Warhol's Prophecy

100

IN THE MORTUARY the smell was always the same.

The pungent odour of chemicals, mingled with the more caustic aroma of antiseptic.

And the heavy, cloying stench of death.

It was a smell that DC Tate had come to know well, but one that he’d never got used to. Never would get used to either, he told himself.

He closed the door behind him and walked slowly into the large, high-ceilinged room. It was painted a uniformly dull green: the same colour as the smocks of those who worked within. There were two or three smocks also hanging on pegs on the far wall.

Four mortuary slabs.

Tables, the staff liked to call them, but to Tate they were slabs, pure and simple. Stainless steel with a gutter and a number of strategically placed holes, for drainage.

Beyond them were the lockers where bodies were stored for various reasons.

Some corpses were awaiting examination. Some were waiting to be removed – perhaps for burial. Others would remain there for months. Unclaimed. Unwanted.

It was a storehouse for sightless eyes.

There was a small office just beyond, its door firmly closed. It bore a sign saying PRIVATE.

A small trolley stood beside one of the slabs, a linen cloth hiding the gleaming instruments it carried.

Tate wondered if another body was about to be brought in. No one had mentioned it to him.

He crossed to the closest slab and leant against it, feeling how cold the metal was beneath his palms. The temperature was kept at a constant fifty degrees, which chilled the metal even more.

It chilled his blood too.

He crossed to the lockers and ran his gaze over them.

The contents of numbers four and five concerned him.

They concerned him greatly.

He reached out to touch the handle of number five.

‘We can’t keep you away, can we?’

The voice startled him and he spun round, his heart thudding a little quicker in his chest.

Bernard Swain, the chief pathologist, was in his thirty-ninth year, four years older than Tate. A tall, wiry man with thinning hair swept back severely from his forehead, he sported a goatee beard which, despite his belief that it made him look trendy, actually looked to Tate as if someone had glued a dead mouse to his chin.

‘They’re still in there, Matt, if that’s what you’re worried about,’ Swain said to him, nodding towards the lockers. ‘Brother and sister.’

Swain passed through into the office and slid open a drawer in his desk, rummaging around for some papers he wanted.

‘Someone really didn’t like that family, did they?’ the pathologist observed. ‘Layton would have been better off staying inside.’

‘You’re sure the same person killed them both?’ asked Tate.

‘You read my report.’

‘Yes, I did.’

‘Then what’s the problem? The same knife was used in both murders.’

‘A blade approximately twelve inches long, serrated on one edge.’

‘Exactly. The angle of the cuts was the same in both cases. So was their nature. There were approximately fifteen stab wounds to the upper part of Sandra Bennett. Another six to the vagina, probably inflicted after she was dead.’

‘Thank Christ for that,’ Tate breathed.

‘Twenty-two stab wounds to the body of David Layton, including four to the genitals. One of which, as you know, split his penis from top to bottom. He wasn’t so lucky: he was still alive when that was done. In addition, there were fractures to eight major bones, all inflicted with a heavy object made of metal. Probably an iron bar.’

‘The killer would have been covered in blood,’ mused Tate.

Swain nodded.

‘And yet we found no fingerprints or fibres at either scene,’ Tate muttered. ‘No clues, no motive, no suspects.’ He exhaled wearily. ‘What about the other business? You didn’t make any mention of it in your report.’

‘My job’s to examine the bodies they bring in here, Matt, not speculate on cases.’

‘But you must be curious. Why did he take their heads?’