Bill Franks - Jesuit

As the men from the Met. had been travelling down, a forensics team had arrived from the local police station, together with a pathologist, a Doctor Bernard Bracewell. It was he who had been examining the body and now he gently eased it onto its right side to feel and prod at the rear part, expertly diagnosing the multiple fractures to the spine.

Completing his task, the doctor straightened then turned to the new arrivals. “Good morning, gentlemen,” he began. “I am Doctor Bernard Bracewell, the pathologist.” The detectives returned the greeting. Bracewell continued: “Well, I’m afraid you have had a wasted journey here. Why you were called before I had had a chance to see the body, I can’t imagine. This unfortunate young lady has not been murdered, she has suffered a massive heart attack.”

“Heart attack?” thundered Sampler. “Heart attack?” Then dumbly: “Are you sure?”

The pathologist put on a tolerant expression and said, calmly. “Yes, detective. I’m quite sure.” Looking up the rise of the cliff, he spoke his thoughts. “I imagine she has simply come out here to enjoy the summer’s air and the captivating view from up there. Maybe even on a picnic. She may have stepped near to the edge and that’s when the attack came. She would know very little of it. The bodily damage, I would say, was all caused by the fall.”

Graham and Clive were astounded. “Has anyone checked the top?” asked Clive, knowing the answer.

“No. Not yet. But a constable should just about be there now.” As he spoke, a uniformed policeman appeared at the edge of the drop, holding in his outstretched arm so that all could see, what was plainly a wicker picnic basket. “A cloth and some food laid out here, sir,” he called. “And none appears to have been eaten.”

A false alarm. Graham did not know whether to be angry or pleased. At least his killer had not struck again. A voice broke into his thoughts: “Sorry about your wild goose chase, gentlemen.” It was the pathologist. “I think the officer at the scene panicked a little, being aware of the recent murders, and so he called you in.”

“Where is he?” asked Graham.

“Oh, he left about ten minutes before you arrived. Had to get back to the station.”

I’ll bet he did! thought Graham. Too embarrassed to face us! What an utter waste of time and what a letdown. “Okay, doctor,” he replied, “These things happen. Better to be sure.” His comments belayed his true feelings. Even so, Graham had a quick look around the body, in case there was a small bunch of bird feathers in the vicinity — there wasn’t. There being nothing more to be done, the detectives left for the Met.

On entering the CID offices, Graham was asked to visit his boss, Chief Superintendent Trevor Longfellow, and to take Clive along with him. First stashing his briefcase in his office, Graham rang through to Longfellow to ensure that he was free and being told that he was, set off down the corridor to the spacious office of his Superior, Clive walking alongside.

Knocking first before entering, the detectives were asked to take a seat, being motioned to two leather backed chairs at the front of the CS’s desk. A man was seated next to Longfellow and Graham instantly recognised him as the eminent pathologist from Oxford, sent to take a second look at Lawrence Maddigan, Doctor Francis Wray. The two men smiled in recognition, greeting each other with a warm handshake before introducing Wray to Clive.

Once all were settled, CS. Longfellow began: “Thank you for coming in,” as though there was a choice. “Doctor Wray has carried out a careful examination of Maddigan — he was a homosexual, you know,” he said with distaste.

Longfellow had been in the force; rising through the ranks, for forty-two years and his progress to the present position was to be admired. However, he was of the ‘old school’ and not at all understanding of gays, ethnic minorities and those of simple mind. “I will let Francis bring you up to date with his findings.” Turning to the pathologist, Longfellow waved his hand, inviting him to speak.

Firstly, the pathologist handed three sheets of typewritten paper to each, and these showed the officially couched words of the full pathology report. “We can skip the first two pages, gentlemen,” he said. “You will see my summing up on page three.” The men dutifully turned to the last page.

“I have carried out a meticulous inspection of the body,” he continued, “and I have found the method used to administer the fatal dosage.” He paused to straighten the papers before him. “As you will see, the poison used was, perhaps, a lesser known one: Gelsemium. The death would have occurred within two minutes and would have been extremely uncomfortable and painful. The two minutes would seem like a lifetime — which, in effect it was!” No smile at what may have been perceived as a sick joke; the man was stating facts.

“Finding the method of administration proved to be very difficult. Indeed, I had to make use of an exterior probe, affording well, let’s say, extreme magnification. An assistant traversed the probe over the body in minute degrees, every millimetre being inspected. The technology never ceases to amaze me,” he said, shaking his head. “The pictures were transmitted to a monitor placed nearby at which I was able to study in detail.”

Wray’s audience listened with quiet respect as he outlined his findings.

“At first, there appeared to be nothing untoward on the body, apart from the obvious damage from the pre-death treatment, but then, as I examined again the scourge marks on the victim’s body, I spotted something.”

Graham and Clive straightened in their seats, fully attentive. Could this be the break they were looking for?

“It was so minute, it was not very obvious even under the equipment,” Wray continued. “But, sure enough, one of the lacerations showed the tiniest hole imaginable. Definitely not as the result of the beating; the puncture was too perfectly round, too defined. Only the merest fragment, but there it was, without a shadow of a doubt. Enough to prove that something new had been inserted into the wound — most probably a hypodermic needle — and an extremely fine one at that. To the naked eye, and probably even under normal magnification, this would not have been seen. Whoever did this, is no ordinary person; they will have had to have some kind of medical experience. To do what he, or she did, required a great amount of skill.”

Doctor Wray leaned back in his chair. “So, there you have it, gentlemen, poison was administered by use of a hypodermic syringe. The poison was gelsemium and it was administered by someone with medical knowledge.”

“So, doctor, do we take it that we are looking at a doctor, or a nurse?” asked Graham.

“No. I cannot say that. The killer may well be a practicing physician but it may just as easily be a struck-off practitioner, or someone who has failed medical exams, or someone who has retired from the profession for whatever reason.”

“What is your opinion, doctor?”

“My opinion is as I have just stated,” answered Wray, matter-of-factly. “I cannot guess, if that’s what you want. All I can say is, that whoever did this, has some expertise. It is not an easy task to perform.”

Well, thought Graham , at least we now have two clues: one the medical expertise and two, the feathers. Not a lot, but twice as much as before!

Before Graham could ask about the other murders, Wray broke into his thoughts. “Whilst here, I have also had a look at the photographs of the other victims. Again, I used the magnifying equipment on them, looking at the monitor, as with Maddigan’s body. Sure enough, after painstaking work, I found the same minute perforations on the others; the difference being that these had been inserted into existing puncture marks caused by previous immunisations. Thus, they were all killed in the same manner and, it would seem, by the same person.”