An Imperfect Killing. Luke Delaney

state of the corpse Sean could tell the man had probably been a semi-vagrant wanderer, housed in an unwanted council flat in a soon-to-be-demolished tower block. His death would be mourned by few.

      ‘He can wait,’ Sean told the pathologist coldly.

      Again Canning sighed and began to pull his soiled latex gloves from his hands. ‘Very well,’ he relented, removing his surgical apron. ‘I’ll have to scrub up and put some new kit on. We wouldn’t want any cross-contamination, would we?’

      ‘No,’ Sean agreed, ‘and I appreciate you doing this.’

      After several minutes Canning was washed, re-equipped and ready to show Sean the body. ‘I believe she’s over here,’ he said and headed towards the stretcher trolley in the far corner of the mortuary. Sean followed, standing on the opposite side of the covered body to Canning, who pulled the green sheet down just enough to reveal her head and upper shoulders. Sean could immediately see the extent of her injuries: severe burns covered her face, neck and the exposed areas of her shoulders – her eyelashes and brows had been burnt away, as had part of her fringe, and her entire face was a waxy red colour. Both of her partly opened eyes were weepy and haemorrhaged and her mouth was slightly open, as if she was still trying to speak. The ten-pence-piece-sized hole under her right eye was unmistakable, but it was the smaller black holes in her skin that really caught Sean’s attention.

      ‘Our information is that she was shot once,’ he explained, ‘with a bullet fired from a handgun. But these wounds look more like she was shot with a mixed round from a shotgun – one larger projectile packed into a cartridge with standard buckshot. The burn marks mean she was shot at very close range, so again it looks more like the weapon was a shotgun. Probably a sawn-off one at that judging by the spread of her injuries.’

      ‘It’s the first chance I’ve had to take a look at her,’ Canning nodded, ‘but I tend to agree with your hypothesis. Are you sure the weapon was a handgun?’

      ‘I’ve not seen the CCTV footage myself,’ he admitted, ‘but the security guard is apparently adamant it shows the suspect firing a handgun, not a shotgun.’

      ‘Then perhaps the gun misfired,’ Canning suggested, ‘or perhaps the bullet was a faulty dum-dum bullet – only instead of exploding inside the body, this one exploded inside the gun’s chamber, sending these tiny pieces of lead flying through the air and into the victim’s face.’

      ‘Or maybe it was a badly prepared homemade bullet that started to disintegrate as soon as it was fired,’ Sean countered.

      ‘Also a possibility,’ Canning agreed, warming to the young detective sergeant the more they discussed the dead woman’s injuries.

      ‘I need the bullet,’ Sean blurted out. ‘I need to take it with me today – now.’

      ‘That’s impossible,’ Canning laughed. ‘You’ll get the bullet at the post-mortem. You’ll have to wait until then.’

      ‘It can’t wait,’ Sean insisted. ‘I need the bullet now.’

      ‘I understand the bullet is important,’ Canning sympathized, ‘as it would be to any murder investigation, but why can’t it wait?’

      ‘Because if it’s a dum-dum bullet gone wrong then I’m probably looking for a professional hit-man, and every second I waste is another second for him to make good his escape back to wherever it is he came from.’

      ‘And if it’s a homemade bullet gone wrong?’ Canning asked.

      ‘Then maybe we’re looking for a boyfriend we don’t know about yet – one who as we speak is scrubbing the firearms residue from the exposed parts of his face and burning the boiler suit and balaclava. This is going to be a very high-profile case, doctor. If the news media find out we wasted a day at the most critical stage of the investigation they’ll be like a dog with a bone. It won’t reflect well on any of us.’

      Canning blew out deeply through pursed lips. ‘Very well, if you insist. But this is most certainly not the usual procedure.’

      ‘I understand,’ Sean assured him, ‘but I don’t need a full post-mortem – I just need the bullet.’

      ‘So be it.’ Canning called across the large clinical room to his assistant. ‘Justin, can you prepare the operating table for a new cadaver, please. I need to examine Miss Evans here.’ Justin just shrugged and set about removing the body already on the operating table and preparing it for the next – his well-practiced hands working quickly and efficiently.

      ‘He shan’t be long,’ Canning promised. ‘He doesn’t say much, but he knows his job inside out.’

      ‘I’ll take your word for it,’ Sean answered.

      ‘I think we’re about ready,’ Canning said after a few minutes. ‘Justin, if you could grab the digital camera, please. We’re not performing a complete post-mortem, but I still need to have everything documented. Just photograph what I tell you to.’ Justin nodded without speaking. ‘Very well,’ Canning told the room, turning on his trusty Dictaphone before taking a new scalpel from the tray of surgical tools and leaning over the body. ‘Take a photo of her face before my initial incision please, Justin.’ He duly obliged, the camera flashing and whirring twice, after which Canning took hold of the victim’s forehead with one hand and cut through the skin in two directions across where the main bullet had entered, forming a cross pattern. Very little blood seeped from the wound – her heart having long since stopped pumping it around her body. Next he used the scalpel to separate the skin from the facial muscles and peeled it back with a pair of surgical tweezers to reveal the damage underneath. Sean could see that the muscle around the entry wound had been turned to pulp and knew from previous cases that the deeper the bullet travelled, the worse the damage to the muscle would be.

      ‘Another photograph, please,’ Canning asked, Justin following his commands without question. After the camera’s flash Canning cut deeper with his scalpel until he hit bone and began to shake his head. He swapped the tweezers for a long, thin pair of forceps, using them to extract pieces of bone that had shattered and splintered as the bullet had passed through the upper part of the victim’s maxillary bone before travelling under the orbital socket and sending out shock waves that ruptured the blood vessels in both eyes, causing the haemorrhaging that had turned them a dark maroon colour.

      Canning pushed the forceps through the pulped muscle and bone deeper inside the skull into the brain, trying to follow the path of the bullet as best as he could. ‘Dear oh dear,’ he shook his head. ‘The damage to the skeletal structure of the victim’s face is significant, as is the damage to soft tissue surrounding the entry point.’ He pushed the forceps still deeper. ‘The bullet I suspect was a fairly large calibre to have caused so much damage – .38 inch at least.’ Again he shook his head. ‘The damage to the right side of the brain is also very significant. On first examination I would estimate at least one quarter of it has been totally destroyed, with further significant damage being caused by the shock waves that would have been emitted by the projectile. Death would have been almost instantaneous. Even if the Critical Care Team had been able to keep her body alive, her brain was already dead. She couldn’t possibly have survived long term.’

      ‘Then we should thank God for small mercies,’ Sean told him.

      ‘Indeed we should,’ Canning replied.

      ‘And the bullet?’ Sean asked.

      ‘Give me a minute,’ Canning insisted. ‘With this amount of damage to the soft tissue the bullet could have moved significantly from where one might expect it to be.’

      Sean waited impatiently as he watched the pathologist nimbly and diligently working the forceps inside the victim’s skull. ‘Ah ha,’ Canning suddenly smiled. ‘Be ready with the camera,’ he warned Justin, before slowly pulling the forceps clear and holding them closer to the lights. He spoke to Sean without looking away from the small, bloody object held firm in the tiny teeth of the surgical instrument. ‘I believe this is what your heart desires, Sergeant.’