Chapter 71 – Solstice – Part 4


    KLEMPNER


    “Did he suceed?”


    “Not in this case. Susumu’s stomach contains only the remains of herst meal. However, Victim


    Number Two, Achara Saelim, did seed in swallowing the banknotes. The first set at least. They


    were found in her stomach during the autopsy. But in that case, yes, the killer simply repeated the


    process. Although he didn’t waste more money on her. He used newsprint for the second attempt,


    again ramming it down her throat until the airway was blocked and she asphyxiated.”


    Borje’s warning not to eat before I arrived was good advice. I tap on the bag containing the ttened


    banknote. “Are those stains blood?”


    “Yes. Whatever it was he used to force the notes down, it damaged her oesophagus and trachea.”


    “What does damaged mean, in this context?”


    Borje pauses, breathes. “He forced the notes down her throat using some semi-sharp instrument. In


    the process, he ripped her throat lining. Banknotes aside, there’s a good chance she would have


    choked on her own blood.”


    My stomach churns. “Can you specte what this sharp instrument might have been?”


    “Something long and blunt-ended, but sharp enough to cut the lining of the throat. Probably metallic.”


    He rocks his hand. “Screwdriver maybe?”


    “Was it the same with all the previous victims?”


    “Yes, each woman. Identical method each time. Two twenties. Jammed down far enough to block the


    airway and cause asphyxiation. The violencemitted on the bodies afterwards has escted, but


    the murder method has remained the same.”


    I ponder. “What will forty buy you these days?”


    He arches brows. “From a street hooker in those areas? Pretty much anything most clients would ask


    for I’d have thought.”


    I gesture down to the brutalised corpse. “But not this.” I’m thinking aloud, not really expecting a


    response, but he replies anyway, his voice quiet.


    “No, not this.”


    “Where’s the rest of her? Do we know?”


    “Yes. Her internal organs were still with her, scattered over the surrounding area. We retrieved them


    piecemeal.” He gestures vaguely to the second locker where, now I look, I see several boxes of the


    kind a hospital might use for the transport of biological materials.


    “When you say scattered, was there any kind of pattern? As though he’d been trying to arrange or


    disy them? Or was it random?”


    “Random so far as we can judge. You have the photos of the site where she was discovered, I


    believe?”


    “That’s right.”


    “Judge for yourself then. But the investigating officers saw no pattern to it. And neither did I.”


    “And in the earlier cases?”


    “In the earlier cases, the damage was not so severe. The body was mutted but still in one piece. The


    scale of the post-mortem assault has escted in each case. Susumu is the worst so far.”


    Borje maintains a steady monotone. I follow his lead. “And did you find… all of her?”


    “Almost all. Not all the damage was inflicted by the killer. There are teeth marks on some of the bones


    and flesh. Canine teeth.”


    “Dogs?”


    “Or urban foxes perhaps.” He shrugs. “Can’t me them. The body was out in the open. From the point


    of view of the local wildlife, she was just meat by then. They were doing what came naturally.”


    “That’s what predators and scavengers do.”


    “Quite. Her liver was partially eaten. And her limbs had been gnawed, as you can see from the damage


    to the calf of the left leg and hand. But…” He raises a finger to underline the word… “…what certainly


    wasn’t due to the City wildlife was that Susumu here, and all the other victims, each had a strand of


    hair missing. Clipped short, close to the scalp.”


    I chew that one over. I’ve known some of the psycho types that kill and torture for fun. Some of them


    had me in mind as a target. But I never made a study of the mindset. “Some serial killers do that, don’t


    they? Take…” I flounder for a moment, trying to think of an appropriate word… “… souvenirs?”


    “Yes. It’s amon pattern, and this one apparently fits that pattern. Give me a second…”


    Borje extracts a pair of vinyl gloves from the box by the washbasin and snaps them on, then returns to


    the cadaver. Reaching in, he parts the woman’s hair to reveal the scalp. “If you look here… In each of


    the murders being attributed to the Surgeon, you’ll find something simr.”


    From the exposed area, a stump of hair, perhaps half an inch long, protrudes amid the remaining hair.


    “… You can see there’s a lock been cut.”


    “And it remains missing? It wasn’t found with the… scattered remains?”


    “That’s correct. I went to…” Borje pauses as the double doors bang open ahead of a green-uniformed


    orderly towing a steel trolley, the draped hump of thetest of the deceasedid out on top. A second


    orderly pushes from the rear. Fitted green caps cover their hair. Matching masks are pulled down under


    their chins like green beards.


    “Where do you want him, Doc?” asks the first. “Car smash. Joy rider. DOA. No ID yet, but the fire crew


    said what was left of the car stank of whiskey when they pulled him off the steering column.” He


    nces at me, apparently registering a stranger, then sniffs, screwing up his face. With a sharp look at


    the covered male cadaver… “Fuck me…” … he tugs the mask up to cover his nose. His co-worker


    follows suit.


    Borje gestures vaguely to the table at the far end of the room. “Thanks, Ricky. Number Four, please.”


    He blows out his cheeks. “It’s not even Tuesday yet.”


    The pair of orderlies wheel the trolley to the end table, their manner brisk and, while not exactly


    cheerful, with the air of having done this a thousand times before. Between them, they transfer the still-


    obscured corpse to the table. A dark trickle from under the cloth drips to the floor.


    ‘Ricky’ unhooks a clipboard from the trolley, produces a ballpoint, signs at the bottom, then trots across,


    passing the board to Borje. As he sees what’s on the tray, he stiffens. “Jesus Christ. Is that her?”


    Borje doesn’tment, merely giving a short nod as he scribbles the medically required unreadable


    signature at the bottom of the sheet.


    The second orderly joins him, staring at the gutted remains. “Holy Mother,” he murmurs. “What some


    people do…” He shakes his head, jerks his thumb back to where he came from. “That silly bastard got


    what wasing, but this…” The pair of Trolley-Dollies hover over the corpse, gawping.


    Borje scowls. “Alright, Liam,” he snaps, whipping the cover back into ce. “That’s enough. She’s not a


    damn showpiece.”


    ‘Liam’ flinches and backs off. “Sure thing, Doc. Sorry.” The pair reverse out of the morgue, taking the


    trolley with them.


    The brief break has given me the chance to get my thoughts back in order. “The muttion. Stanton


    suggested it was done with a scalpel?”


    Borje nces away, then back...


    Ufortable at the suggestion it could be another doctor?


    “…For the organ removal, a sharp de, certainly. And yes, it could have been a scalpel. But it would


    have needed something heavier to open up her ribcage the way he has.”


    “A bone saw? Of the sort you were using when I came in?”


    “No.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Something much cruder.”


    “Such as?”


    “Ever seen that TV series? The one where the Viking chief performs the Blood Eagle on his enemy,


    using an axe to open him up?” Borje pauses.


    Têxt belongs to N?velDrama.Org.


    “I get the picture.” I consider that… “Another question. I gather that in the previous cases, the women


    were found dumped: alleys, backnes, the river. Was it the same this time? The site in the park,


    where she was found. Was that the actual murder scene? Or had the body been moved?”


    “Moved…” Borje takes a deep breath, looking down for a moment, his mouth and throat working. “…


    Since the time of death, and not just by foxes. When you and I had our… encounter… I don’t always


    visit the crime scene. I do most of my work from here. The corpses are brought to theb after


    idents or misadventure, like...” He gestures to the end table… “… John Doe over there. But on this


    asion, I’d seen the site the day before, when you saw me running in. Even given what I do for a


    living, it was the stuff of nightmares. But I wanted to go back.”


    “For some specific reason?”


    He hunches. “Partly, I thought it might give me some insight, professionally speaking. In truth, when I


    saw her the first day, it was so shocking that I wasn’t sure I’d been thinking clearly. I wanted to be sure


    I’d not overlooked anything. But really…” He spreads palms… “I suppose I felt the girl needed some


    acknowledgement. That some recognition was due to her.”


    Recognition?


    I suppose…


    Keep it professional…


    “And what did you find?”


    He breathes deep, looks up again. “Nothing really. Not that wasn’t already covered. I mean… I wasn’t


    going to find it because I didn’t really know what I was looking for. The investigating team and the


    sweepers had already been over the scene. It looked on the face of it, as you suggested, like a Ripper-


    style murder. The grassed area in the park where she was found was awash with blood because the


    killer scattered her internal organs over a wide area. But it wasn’t the kind of spray pattern you’d get if


    she’d been alive while he was cutting her. It took a while for the photographers to finish their part of the


    work. After that, they brought her to me here…”


    “Was it the same pattern with the other women?”


    “Broadly, yes.”


    “That’s not something that’s appeared in the papers.”


    Borje shudders. “You imagine the police want copycats out there?”


    Fair point…


    “Serial killers work to patterns. I have that right?”


    “I’m not an expert, but that’s my understanding.” Borje sweeps a hand through his hair. “I’ll say that I


    have be more knowledgeable on the subject since this started.”


    “So… Were the women simr physically? It wasn’t easy to judge from the photographs. Were they all


    Asian types perhaps? Like this one? Petite and athletic? Tall, dark and well-built?”


    “Nope.” He gives a sharp jerk of the head. “No, not at all. The first victim, Olivia Wilson, was


    Caucasian, tall. Perhaps five feet nine. So was the third, Emma Williams. Number Two. She was the


    oldest, at twenty-four years old. Achara Saelim was Thai. About five feet, five. And the youngest at


    seventeen. Number Four, Anna Jansons, was East European… Um… Latvian, I think. Five, seven.


    Susumu here, she was of Japanese origin. And as you see, about five feet, five.”


    “How about hair type? You said he took some from each of them.”


    Another sharp jerk. “Achara, Thai, and Susumu, Japanese, were of course, both dark-haired. Anna had


    the typical looks of an East-European. Blondish to fair. Olivia was strawberry blonde. Emma was


    brte. I’ll get you the files. And the in-life photographs. But I would never have put that set of women


    in a group and thought, ‘there’s a man’s type.’”