“Buckled in.” The way Finch said it suggested that he thought this had a deeper significance and Jennifer picked up on it immediately.
“Buckled in? You think that might mean something?”
Finch shrugged.
“It’s certainly unusual.”
“As is finding him in the back, if you ask me. I mean, if it was your car, wouldn’t you normally sit in the driver or passenger seat?” Finch nodded his agreement as he pulled first one, then another set of surgical gloves onto each of his hands, releasing each wristband with a loud thwack.
“I guess people do strange things when they’re about to kill themselves,” he ventured. “Who knows what he was thinking. A cry for help? An unconscious reference to a troubled childhood? There are any number of possible reasons.”
Finch pulled a mask over his face and moved round to confirm that the toe tag matched the autopsy permit handed to him by his assistant with detailed X rays of the whole body that had been taken earlier in the day. Having satisfied himself that he had the right body, he began the procedure.
First, he checked the body for any abnormalities such as puncture marks, bruises, or cuts. His voice droned on mechanically as he dictated what he saw into the small microphone clipped to his lapel, the only other sound the shutter-click of the assistant’s Nikon as he followed him round the table, Finch stepping back every so often to allow him to get a better shot.
Even though the room burned with the intimacy of death, it was the terrifying impersonality of the procedure that struck Jennifer most. The laboratory-like surroundings, the faceless uniforms, the official forms and photographs and case numbers that reduced what had once been a man, a person, to an anonymous file entry, a lonely statistic. She felt suddenly very sorry for Short.
The initial examination confirmed that carbon monoxide — or as Finch would have it, CO poisoning — was the most likely cause of death. Short’s fingernails and lips were stained a telltale cherry red, a sure sign of asphyxia from lack of oxygen in the blood. Apart from a small tattoo on his left shoulder, there was nothing else.
This phase complete, the assistant placed a “body block” under Short’s back, a rubber brick that caused the chest to protrude outward and the arms and neck to fall back, allowing the maximum exposure of the trunk for incisions.
Finch selected a scalpel from the instrument tray on his right and cut into Short’s chest, a deep Y-shaped incision that ran from each shoulder to the base of the breastbone and then down in a straight line to the pubic bone, deviating slightly to avoid the navel. He peeled the skin, muscle, and soft tissues away from the chest wall and then pulled the chest flap up over Short’s face so that the front of the rib cage and the strap muscles of the front of the neck lay exposed. Then he used a bone cutter to clip through the bones on each side of the front of the rib cage as if he was cutting through a wire fence. This allowed him to peel off the sternum, although he had to hack away at some of the soft tissues that stuck stubbornly to the back of the chest plate.
Jennifer looked on with horrified fascination, part of her wondering whether she should have accepted Finch’s offer to wait outside rather than let her fear of missing out on anything get the better of her, part of her unable to look away. He used what Jennifer recognized from some class or other back at the Academy as the standard “Rokitansky” method, not unlike field dressing a deer where, starting at the neck and moving downward, he cut all the organs free and then removed them from the body in one block.
Finch carried the blood-soaked mass to the dissecting table, a stainless-steel surface mounted at the foot of the autopsy table, while his assistant moved the body block to behind Short’s head as he prepared to remove his brain. Finch spread the organ block out and then cut the chest organs away from the abdominal organs and the esophagus with scissors, dictating all the time. But his monotonous delivery was suddenly interrupted.
“Dr. Finch?”
Finch looked up as the assistant beckoned him over.
“What’s up, Danny?”
“Can you take a look at this?” Finch put the scissors down and walked round to where his assistant was standing behind Short’s head.
“What have you got?”
“Check it out.” The assistant pointed at Short’s head. Finch ran his hands over the base of Short’s skull, feeling it with his fingertips.
“That’s strange,” he said.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“I have three hundred thirty thousand pounds to my right. Three hundred thirty thousand pounds for this unique piece. The sword awarded to Admiral Lord Nelson by Sultan Selim the Third after the Battle of the Nile. Do I have any improvements on three hundred thirty thousand pounds? Going to the gentleman on my right for three hundred thirty thousand pounds. Going once. Going twice. Sold to the gentleman on my right for three hundred thirty thousand pounds.”
The auctioneer’s hammer came down with the resounding crack of ivory on oak and a dignified round of applause echoed off the gilded ceiling.
Tom slipped unnoticed from the room, hoping to beat the inevitable crush as the auction drew to a close. The lobby was already busy and a couple of journalists brushed past him as they ran outside to ring the afternoon’s events through to their desks. The sword had made nearly five times its estimate and that, together with its illustrious provenance, was good copy.
It felt good to be back. Auctions had been a fertile hunting ground for him over the years, providing ready-made targets, especially the private collectors who seemed to have a more cavalier approach to security. But he found he was enjoying it even more now he wasn’t on the lookout for his next possible score, like walking along a street and taking time to look up at the buildings on either side rather than always concentrating on the sidewalk and where he was next going to tread.
“Thomas? Thomas, is that you?” Tom heard his name, strangely unfamiliar in its lengthened form, scrambling over the heads of the people now flowing out of the auction rooms, thick catalogues in one hand, the other poised to grab a glass of wine from one of the eager waiters strategically positioned to meet the onrushing crowds head-on. Turning, Tom immediately recognized the man in the white linen suit elbowing his way through to him and broke into a broad smile.
“Uncle Harry. How are you?” Tom held out his hand, but the man brushed it aside and instead threw his arms around his shoulders. He was about fifty-five now, Tom estimated, tall with powerful arms and a strong, square-cut face that he held high with military stiffness. Although it was fading to gray, he still had a full head of hair that parted neatly on one side and his dark green eyes twinkled merrily under thick eyebrows. He reminded Tom, as he had always done since he was a boy, of a large bear.
Up close, many might have described him as scruffy, the obvious quality of his clothes not compensating for their now faded glory. The years had certainly taken their toll on the linen suit, for example, repeated launderings dying it a pale gray, a few telltale wine stains still visible on the left lapel and the right trouser leg. The fold in the double cuffs of his blue Turnbull & Asser shirt had long since frayed, strands of white cotton hanging loose, the points of the collar blunted and worn. Against this muted background, the loud orange-and-yellow stripes of his MCC tie stood out, the yellow echoing the squat gold signet ring that engulfed the small finger of his left hand. He carried a Panama hat rolled in his right hand.
“Thomas, my boy, I thought it was you.” His voice was diamond sharp, centuries of carefully controlled social breeding revealing itself in his clear, hard, and uncompromising vowel tones.