Stuart Macbride - Blind Eye

'No comment.'

'And last night you used it on Harry Jordan's head.'

'Bollocks.'

'No, just his head.' Finnie handed Exhibit A back to DS Pirie. 'You might want to have a wee think about that one, Colin. You see,' and at this the DCI leant over the table and put on a theatrical whisper, 'we have what are known in the trade as witnesses.'

'I…' The big man shied back. 'I never touched him.'

'Three witnesses say different, Colin. Or can I call you Creepy?'

'No you fuckin' can't!' McLeod's face got even uglier. 'I want my lawyer, and I want him right now.'

'Don't be such a drama queen; you know how this works. You get a lawyer when I say so, not before.'

'I NEVER TOUCHED HIM!'

DS Pirie — silent up to this point — leant over and whispered something in Finnie's ear.

The DCI nodded. 'If you never touched him,' he said, 'then why did Forensics find traces of Harry Jordan's blood on your hammer?'

'Told you, it's not my hammer.'

'Did you?' Finnie put on a show of frowning and asking the room, 'Does anyone remember Mr McLeod saying this wasn't his hammer?'

'It's not my-'

Pirie checked his notes. 'Then why does it have your fingerprints all over it?'

'I… I didn't fuckin' kill him!'

'Oh dear,' the DCI had the kind of smile you only normally saw on grizzly bears. 'We've got forensics, we've got witnesses, and thanks to DS McRae,' he pointed over his shoulder at Logan, 'we've got a threatening phone call from the victim on your answering phone. And we all know Harry Jordan beat the crap out of that tart you're soft on. Not bad enough he's renting out the love of your life-'

A knock at the door.

'Oh for…' He glanced back, 'Get that would you, McRae?'

Logan opened the door to find an out of breath PC Karim standing in the corridor. The constable huffed and puffed for a second, then blurted out his news.

They'd found another victim with his eyes gouged out in an abandoned building. Oedipus strikes again.

An ambulance sat in the middle of the narrow strip of tarmac that ran between the rows of Lego-brick homes on Burnbank Place, its engine still running as a paramedic in a green jumpsuit argued with the uniformed PC guarding the property. A skip sat by the front door, full of chunks of plaster, an old sink, and a pee-stained mattress.

'You've got to let us in: we need to get him to hospital!'

'I can't, OK? I've-' and then the constable spotted DCI Finnie, marching up the pavement, dragging Logan and DS Pirie in his wake. 'Chief Inspector! They really want to collect the victim and-'

Finnie pushed past him. 'No one in or out till the pathologist gets here.' And then they were inside.

It wasn't a big place, and about as boxy and featureless on the inside as it was on the outside. Like the house in Primrosehill Drive, it was in the process of being refurbished. The walls were stripped back to the bare breezeblocks, the concrete floor covered in dust and bits of plasterboard.

Another PC, presumably the partner of the one standing guard outside, stopped them at the bedroom door. 'We can't just leave the poor bastard here, it's not-'

Finnie waved him into silence. 'Why aren't you wearing an SOC suit? I said I want this treated as a murder scene.'

'He's in pain!'

The DCI stared at him for a moment, then rapped on the top of the PC's head with his knuckles. 'Hello? Hello? Is this thing on? Am I speaking too quickly for your little brain? Get — me — some — SOC — suits. I will not have the scene contaminated any further!'

For a moment, the constable looked as if he was about to introduce his truncheon to a private and internal portion of Finnie's anatomy. Then he gritted his teeth and forced out a, 'Yes, sir.' He was back two minutes later with a small stack of plastic-wrapped suits, a couple of facemasks and a collection of blue plastic overbooties. 'I still think-'

'When you make Sergeant you can think, till then it'd be nice if you could just do what you're bloody well told. Now go help your little friend guard the front door. And let me know the minute the pathologist gets here.' The bedroom was getting crowded. It wasn't the biggest of spaces to begin with, but now that Doc Fraser had arrived, it was even smaller. The old man dumped his medical bag by the doorway and hunkered down next to the body.

'Death been declared?'

Finnie shook his head. 'You said you wanted to see a live one before the hospital got their hands on him.'

'You mean he's…' The pathologist felt for a pulse — and the body on the floor groaned. Doc Fraser stared up at Logan. 'You've got to get those paramedics in here now! This man's-'

'This man,' said the Chief Inspector, 'is the only physical evidence we have. I know it sounds harsh, but we can't afford to just throw that away. Now can you be a team player long enough to examine him, or do I have to get someone else out here?'

'But-'

'No, Doc, no buts. When he goes up to A &E they'll destroy anything we might be able to use. And when he wakes up he'll be too afraid to speak to us.'

'This isn't just unethical, it's-'

'It's all we've got! Do you want this to keep happening? Is that what you want? Because until we get some real evidence it's going to!'

Lying on the ground at their feet, the latest victim twitched and moaned.

Doc Fraser went quiet, face creased up in thought. 'First you get one of the ambulance crew to give this man a painkiller and a sedative, otherwise I'm out of here and on the phone to Professional Standards. Understand?'

Two minutes later a grim-faced paramedic pulled a needle from the victim's arm and taped a wad of cotton over the injection site. 'I don't like this.'

The pathologist grimaced. 'Believe me, you're not the only one.' Then he handed a Dictaphone to Logan, snapped on a pair of latex gloves, and gently cupped the victim's head, pulling it round. Then winced. 'Oh dear God, that's disgusting…' The eyes were completely gone, nothing left but dark slits, surrounded by angry red tissue, curls of crispy black skin, and drying blood.

'Come on, Doc,' said Pirie, obviously trying to lighten the mood, and failing miserably, 'you've seen worse than this.'

'Not on a living human being…' He took a deep breath and with both hands tried to pull the eye socket open. There was a crackling noise and some of the tissue crumbled into the hole. 'Oh…' He leaned in for a closer look.

'I can smell an accelerant of some kind. Give me a cotton swab from my bag.'

The paramedic did the honours and Fraser ran it around the socket, then dropped it in a small evidence vial. 'We can test it in the lab, but it's probably petrol or lighter fluid. He's lucky…'

'That's lucky?'

#x2018;The eyes are right next to the nasal passages and throat — all your major airways. Too much heat from the burning and they swell, close up. You'd suffocate.' He ran a gloved-fingertip gently around the ragged hole. 'There's scarring to what's left of the lower eyelid. Maybe a knife?' He peered even closer. 'Something with a hooked blade, no longer than your thumb. He's right handed too. Give me a torch.'

Click, and a bright LED light shone into the ravaged eye socket.

'Chemical reaction with the tissue at the back of the orbit. Ragged end to the optic nerve, so it was probably torn, not cut.' Doc Fraser sat back on his heels. 'I'd say the eyes were gouged out of the head with a small hooked knife, cutting the muscles. Then the assailant takes the eye in the palm of his hand like this-' he did a little mime, just to make sure everyone got the full picture '-with the optic nerve between the middle two fingers, and yanks like he's trying to start a chainsaw.'

Which was an image Logan really didn't want at this time of the morning.