white; white ceilings, white walls tiled up to two thirds of their height, and white tiled floors. The only apparent concession to this starkness was the stainless-steel benches and gurneys comprising the sparse furnishings.

If it were possible for one to enter a morgue while oblivious to the procedures which occurred within, the combination of sterile surroundings and the odour permeating the air would, Chapman was sure, soon stimulate one’s awareness. He guessed there were things which could be done about the smell; improved ventilation for one. But, surely the appropriate authorities could improve the sombre and depressing ambience by introducing a more appealing decor? Appealing to whom, he wondered? White was cheap, and easy to clean, he supposed. And then, all things considered, those poor souls who unknowingly took up temporary residence in this place were in no position to complain about either the smell or the decor.

There were two separate sections to the city morgue, a department within the state’s Forensic Science Centre. Both were located below street level and had separate entrances. There was a general section where victims of non-crime-associated death were brought, those who had died as a result of an accident, for example, and then there was a police section which accommodated the victims of crime.

The two sections were separated by administration offices and two comfort rooms where next of kin could wait and prepare themselves for the unenviable task of identifying the remains of a loved one. An internal access door led from the comfort room to the viewing room; a tiny airlock space with a glass window in one wall, beyond which lay the autopsy room. The viewing room and, to a lesser degree, the comfort room, were cold, clinical, impersonal places, and being there always made Chapman wish he was somewhere else. He hesitated in the airlock space between the two rooms and looked through the window into the autopsy room beyond.

Forensic Pathologist, Dr. Lee Richardson stood hunched over a bench on which lay the n***d body of the man found in the park some ten hours earlier. On the far side of the room, beyond where the doctor worked, was yet another room; an ante-room which housed a wall of refrigerated drawers, twelve in all, resembling a huge filing cabinet. These drawers contained the remains of victims who had met a premature death as a result of a criminal offence.

Chapman could recall a time or two in his career when all twelve drawers were empty, but such occasions were rare and he found no solace in the fact that he had never seen all twelve occupied at the same time. Given the times in which he lived and worked, he rather thought he stood a better than even chance of seeing them all occupied before he ever saw them all empty again. The apprehensive familiarity with the victim which he had felt at the crime scene accompanied him as he pushed through the door leading to the autopsy room.

Dr. Richardson turned from his work and offered a smile and a nod of recognition as Chapman entered. A generally good-natured and pleasant individual, Richardson’s smiling demeanor seemed incongruent here in this depressing place. He cast his eyes over Chap’s damp and ruffled attire.

“Good morning, Chapman. You look like shit.”

Very few people ever addressed Bouttell as “Chapman”. His name was a combination of his mother’s maiden name, Chapman, and his father’s surname, Bouttell. As is the case with most names which, by their very structure, lend themselves to an abbreviated form, “Chap” or “Chappy” had long ago become the names by which he was more commonly known among his colleagues and friends.

Chap’s overcoat was unbuttoned. He held it open and looked down at himself. The doctor was right. He looked like s**t and felt much the same. “Thanks, Doc,” he responded. “I’ve been on the job since four o’clock this morning. I’m wet, I’m cold, I’m tired, and I could use a stiff scotch about now, not to mention some good news from you.”

“I’m afraid I haven’t got much for you yet.” Richardson shrugged. “As you can see, I’m still in the process of dissection.”

Chap approached the table and looked down at the remains of the murder victim. The smell, almost overpowering, invaded his senses, and he fought against the urge to throw up all over the shiny white floor.

The pathologist had opened the chest cavity from a point just above the sternum to just below the navel. The skin and flesh had been peeled back, exposing the rib cage which he had subsequently sawed through and lifted clear of the body, thus giving him unrestricted access to the internal organs. Most of these organs had been removed for closer clinical examination, and Chapman recognised a human liver resting on a set of scales sitting on an implement trolley next to the dissection table. He swallowed hard, unable to drag his eyes from the grotesque display.

An incision had been made just below the hairline at the back of the man’s head and continued around the skull, ending just in front of each temple. Like the tough outer husk of a coconut, the scalp had been peeled forward over the skull and now lay across the top half of the man’s face. It was an ugly, stomach-churning, surreal thing to see, but something Chapman also found hard to drag his eyes away from.

Like a lid to the cranium cavity, a circular piece in the uppermost section of the skull had been sawed through and removed. The brain now lay in a thin pool of clear, cranial fluid in a stainless-steel dish on the table alongside the man’s head. If Chapman didn’t know better, this could easily be a scene from some hideous ‘B’ rated horror film.

As his eyes wandered over the remains before him, he was even more convinced that, although necessary, autopsies were obscene, highly impersonal procedures.

“When Dr. Rogers returned from the scene,” Richardson said, “he left some notes for me. When I discovered this was your case, I gave it priority. Had to pass a couple of cases on to others, who bitched and moaned they already have too much on their plate. But, I am the boss, and I guess that has its advantages.”

“Is there anything at all you can tell me yet?” Chap asked.

“Not a lot, it’s too early. He is about sixty years old, maybe a little older. Obviously very fit for his age. There is very little excess fat around the abdomen or the chest area and he has excellent muscle tone. This guy kept himself in pretty good nick. I’ve taken fingerprints, dental impressions, and samples to determine DNA. But, unless you’ve come up with any identification, we will have to wait for the system to run its course before we find out who this bloke is, or was.”

“I’ve got diddly squat.” Chap shrugged. “We found a wallet at the scene, near the body. We think it belonged to him, but it was empty, and there was no ID on the body. What about the bullet?”

“Also too early to tell,” Richardson said. “I recovered a number of small fragments which I have already sent to ballistics for testing. Basically, the bulk of the round went straight through.” He paused. “The caliber is for the folk in ballistics to determine but, if I were to hazard a guess, I would think a .38 or .357. I lean slightly towards the latter because it has the extra velocity required to send the projectile right through the back of the skull and out the front. The adult human skull is very hard, capable of withstanding considerable force. It has to—it’s the only protection the brain has from external forces. It was almost certainly a very close-range shot. More than likely the muzzle was held up hard against the victim’s head.”

He leaned forward and turned the dead man’s head to one side. With a gloved finger, he indicated the entry wound behind the right ear. “There are powder burns here that would support that.”

“You know, Doc,” Chap said, “it’s strange. As I said, we found a wallet at the scene, presumably this fellow’s, with all traces of identification removed. Up until an hour ago, there were no new missing person reports in the system which might have given us some idea who he is. And he was too well dressed and clean-cut-looking to be a homeless John Doe.”

“Perhaps he just hasn’t been missed by anyone yet,” offered the pathologist.

“Maybe.” Chap nodded. “Somehow, though, I feel as if I should know him.”

“I’ve known you a long time, Chapman. You’ve got an excellent memory for names and faces. If you think you know this guy, you probably do.” Richardson hesitated. “There is something I found which may be of interest to you. I don’t know if it will help, but it struck me as unusual.”

“I could use all the help I can get, unusual or otherwise,” Chap said with interest.

Richardson turned back to the body, took a firm grip on the right arm at the wrist, lifted it clear of the table and turned it inwards.

“Here,” he indicated. “Just above the elbow, at the back of the arm. What do you make of it?”

Chap took an involuntary step backwards, away from the table, and stared wide-eyed at the tattoo. In the shape of a diamond, it was small enough to be almost insignificant, but not to him. “Oh s**t!” he heard himself murmur. “Oh s**t!”

“Christ, Chapman, what’s the matter?” Richardson appeared genuinely concerned. “You’re as white as a ghost. What is it? Does that tattoo mean something to you?”

Chap steeled himself and took a pace forward, regaining his position closer to the table. He paused momentarily and then stooped to take a closer look at the strange little tattoo. “Show me his face, Doc.”

Richardson dropped the man’s arm and it slapped on the cold, steel table. He reached for the b****y scalp, gripped it tightly, and lifted it up and away from the upper face. He laid it back to its original position over the skull, exposing the dead man’s features.

Immediately, Chap knew who it was and the recognition stunned him. “Eddie,” he said, almost inaudibly.

“Jesus, you look terrible, Chap. Who is this guy?”

“Dickson, Eddie Dickson,” Chap answered. “I’ve had a gut feeling, right from when I first saw him in the park, that I knew him from somewhere. The tattoo rang all the right bells. It’s been a long time, but that’s Eddie Dickson.”

Chap turned away from the table, his mind racing, his stomach fluttering. He needed to get out of there. Suddenly, the fluttering turned to something more ominous and he fought against the urge to be sick. “I need your report as soon as possible, Doc.”

Before Richardson could respond, Chap turned and walked quickly, head bowed, from the room.