Page 16 of Death at a Highland Wedding (Rip Through Time #4)

SIXTEEN

I know it’s magical thinking, but I can’t help but feel as if the universe likes to keep itself in balance. We drew one of the worst possible cards when it came to local law enforcement… and so the universe—or maybe the goddess of luck—balances it with the local physician. Gray keeps waiting for the proverbial other shoe to drop, but it doesn’t.

The Rendalls are a lovely old couple, happy to help in our endeavor with absolutely no interest in turning this into a pissing contest. This is as it should be, where if a visiting professional is deferential and understanding about stepping on another’s turf, the local pro will recognize their lack of experience and step back.

The only potential issue is, as Dr. Rendall said, he’s not a surgeon. That means he has neither surgical implements nor a surgical table. We’re performing the autopsy in the shed, on a butchering table currently being used for potting.

Gray doesn’t hesitate, even as we move the pots and wipe off the soil and Mrs. Rendall searches for the butchering tools that have been stored for fall. That’s one advantage to living in an earlier era, I think. You’re more accustomed to making do. I look back on all the times McCreadie or Gray teased me for flinching at the handling of evidence or the treatment of crime scenes, and I realize it wasn’t just teasing. They’re genuinely amused by my struggle to work in less than ideal circumstances. For them, that’s the norm.

If anything, Gray approaches this as an intriguing challenge. He’s never conducted an autopsy in a garden shed using saws and knives for butchering sheep. How will that be different? What will he need to do to adapt? Can he learn anything from this for future situations, where he might not have the tools he needs?

I need to learn how to do that myself. To not shudder as someone pockets evidence, but to remind myself that it doesn’t matter here—no DNA, no chain-of-evidence rules, not even the possibility of using fingerprints at court. Instead of trying to change their attitudes, change my own. Concentrate on the things that matter and accept a lack of control over the rest.

Here, I do that by focusing on lighting. Forget the dirt and the less-than-sanitary tools. None of that matters with a dead body. Lighting does matter, and it’s horrible, with just a swinging overhead lantern. As Gray and Dr. Rendall prepare the table, Mrs. Rendall and I gather more lanterns and lamps and put them on every surface. Then Dr. Rendall retreats to his garden with a hearty “Good luck!” and we begin the autopsy.

While Gray and I have worked on plenty of dead bodies, Addington is the police surgeon, which means he conducts the autopsies. If Gray can, he examines the body first, as he did with Sinclair. Then, because Addington conducted the autopsy in Gray’s lab, Gray can check Addington’s findings and perform any additional work. So while it feels as if I’ve done autopsies with Gray, I’ve only been there for the post-autopsy examinations.

Has Gray performed a full autopsy before? I noted that he never actually said that to Dr. Rendall. He said Addington would vouch for his ability to perform one. I suspect Gray did one or two in college, but he must know what he’s doing, because he’d never imperil a murder investigation.

This isn’t the first autopsy I’ve stood in on. Back home, I witnessed them whenever I had the opportunity. It’s different here, and not only because it’s hardly a sterile morgue with shiny modern tools. For one thing, there’s a cloth over Sinclair’s genitals, and it’s not a tiny scrap of fabric. Gray has laid a foot-wide swath of cloth over that portion, partly for Mrs. Rendall and me, but also just because it’s considered showing proper respect to the deceased.

As with any postmortem exam, the blades don’t come out right away. The on-site external exam was done while Sinclair was fully clothed. Now that he is not, step one is to conduct a complete external examination.

Mrs. Rendall holds an oil lamp over his body and adjusts the placement as directed by Gray. Beginning at the top of Sinclair’s head, Gray and I move down his body, checking it thoroughly and noting every bug bite and healing bruise and scabbed-over scrape. Almost all of those occurred at least a day before his death, judging by the amount of swelling and healing. There are two exceptions. One is a scrape on one knee, presumably from striking a rock in his fall. The other is his broken nose, again presumably from his fall.

We find nothing on his hands that we’d consider defensive wounds. Dirt under his fingernails makes it difficult to be sure there isn’t skin under there, too, but we take scrapings… which would be far more useful if Isla’s microscope were far more portable. Or if she had any reason to pack it for a wedding getaway. We take combings from Sinclair’s hair, but all I see there are flakes of what is likely dried pomade.

Once that’s done, we turn Sinclair over. The head wound is the obvious point of interest, but we leave that for now. What catches our attention first is a light bruise between his shoulder blades.

“That’s recent, isn’t it?” I say. “It hasn’t purpled.”

Gray nods. “It would have been inflicted either shortly before or after his death.”

“Can you bruise after death? I know lividity is an issue—the blood pools, which is why it looked as if his chest was bruised.”

“It is an area I have been wanting to study, along with a proper reporting of the stages of bruising. The next time you bash into furniture, rushing off after whatever catches your eye, you really must let me properly chart the progress of the bruising.”

I narrow my eyes. “I do not bash into furniture.”

He arches one brow.

“Hardly ever,” I say. “And only when the furniture is in a ridiculous spot. There is always far too much of it. A random chair here. A stray ottoman there. Vases and statues and useless little tables. Every room is an obstacle course.”

Mrs. Rendall laughs softly, which reminds me she’s there, holding the lamp just out of our view. I settle for glaring at Gray, and the corners of his mouth twitch, and I have to admit I’m mostly grumbling because he’s right. Even with layers of Victorian clothing, I get enough bruises that he really could start his study there.

“As for this,” he says, tapping the bruise on Sinclair’s back. “It’s more of an impression than a bruise. Do you note the shape of it?”

I need to move to check it from a couple of angles. Then I say, “Foot-shaped. Or boot-shaped. Not a kick—that would only be the toe. More like someone stepped on him.”

“Or…?”

“Put their foot on his back to hold him down.” I move for a closer look and Mrs. Rendall adjusts the lamp without prompting. “It’s a light bruise. Would death affect that?” I look up at Gray and clarify, “Would the fact that Mr. Sinclair was either dead or close to death affect lividity? Making what might become a deep bruise normally seem light?”

“Excellent question,” Gray says. “And one to which I do not have a definitive answer. I will add it to my proposed study. You will recall that we saw bruising in the murder of Sir Alastair, where the killer appeared to use his foot against the victim’s back.”

“For leverage.”

“In that case, the purpose seemed clear and the strength appropriate. The bruising was not significantly less than I would expect. However, we do not know what amount of force that killer used.”

“How did it compare to the bruises on my back?”

Gray hasn’t been standing there, talking. He’s been poking and prodding at the bruise. Now he stops. “Bruises on your back?”

“From when the same was done to me. I survived, which provides a comparison.”

Mrs. Rendall gives a quick intake of breath, and I realize that may have sounded cavalier.

Hey, remember when I was strangled, a would-be killer’s foot on my back for leverage? How did those bruises compare?

It’s not just Mrs. Rendall who reacts, though. Gray goes ashen and the fingers on his extended hand curl under.

“That was thoughtless of me,” he says, his voice low. “I did not intend a reminder of your ordeal.”

I smile up at him. “I didn’t take it as a reminder. Not an unwelcome one, at least. It only made me think that the two incidents provide a comparison that could be helpful here.”

“Yes, well, still, I…” He trails off and then clears his throat. “It was still a reminder, and for that, I apologize.”

I peer at him, his gaze on Sinclair but unfocused, his hand fisted, and I realize that the recollection bothers him more than it does me. Yes, I was strangled, but it sent me back to my own time, where I resolved the issues that had kept me from settling into this world.

It’d been less a death than a rebirth, if you want to be poetic about it. But to Gray, I’d nearly died. Or, at the very least, I’d nearly disappeared forever, back to my own world, and when I look at him now, his gaze distant, that hand fisted and shaking slightly, I want to send Mrs. Rendall on some errand. I want to stop and take a moment and pursue this.

Apologize for bringing it up? Reassure Gray that I’m fine? Or just take a moment, free of distractions and witnesses, to absorb that look on his face, to wonder exactly what he felt when he thought I was gone, why the reminder would still affect him so much?

But I’m not getting that moment, am I? Oh, I could send Mrs. Rendall off on some pointless errand. Yet the moment I think that, guilt jabs through me with an ice-water reminder that this is an autopsy, damn it. A good man—a friend of Gray’s—is dead, and that is all that matters.

I shake my head. “It would hardly signify anyway, I suppose. While the intent was the same, it wasn’t the same circumstances or even the same actor, so it would be a horribly flawed scientific comparison.”

“I fear so,” Gray says, his voice scratchy. “It was a good idea, though.”

“The point being simply that my question has no definitive answer. The bruising here is light, which may or may not indicate the amount of force used.”

Gray’s hand relaxes. “Yes.”

“The fact that it’s light only means we don’t have a full print. There seems to be a toe and heel, but it’s hardly a discernible footprint we can match to a boot. I couldn’t even guess whether it’s a man’s boot or a woman’s.”

“I would concur. It appears to be a foot, applied fully, rather than through a kick. As for the purpose, I would speculate restraint.”

I nod. “Mr. Sinclair is hit from behind and falls face-first. It’s a hard drop, considering the broken nose. It’s rare for a head injury to be instantly fatal, so the killer puts their foot on Mr. Sinclair’s back to hold him down. Yet the position we found the body—and the open eyes—suggest Mr. Sinclair did die immediately. There was no need to apply greater pressure to hold him down, hence the light bruise.”

“Again, I concur.”

“Can you determine whether the head injury was instantly fatal?”

Gray purses his lips. “Possibly, but either way, I am not certain it matters.”

My brows rise as my lips twitch in a smile. “No?”

Mrs. Rendall shifts the light, again reminding me she’s there, which also reminds me that my question is less than appropriate for an assistant.

“Apologies, Dr. Gray,” I say. “I do not mean to question your expertise.”

“Apology accepted,” he says, and his tone is serious, but his eyes dance, letting me know he’s playing along for our audience. “But please continue. I welcome your insights, Miss Mitchell.”

“They are the insights as a reader of detective fiction rather than a detective, which I am not. Proceed, please.”

His eyes twinkle more. “Noted. I welcome the observations of an amateur detective.”

“Imagine the blow was never intended to kill him. Perhaps it was a warning. Or meant only to prevent him from seeing something. He is knocked unconscious and his attacker leaves… and then someone else kills him. In that case, knowing whether death was instantaneous would matter.”

“I stand corrected. However, I have noted something that suggests death was instantaneous, though not from the blow to the head.”

I frown and sweep my gaze over Sinclair’s body. “Should I be able to see it?”

“Perhaps. It is visible from this perspective.”

I walk along Sinclair’s body, searching his back for bruises or pinpricks or anything that could indicate a cause of death. When I pause to probe his head wound, Gray says, “ Visible. ”

I survey the body again, slower. At the feet, still seeing nothing, I ask Mrs. Rendall for the light. As she hands it to me, her gaze darts left, as if giving me a hint.

Great. So I’m the only one who doesn’t see it?

I remind myself that Mrs. Rendall is a doctor’s wife, one who has prob ably also been his nurse for decades. She’s being very circumspect here, listening to us without speaking up, but that doesn’t mean she’s an amateur when it comes to medicine.

Her gaze flicks again, and this time I can follow it. She’s indicating Sinclair’s neck. It takes me a moment. Then I see it.

Without speaking, I move up to Sinclair’s neck and lower the light next to it. There’s no damage to the skin, but something is… not right.

“His neck is broken,” I say finally. “I know that is not the medical term for it.”

Gray nods. “There appears to be a traumatic injury to the cervical portion of the spine. Specifically the first vertebrae. I did not see it at the scene, but now that the body is unclothed, the damage is evident. As I do not see any other obvious signs of injury in that area, my initial theory would be that it was caused by the blow to the head.”

“The blow was hard enough to snap his neck forward and back, with enough force to fracture the C1 vert…” I trail off, not sure whether that’s common usage yet. “The top vertebra. The higher the vertebra the more serious the injury. At the top…” Again I trail off, sneaking a look at Gray this time, uncertain of that part, too—how much is known about spinal injuries.

“The higher the injury, the more severe the damage,” Gray says. “That has been established through vivisection.”

I swallow and hope my expression stays neutral. I’ve learned more about vivisection than I ever wanted to. In fact, I think I’d have been happier never knowing about it at all.

I also acknowledge that my revulsion comes from living in a world where anyone who would do such a thing is a sadistic bastard. But that’s a viewpoint of privilege, specifically the privilege that comes from the fact that we no longer need to do such things because of the medical advances that… came from doing such things.

What is vivisection? Well, if dissection refers to cutting into a dead animal and “ vivus ” is Latin for living…

When it comes to spinal injuries, I can presume doctors realized that injuring different areas of the spine had different effects, and the higher the injury, the worse those effects. To properly study what parts produce what injuries…

I’m not going to think about what they would have needed to do with animals, but I understand the need for it. Those experiments having been conducted, doctors like Gray now understand how those injuries will manifest, and that is critical knowledge, however it came about.

Gray continues, “A fracture at this level can separate the brain from the rest of the body. Without the brain to regulate the body…”

“The organs aren’t getting any signals and stop working. The lungs don’t take in oxygen. The heart doesn’t beat.”

“Yes. Ezra mercifully appears to have lost consciousness from the blow, the impact sudden enough that it might explain his eyes remaining open.”

Mercifully, because otherwise, he’d have been alive and fully paralyzed as his body shut down.

“That is my initial theory,” Gray says. “Now we need to confirm it, as best we are able.”

Confirming that means cutting into Sinclair’s neck to examine the spine. Gray conducts the internal examination, which confirms separation at the C1 vertebra.

In the end, I don’t get to watch Gray perform a full autopsy, because it isn’t necessary. We know what killed Ezra Sinclair, and anything more would be an unnecessary intrusion.