anything definite till we get her in for autopsy, but there’s some non-specific bruising around the underside of the chin which makes me think the killer probably hit her there and she bit her tongue. It definitely happened before the garrotting.’
Ben-Roi raised his eyebrows questioningly.
‘There’s too much blood for it to have happened after,’ explained Schmelling. ‘She still had pressure in the system.’
He made her sound like some sort of steam train.
‘The sniffer dogs picked up blood traces between the cathedral and here,’ he continued. ‘So at this stage I’d hazard the chain of events was: he hit her, garrotted her, stuffed a handkerchief in her mouth, dragged her in here and hid her.’
‘If you can just tell us who he is, we can sign the case off and all get home early.’
Schmelling chuckled. ‘I just describe the crime, Detective. It’s up to you to solve it.’
Kletzmann’s camera flashed again. Ben-Roi brought up an arm and wiped it across his brow. It was hot under here with the halogen lamp and he was starting to sweat.
‘Mind if I give her a quick pat down?’
‘Be my guest.’
He shuffled a few inches forward and went through the victim’s pockets. There were a couple of pens and a pack of paper tissues in the raincoat, but no wallet, keys, ID card, cell phone – none of the things you’d expect to find. The slacks proved slightly more useful, one of the pockets yielding a crumpled rectangle of paper that on closer examination turned out to be a library request slip. ‘General Reading Room,’ murmured Ben-Roi, repeating the words printed in red ink across the centre of the slip. He held it out to Schmelling.
‘Say anything to you?’
The pathologist glanced at the slip and shook his head. Ben-Roi turned it over, then reached across, picked up one of Schmelling’s plastic sample bags and dropped the form into it. He wiped his forehead again, took another look at the body, then crawled over to the sausage-shaped, brown leather holdall sitting just beyond the victim’s feet.
‘Is the bag hers?’ he called to no one in particular.
‘We’re assuming so,’ came Shalev’s voice.
Ben-Roi asked if Kletzmann and the CITs had done their stuff on it and when they answered in the affirmative he grasped the handles and crawled out from beneath the table, pulling the bag with him. He stood, stretched the cramp out of his legs, laid the bag on top of the table and unzipped it. It was full of clothes, clean clothes, all jumbled up as if it had either been packed in a hurry or else someone had already gone through it. Ben-Roi guessed the latter. He rummaged around and pulled out a large white bra. Very large.
‘Definitely her bag,’ he called, holding it up.
‘God Almighty, you could fit a pair of elephant’s bollocks in that,’ chuckled Kletzmann, taking a shot.
‘Please, gentlemen, show a little respect. If not for the dead, then at least for a house of worship.’
A short, plump man was standing in the doorway, his beard white and neatly trimmed. He wore a black cassock, slippers, a circular velvet hat and, around his neck, a flat silver cross, its arms decorated with intricate floral patterning and opening into distinctive double tips. Ben-Roi vaguely recognized him from his one previous visit to the compound two years earlier. His Eminence something-or-other.
‘Archbishop Armen Petrossian,’ said the man as if reading his thoughts, his voice slow and husky, barely audible. ‘A terrible business. Terrible.’
He walked across the room, his gait surprisingly sprightly for someone who must have been well into his sixties, if not older. When he reached the altar he bent and looked underneath, then straightened again and laid his hands on the table, head bowed.
‘That such things should happen in a house of God,’ he murmured. ‘Such sacrilege. It is beyond understanding, beyond . . .’
He broke off, bringing a hand up to his forehead. There was a
Ben-Roi raised his eyebrows questioningly.
‘There’s too much blood for it to have happened after,’ explained Schmelling. ‘She still had pressure in the system.’
He made her sound like some sort of steam train.
‘The sniffer dogs picked up blood traces between the cathedral and here,’ he continued. ‘So at this stage I’d hazard the chain of events was: he hit her, garrotted her, stuffed a handkerchief in her mouth, dragged her in here and hid her.’
‘If you can just tell us who he is, we can sign the case off and all get home early.’
Schmelling chuckled. ‘I just describe the crime, Detective. It’s up to you to solve it.’
Kletzmann’s camera flashed again. Ben-Roi brought up an arm and wiped it across his brow. It was hot under here with the halogen lamp and he was starting to sweat.
‘Mind if I give her a quick pat down?’
‘Be my guest.’
He shuffled a few inches forward and went through the victim’s pockets. There were a couple of pens and a pack of paper tissues in the raincoat, but no wallet, keys, ID card, cell phone – none of the things you’d expect to find. The slacks proved slightly more useful, one of the pockets yielding a crumpled rectangle of paper that on closer examination turned out to be a library request slip. ‘General Reading Room,’ murmured Ben-Roi, repeating the words printed in red ink across the centre of the slip. He held it out to Schmelling.
‘Say anything to you?’
The pathologist glanced at the slip and shook his head. Ben-Roi turned it over, then reached across, picked up one of Schmelling’s plastic sample bags and dropped the form into it. He wiped his forehead again, took another look at the body, then crawled over to the sausage-shaped, brown leather holdall sitting just beyond the victim’s feet.
‘Is the bag hers?’ he called to no one in particular.
‘We’re assuming so,’ came Shalev’s voice.
Ben-Roi asked if Kletzmann and the CITs had done their stuff on it and when they answered in the affirmative he grasped the handles and crawled out from beneath the table, pulling the bag with him. He stood, stretched the cramp out of his legs, laid the bag on top of the table and unzipped it. It was full of clothes, clean clothes, all jumbled up as if it had either been packed in a hurry or else someone had already gone through it. Ben-Roi guessed the latter. He rummaged around and pulled out a large white bra. Very large.
‘Definitely her bag,’ he called, holding it up.
‘God Almighty, you could fit a pair of elephant’s bollocks in that,’ chuckled Kletzmann, taking a shot.
‘Please, gentlemen, show a little respect. If not for the dead, then at least for a house of worship.’
A short, plump man was standing in the doorway, his beard white and neatly trimmed. He wore a black cassock, slippers, a circular velvet hat and, around his neck, a flat silver cross, its arms decorated with intricate floral patterning and opening into distinctive double tips. Ben-Roi vaguely recognized him from his one previous visit to the compound two years earlier. His Eminence something-or-other.
‘Archbishop Armen Petrossian,’ said the man as if reading his thoughts, his voice slow and husky, barely audible. ‘A terrible business. Terrible.’
He walked across the room, his gait surprisingly sprightly for someone who must have been well into his sixties, if not older. When he reached the altar he bent and looked underneath, then straightened again and laid his hands on the table, head bowed.
‘That such things should happen in a house of God,’ he murmured. ‘Such sacrilege. It is beyond understanding, beyond . . .’
He broke off, bringing a hand up to his forehead. There was a
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