Singh assumed at first that the skull had been sliced away when it met with a boat propeller. A drowning suicide, he thought, with a subsequent clean cut. So the doctor peeled back the waterlogged flesh that had closed around the neck, and using a strong magnifying glass examined the top vertebra.
Two minutes later, Singh called the RCMP.
Corporal James Rodale was not pleased with the telephone call. It was not that he was a lazy man neglectful of his duty. It was just that Rodale was one of those men with a weak breakfast stomach. He did not need the scales of nausea tipped by a morning autopsy. Luckily, Singh was a perceptive man. When the doctor noticed the look on the Corporal's face as he entered the autopsy room, he suggested that Rodale wait for exhibits on the far side of the morgue. Rodale was grateful.
"There's a phone on the table," the doctor said. "Use it if you want."
Corporal James Rodale was slim and his movements precise. He wore the brown serge working uniform of the RCMP. His hairline was receding so he always wore his hat, and the regimental badge sat square in the center of his forehead. Rodale had since birth had different colored irises: the left eye was reddish brown, the right one green. At school the other students nicknamed him "Stoplight."
As the autopsy was performed, Rodale sat at the table with his back to Dr. Singh. Though he kept his eyes averted he knew what was going on. The pathologist was recording his findings by means of an overhead microphone. Between the calls that Rodale made on his other investigations, some of the comments got through.
"The body is that of a white female in her early twenties. Needle marks cover the interior aspect of both arms…
"There is a 4.5 cm. incision on both the left and right sides of the neck close to vertical plane. There is a horizontal cut from the anterior to posterior aspect of the neck 6 cm. superior to the suprasternal notch…
"The heart weighs 280 grams. The coronary arteries show minimal atherosclerotic streaking and are widely patent. On sectioning, the myocardium is of a uniform tan brown color. The aorta is intact…
"The labia are bruised. There are a few adhesions of the fallopian tubes…"
Almost an hour later. Dr. Singh was finished. He wiped his gloves on a clean cloth and walked over to where Rodale waited. As yet the RCMP exhibit jars on the table were empty.
"May I have a print sheet?" the pathologist asked.
Rodale found the requested form and handed it to the doctor. Singh then crossed back to the stainless steel table that held the cut-up remains of the woman. He injected glycerine into all ten wrinkled fingertips and then one by one he rolled each fingertip across a pad of ink. He fingerprinted the form and returned it to Rodale. The officer put it on file.
"Well?" the Corporal asked finally, meeting the doctor's eyes.
"She didn't drown," Singh said. "The lungs are free of water. That means she was already dead before she entered the river. There's a perpendicular slit on both sides of the neck, consistent with a stab wound sideways through the throat. The weapon has a thick blade. A second horizontal cut removed the head from the body."
"A sex attack?" Rodale asked, writing in his notebook.
"I can't tell from the genitals though there's bruising in the area. We'll do a smear for sperm, but she spent at least a week in the water. The only other injury is a slash across both breasts. It cuts right to the sternum that joins the ribs together. It bisects both nipples."
Rodale nodded. "Is the cut that took the head away from a motorboat propeller?"
"No," Singh said, removing a jar from the table. He walked back to the body.
The Corporal averted his eyes as the pathologist picked up a scalpel from a tray of shiny instruments to his left. Rodale felt bile rise to his mouth as Singh returned to the table. Fighting it down, angry with himself, he forced his reluctant eyes to focus on what the doctor held in one blood-streaked hand. The glove contained a single human vertebra.
"See these marks?" Singh said, indicating the upper surface.
Rodale stared at several lines scraped into the bone.
"They move in a zigzag pattern like you get from a sawing cut. There are two of them, a quarter centimeter apart. Perhaps a nick in the blade. I don't know a propeller that moves with that sort of motion."
The pathologist dropped the neck bone into the jar he held and passed it to the Corporal. Rodale sealed the bottle, labeled it, and marked the paper square with time, date, place, and his regimental number.
Singh said, "You'll have the autopsy report before the day is over."
"Thank you, Doctor," Rodale said, picking up his briefcase and exhibit and turning to leave.
"One moment," Singh said, peeling off his gloves. He scrubbed his hands in a nearby sink, then pulled the table drawer open. "Here," he said, removing a packet of Alka-Seltzer and giving it to the Corporal. "For the next time I call you."
Rodale took the lift down one floor. He found a men's washroom and prized the package open. Popping a lozenge in his mouth, he glanced at the cop in the mirror. "Forget next time," he said to the reflected image. "Worry about now." Then he left the building.
12:15 p.m.
To: Richmond Detachment, RCM Police, 6900 Minora Blvd., Richmond, BC.
Attn. Cpl. James G. Rodale.
From: Vancouver Police Dept., 312 Main Street, Vancouver, BC.
Repl. Det. Bernie Zebroff, Drug Squad.
Re: Fingerprint Enquiry/Floater (Fraser River). ID confirmed.
Helen Ann Grabowski aka Patricia Ann Palitti. Outstanding charges: NIP (heroin). Vancouver. DOB June 12, 1961 Topeka, Kansas. Check with FBI. Picture to follow.
Description from booking sheet: white female, height (175 cm) weight (50 kg), slim build, large breasts unusually firm (believe me, that's what it says here), black hair to collar, brown eyes, needle tracks both arms, long scar down center of spine (skin search by nurse).
B. Zebroff (Det.)
3:45 p.m.
"E" Division, RCM Police, Richmond Detachment.
Attn: J. G. Rodale (Cpl.)
From: "N" Division, RCM Police, Ottawa, Ontario.
Re: 4722067.
FBI confirmation print record: Helen Ann Grabowski aka
Patricia Ann Palitti.
New Orleans Police Department.
Fraud with Intent (April 12, 1980) Suspended Sentence.
Known prostitute. Pimp: John Lincoln Hardy aka "The Weasel."
No Record. Pictures to follow.
5:30 p.m.
It hit you as soon as you came through the door. Nothing definite, nothing concrete, just a vague amorphous atmosphere that hung in the air like opium smoke. You knew at once without being told that this place was junk city. That Hink time ruled here, with reality suspended. There were fifty patrons in the Moonlight Arms making the noise of twenty. Most of them just sat around, nursing a beer, hanging out, watching each other furtively through tombstone eyes. The only animation in the pub came from a fat, slovenly woman who leaned on the jukebox and drunkenly pounded its top. Loverboy was playing. You knew also that likely as not, upstairs in the rooms, a dozen hypes were sprawled on beds, nodding in and out of life, outfits clinging to their arms like a dozen glassy leeches.
Then perhaps, having sensed this, you backed out through the door.
The woman slouched against the wall off to the left of the bar. In looks she would have been striking if she had taken care of herself. She was just short of six feet tall with a full and muscular figure. Her features hinted at Ursula Andress in' the movie Doctor No — same high cheekbones, same honey-colored hair, same almond eyes. But there the likeness ended. For this woman was dressed in a set of filthy clothes. Her fingernails were cheap and fake and painted with chipped red lacquer. It had been a full two weeks since her hair had felt a brush. Her makeup was sloppy. And there were circles under her eyes.