T.M.E. Walsh - For All Our Sins

The hacks and ghouls are already out in full force , he thought as he flashed his warrant card at officers who waved him past the police tape.

A Beds and Herts Scientific Services Unit van came into view and Michael saw a SOCO clad in a white hooded bodysuit, police evidence bag in hand, standing next to it.

Michael exchanged a nod with him as he approached and entered the church.

He found Claire was waiting for him in the entrance.

Her ice-blue eyes studied him from head to toe with no subtlety, as she held out a sealed Tyvek paper suit for him, with overshoes and a face mask.

‘Have you eaten today?’ Claire said.

Michael stopped changing and eyed her suspiciously. Her own face mask was hanging below her chin, the hood of her suit covering her hair. Her face was serious.

He half laughed. ‘I didn’t know you cared.’

‘Don’t flatter yourself. I just don’t want you spewing up and contaminating my crime scene.’

Michael zipped up the bodysuit. ‘Nothing I’ve ever seen in this job has ever made me sick. Not even close.’

Claire’s mouth twitched and she gestured over her shoulder. ‘We’ll see… You’ve never seen anything like this before.’

She raised her hand for him to walk with her before he could ask what she’d meant.

‘The deceased is sixty-two-year-old Father Malcolm Wainwright. The pathologist thinks the time of death occurred within the last two hours. Photography and videoing have been done and the SOCOs finished twenty minutes ago with not a lot to show for it. I’ve got officers on a house-to-house as we speak and the press crawling up my arse.’ She paused. ‘Fucking parasites.’

Michael stared ahead over the tops of the pews.

There were four large lamps illuminating the area near the altar and he knew that was where the body lay.

As he drew closer he caught the glimpse of blood spatters on the flagstone floor, just before they turned into the aisle. He glanced back at Claire.

‘We think that’s the deceased’s. It’s possible these drops of blood fell from the murder weapon, which,’ she said, before he could speak, ‘we haven’t recovered yet.’

‘What was the cause of death?’

Claire stopped in her tracks. ‘That’s anybody’s guess right now, given the state of the body.’

‘What do you mean?’

Claire paused, and then gestured with her hand. ‘See for yourself.’

His eyes narrowed at her in frustration but he kept his mouth shut. He walked ahead, careful to keep to the plastic walkway created to avoid contamination and headed up the aisle.

As the body came into view primal instinct caught him.

Clasping a hand to his mouth he forced himself to swallow the lump of bile that had risen up his throat. His eyes watered at the acidic taste against his tongue.

His eyes darted around Wainwright’s naked and desecrated body, seeing glimpses of red, and pink, then spots of stark white bone.

He looked back over his shoulder at Claire.

She raised her eyebrows. Told you so .

She walked around the large pool of blood, her bodysuit rustling with each step. She crouched down at a distance and observed the body.

‘Whoever did this must have a strong stomach,’ she said as she pulled her mask back up. Michael pulled his own up over his nose and mouth to block out the smell.

Claire glanced up at him.

Michael couldn’t determine whether or not it was with pity or embarrassment; either way he knew he had to pull himself together.

He squatted down next to her. She glanced at him, her eyes narrowed as if to ask him if he was OK. He held her gaze.

‘Don’t spew.’

‘I’m fine.’

She gave him a slight nod, unsure whether to believe him or not, and Michael guessed she probably didn’t care how he was coping. She just wanted to wrap this up and return to the station.

‘We’ll know more when we get the pathologist’s report, but Wainwright may have died from asphyxiation.’ Claire let her words sink in for a moment.

‘I thought it was anybody’s guess?’

‘It’s our best guess so far, taking the discoloration of his face into account, although there’re no ligature marks on the neck.’

Michael stared at the wound to Wainwright’s abdomen. The tear was clean and deep. ‘What about the stab wound?’

‘It appears to have been inflicted first.’

The voice came from behind Michael and he quickly swivelled around and got to his feet.

A tall man in his mid-forties and dressed in an identical body suit stared back at him with curious eyes.

‘DS Michael Diego, this is Principal SOCO Jason Meadows,’ Claire said as she got to her feet.

Meadows gave Michael a faint smile. ‘Sergeant.’ Michael managed a small nod.

Claire now stood beside them both. ‘Why don’t you fill DS Diego in on what we know so far?’

Meadows smiled and pointed towards the long curtain of the confessional box to their right.

‘He was attacked in there. The blood spatter pattern on the curtain and the interior of the confessional would indicate a quick thrusting motion to the body.’

Meadows walked around patches of dried blood leading from the confession box towards the altar. ‘He must have crawled by himself towards the altar.’

‘He could’ve been dragged,’ Michael said.

‘Not likely, because of the spatter pattern,’ Meadows said. ‘If he was dragged you’d expect the blood to be smeared across the flagstones. The pattern here doesn’t indicate anything consistent with that.’

Michael shot a look towards Claire. ‘And the chest?’

‘This desecration of the chest, I’m relieved to say, happened after death,’ she said.

Leaning forward for a closer look, Michael controlled his composure.

Wainwright’s skin had been cut and pulled back carefully, exposing his chest cavity, slick with blood.

Michael stared hard, fascinated by the fusion of blood and muscle partially covering Wainwright’s ribcage. ‘And the instrument?’

‘Probably a scalpel or a knife similar in shape. Whatever was used had to be very sharp,’ Meadows explained. ‘Look at the clean lines. It would’ve cut through the skin and muscle like butter.’

Michael looked closer at Wainwright’s mouth, which appeared to be clenched awkwardly. His eyes squinted and he looked at Meadows.

‘Has anyone looked inside his mouth yet?’

‘Not yet. That’ll be the job for the pathologist at the PM.’

Michael then locked eyes with Claire, amazed no one else had seemed to notice the unnatural shape of the mouth. Claire pulled a blank expression before realising Michael’s intention.

‘You’re not doing it, Diego.’

‘The mouth looks unnatural.’

‘Does anything about this crime scene look natural to you?’ she said.

‘I’ll do it,’ Meadows said. He crouched down, careful to avoid touching the blood with his plastic overshoes.

A female SOCO approached and handed Meadows a long thin black torch. He flicked the switch, illuminating Wainwright’s face, then set the torch aside.

Placing the fingertips of his left hand on the top of Wainwright’s head, he carefully pulled apart the jaw with his right. The skin felt cool beneath his touch, despite the barrier of his gloves.

He gently pulled and Wainwright’s mouth began to open.

His lips, which had been glued together with his own blood, started to part, leaving strands of dried blood over the pale, almost translucent skin.

Meadows resisted the urge to gag as the smell of death wafted up through the dead man’s throat and into his face.

Just as he went to aim the torch light inside Wainwright’s mouth, Claire’s BlackBerry rang, the shrill ringtone making everyone in the church jump as the tense silence broke.