clue to where they had once fitted together. It was like attempting a puzzle that was all sunset. Then he chanced across a well-tanned section, possibly from an upper arm to judge by its oval vaccination scar, that bore the bruises of what looked like three big knuckle marks.
“These bruises, Doc,” he said. “What did you make of them?”
“Bruises, where?”
“Right here, on the female deceased.”
“Oh, those,” said Mackenzie with a shrug. “Frankly, I’d not noticed them, but no harm done. They’re immaterial.”
“Immaterial? How’s that?”
“Can’t you see? They must be at least two or three days old, Lieutenant—nothing at all to do with the explosion.”
Kramer just stared, unable to quite credit for a moment what he had just heard. “I’d like, Dr. Mackenzie,” he said very softly, “to see that postmortem report on Mrs. Gillets. Pass it over, please.”
“But I’ve already—”
“
Give
!” barked Kramer, putting out his hand. “Let’s see what else you decided was bloody ‘immaterial’ in a murder case—Jesus Christ, man!”
The scribbled report was difficult to scan in a hurry, so Kramer turned to the summary section. Here he read:
Fragmented, no organic disease. Generative and other pelvic organs/tissue, including stomach, not present
.
“But how come all this is missing, when we’ve still got a nice chunk of bum right here?” he demanded. “Have you
looked
for the stomach?”
“I certainly did, but hold on a moment …” Mackenzie went over for his textbook. “Explosions can be very strange,” he said. “Might I read you this, Lieutenant, from
Taylors Medical Jurisprudence
? ‘1940—violent explosion at a small ammunition factory—some 339 fragments found—um, representing only a small part of three persons.’ So you see, the fact the stomach’s missing isn’t in itself of any particular significance, not when establishing the cause of—”
“No, I don’t bloody see!” cut in Kramer. “You seem to think all I’m interested in is knowing what killed these two people. Hell, we all know that already, so who needs you to state the bloody obvious? Let me explain something to you, Doc, about postmortems. They are not about blood and guts, man, they areabout
time
—and I don’t mean the split second these two went to their Maker, hey? I mean hours, days, even weeks … the things in their lives that led up to that moment. Understand me?”
Mackenzie frowned, as though trying to focus on a revolutionary concept, and Claasens kept his eyes averted.
“Then let me put it this way,” said Kramer. “I can see for myself that at least Kritzinger’s still got his stomach, because you’ve stuffed it between his feet here, but why haven’t you looked inside it? You had a go at most things.”
“Um, well, because it hasn’t any penetrating wounds that could add to our knowledge of the explo—”
“Ach, open it up, man! Come on, right now!”
For an instant Mackenzie hesitated, rebellion clear in the lift of his narrow shoulders, then they fell, with what looked like the practiced ease of the born loser. He carried the stomach over to his dissecting slab by the sink, selected his longest knife, and shakily divided the organ in two.
An immediate aroma of brandy was detectable, if only to be overwhelmed an instant later by a stinking sludge that included, quite plainly, lumps of part-digested curried meat, boiled rice, diced carrot and tomatoes, plus fragments of tinned peaches and, perhaps, pineapple.
“Excellent!” said Kramer. “Here we have his last meal, a proper sit-down dinner, not some snack snatched in a hurry or scoffed while he drove. Any idea of how long that had been in his stomach before the bomb went off?”
“Um, I can’t be certain, my experience being a bit limited in these matters, but everything is still so intact it can’t have been in his digestive juices for long, can it? Shall we say half an hour at the
“These bruises, Doc,” he said. “What did you make of them?”
“Bruises, where?”
“Right here, on the female deceased.”
“Oh, those,” said Mackenzie with a shrug. “Frankly, I’d not noticed them, but no harm done. They’re immaterial.”
“Immaterial? How’s that?”
“Can’t you see? They must be at least two or three days old, Lieutenant—nothing at all to do with the explosion.”
Kramer just stared, unable to quite credit for a moment what he had just heard. “I’d like, Dr. Mackenzie,” he said very softly, “to see that postmortem report on Mrs. Gillets. Pass it over, please.”
“But I’ve already—”
“
Give
!” barked Kramer, putting out his hand. “Let’s see what else you decided was bloody ‘immaterial’ in a murder case—Jesus Christ, man!”
The scribbled report was difficult to scan in a hurry, so Kramer turned to the summary section. Here he read:
Fragmented, no organic disease. Generative and other pelvic organs/tissue, including stomach, not present
.
“But how come all this is missing, when we’ve still got a nice chunk of bum right here?” he demanded. “Have you
looked
for the stomach?”
“I certainly did, but hold on a moment …” Mackenzie went over for his textbook. “Explosions can be very strange,” he said. “Might I read you this, Lieutenant, from
Taylors Medical Jurisprudence
? ‘1940—violent explosion at a small ammunition factory—some 339 fragments found—um, representing only a small part of three persons.’ So you see, the fact the stomach’s missing isn’t in itself of any particular significance, not when establishing the cause of—”
“No, I don’t bloody see!” cut in Kramer. “You seem to think all I’m interested in is knowing what killed these two people. Hell, we all know that already, so who needs you to state the bloody obvious? Let me explain something to you, Doc, about postmortems. They are not about blood and guts, man, they areabout
time
—and I don’t mean the split second these two went to their Maker, hey? I mean hours, days, even weeks … the things in their lives that led up to that moment. Understand me?”
Mackenzie frowned, as though trying to focus on a revolutionary concept, and Claasens kept his eyes averted.
“Then let me put it this way,” said Kramer. “I can see for myself that at least Kritzinger’s still got his stomach, because you’ve stuffed it between his feet here, but why haven’t you looked inside it? You had a go at most things.”
“Um, well, because it hasn’t any penetrating wounds that could add to our knowledge of the explo—”
“Ach, open it up, man! Come on, right now!”
For an instant Mackenzie hesitated, rebellion clear in the lift of his narrow shoulders, then they fell, with what looked like the practiced ease of the born loser. He carried the stomach over to his dissecting slab by the sink, selected his longest knife, and shakily divided the organ in two.
An immediate aroma of brandy was detectable, if only to be overwhelmed an instant later by a stinking sludge that included, quite plainly, lumps of part-digested curried meat, boiled rice, diced carrot and tomatoes, plus fragments of tinned peaches and, perhaps, pineapple.
“Excellent!” said Kramer. “Here we have his last meal, a proper sit-down dinner, not some snack snatched in a hurry or scoffed while he drove. Any idea of how long that had been in his stomach before the bomb went off?”
“Um, I can’t be certain, my experience being a bit limited in these matters, but everything is still so intact it can’t have been in his digestive juices for long, can it? Shall we say half an hour at the
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