Michael Robotham - Suspect

We reach an anteroom with a large glass door. Ruiz taps on the window and is buzzed in by an operator sitting at a desk. She has blond hair, dark roots and eyebrows plucked to the thinness of dental floss. Around the walls are filing cabinets and white boards. On the far side is a large stainless steel door marked STAFF ONLY.

I suddenly get a flashback to my medical training when I fainted during our first practical lesson working with a cadaver. I came around with smelling salts waved under my nose. The lecturer then chose me to demonstrate to the class how to direct a 150mm needle through the abdomen to the liver to take a biopsy sample. Afterward he congratulated me on a new university record for the most organs hit with one needle in a single procedure.

Ruiz hands the operator a letter.

"Do you want me to set up a proper viewing?" she asks.

"The fridge will be fine," he replies, "but I'll need an SB." She hands him a large brown paper bag.

The heavy door unlocks with a hiss like a pressure seal and Ruiz steps aside to let me go first. I expect to smell formaldehyde-something I came to associate with every body I saw in medical school. Instead there's the faint odor of antiseptic and industrial soap.

The walls are polished steel. A dozen trolleys are parked in neat rows. Metal crypts take up three walls and look like oversized filing cabinets, with large square handles that can accommodate two hands. I realize Ruiz is still talking. "According to the pathologist she'd been in the ground for ten days. She was naked except for a shoe and a gold chain around her neck with a St. Christopher's medallion. We haven't found the rest of her clothes. There is no evidence of a sexual assault…" He checks the label on a drawer and grips the handle. "I think you'll see why we've narrowed down the cause of death."

The drawer slides open smoothly on rollers. My head snaps back and I lurch away. Ruiz hands me the brown paper bag as I double over and heave. It's difficult to throw up and gasp for breath at the same time.

Ruiz hasn't moved. "As you can see the left side of her face is badly bruised and the eye is completely closed. Someone gave her a real working over. That's why we released the drawing instead of a photograph. There are more than twenty stab wounds-not one of them more than an inch deep. But here's the real kicker-every last one was self-inflicted. The pathologist found hesitation marks. She had to work up the nerve to force the blade through."

Raising my head, I glimpse his face reflected in the polished steel. That's when I see it: fear. He must have investigated dozens of crimes, but this one is different because he can't understand it.

My stomach is empty. Perspiring and shivering in the cold, I straighten up and look at the body. Nothing has been done to restore the poor woman's dignity. She is naked, stretched out with her arms against her sides and her legs together.

The dull whiteness of her skin makes her look almost like a marble statue, only this "statue" has been vandalized. Her chest, arms and thighs are covered in slashes of crimson and pink. Where the skin is pulled taut the wounds gape like empty eye sockets. At other places they naturally close and weep slightly.

I have seen postmortems in medical school. I know the process. She has been photographed, scraped, swabbed and cut open from her neck to her crotch. Her organs have been weighed and her stomach contents analyzed. Bodily fluids, flakes of dead skin and dirt from beneath her fingernails have been sealed within plastic or beneath glass slides. A once bright energetic vibrant human being has become exhibit A.

"How old was she?"

"Somewhere between twenty-five and thirty-five."

"What makes you think she was a prostitute?"

"It's been nearly two weeks and nobody has reported her missing. You know better than I do how prostitutes move around. They take off for days or weeks at a time and then turn up at a totally different red-light area. Some of them follow the conference trade; others work the truck stops. If this girl had a strong network of family or friends, somebody would have reported her missing by now. She could be foreign but we have nothing from Interpol."

"I'm not sure how I can help."

"What can you tell me about her?"

Without even thinking I know I'm collecting details, although I can't bear to look at her swollen face. What can I say? Her fair hair is cut short in a practical style that's easy to wash, quick to dry and doesn't need constant brushing. Her ears aren't pierced. Her fingernails are trimmed and well cared for. She has no rings on her fingers, or any sign that she normally wore them. She's slim and fair-skinned, with larger hips than bust. Her eyebrows have been tidily shaped and her bikini line had been waxed recently, leaving a neat triangle of pubic hair.

"Was she wearing makeup?"

"A little lipstick and eyeliner."

"I need to sit down for a while and read the postmortem report."

"I'll find you an empty office."

Ten minutes later, alone at a desk, I stare at a stack of ring-bound photograph albums and folders bulging with statements. Among the pile is the postmortem report and results from blood and toxicology analysis.

Postmortem Report

Name: Unknown

Postmortem No: DX-34 468

DOB: Unknown

Death D/T: Unknown

Age: Unknown

Postmortem D/T: 12 December 2002, 0915

Anatomical Summary 1. Fourteen lacerations and incised wounds to the chest, abdomen and thighs, penetrating to a depth of 1.2 inches. They range in width from 3 inches to half an inch.

2. Four lacerations to the upper left arm.

3. Three lacerations to the left side of the neck and shoulders.

4. The direction of the sharp-force injuries tends to be downwardand are a mixture of stabbing and incised wounds.

5. The hesitation marks are generally straight and accompany the deeper incisions.

6. Heavy bruising and swelling to the left cheekbone and left eye socket.

7. Slight bruising to the right forearm and abrasions to the right tibia and right heel.

8. Oral, vaginal and rectal swabs are clear.

Preliminary Toxicology Study * Blood ethanol-none detected * Blood drug screen-no drugs detected Cause of Death * Postmortem X-rays reveal air in the right ventricular chamber of the heart indicating a massive and fatal air embolism.

I scan the report quickly, looking for particular details. I'm not interested in the minutiae of how she died. Instead I look for clues that relate to her life. Did she have any old fractures? Was there any evidence of drug use or sexually transmitted diseases? What did she have for her last meal? How long since she'd eaten?

Ruiz doesn't bother to knock. "I figured you were milk no sugar." He puts a plastic cup of coffee on the desk and then pats his pockets, searching for cigarettes that exist only in his imagination. He grinds his teeth instead. "So what can you tell me?"

"She wasn't a prostitute."

"Because?"

"The median age of girls becoming prostitutes is only sixteen. This woman was in her mid-twenties, possibly older. There are no signs of long-standing sexual activity or evidence of sexually transmitted diseases. Abortions are common among prostitutes, particularly as they're often coerced into not using condoms, but this girl had never been pregnant."

Ruiz taps the table three times as though typing three ellipsis dots. He wants me to go on.

"Prostitutes at the high-class end of the scale sell a fantasy. They take great care with their appearance and presentation. This woman had short fingernails, a boyish hairstyle and minimal makeup. She wore sensible shoes and very little jewelry. She didn't use expensive moisturizers or paint her nails. She had her bikini line waxed modestly…"