The Storm Protocol by Iain Cosgrove

there’s not much grey matter left in there to be honest.’
    ‘Have you got an estimated time of death for me?’
    ‘Have to verify this, but all indications at present put TOD at about ten pm last night.’
    Guilbeau resealed the body bag with a loud zip, and stood up quickly; banging his thighs to get the circulation back into them.
    ‘Damn this old age,’ he said. ‘It gets to us all in the end.’
    He pinched the cigarette between thumb and forefinger and dropped the stub into an evidence bag.
    ‘Don’t want to contaminate the scene,’ he replied, in answer to Roussel’s unspoken question.
    He stuffed it into his pocket.
    ‘Don’t forget to get rid of your own evidence before you get home,’ said Roussel with a smile.
    He tossed a chewing gum to the c oroner and whistled with admiration as his hand snapped it out of the air.
    ‘Hey, not bad for an old man,’ he said.
    Guilbeau removed the bag containing the butt from his own pocket and as Roussel walked past, he stuffed it into the pocket of Roussel’s jacket, patting it affectionately.
    ‘Thanks for offering, Peeshwank,’ he said fondly, slipping the gum between his lips.
    Roussel waved to one of the forensic technicians, and made a gesture around his foot. The tech looked at him blankly for a few seconds, before comprehension smoothed the lines on his face. Two minutes later, the detective and the coroner had blue elasticised booties over their shoes and were walking up the steps of the veranda. There was a swing seat and a table; nothing else.
    Roussel beckoned to one of the technicians. The man ambled over.
    ‘Can I sit down?’ he asked, feeling very peculiar.
    He was asking a stranger whether it was ok ay to sit down on the veranda of his childhood home. The tech looked at him warily.
    ‘I’m not asking your permission,’ s napped Roussel, a little crossly. ‘I’m trying to get a sense of what happened and want to make sure you have processed the swing seat, before I sit on it.’
    The man’s face cleared in relief.
    ‘Ah yes, I see,’ he said. ‘Yep, that’s okay sir, but could you pop into one of these first, just in case.’
    He returned in a minute or so with a white forensic over suit.
    ‘While I have you, did you also process the chair at the bottom of the steps? I might want to bring it back onto the veranda,’ said Roussel.
    ‘All clear, sir,’ responded the tech, before excusing himself back to his real work.
    As he shrugged h imself into the garment, Roussel started talking out loud, trying to verbalise the scene for both of them.
    ‘So , our victim is lying in a heap at the bottom of the steps,’ he said.
    Guilbeau nodded in the affirmative. Roussel screwed up his face in concentration, before continuing.
    ‘We can probably say with certainty that he was sitting down, judging by the overturned chair.’
    The c oroner nodded once more; again positive.
    They circled the table slowly and Roussel pointed out something on the veranda floor; four slight scuff marks arranged in a square , where the varnish had worn off the planking of the deck. He scampered down the steps and used his hands to get a rough approximation of the distance between the upturned chair legs. Then, keeping his hands apart, he returned and measured the shape. Perfect fit, give or take.
    ‘So, our chair was here,’ Roussel concluded.
    He got down on his hands and knees to study the marks from a closer angle and made another discovery. The two nearest the steps had slight concave indentations in them. He gestured for Guilbeau to come nearer and made a rocking motion with his hands.
    ‘Whoever was in this chair may have been sitting on it in a very relaxed manner.’
    He remembered the way he had sat on the veranda when he was a child; the shouts his mother had made when she’d caught him, and the thud as the front legs of the chair hit terra firma again.
    There was a puzzled expression on the face of the coroner, so Roussel pointed to the metal bar