‘Well, if it wasn’t the brother, boss is going to want us to sort this out fast.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘Hasn’t been a murder—well, not a real one—in Dunton since the eighties.’
‘What do you mean, “real”?’
‘Y’know’— Murphy dipped his head to one side for emphasis—‘not a domestic.’
Doing his best to discourage Murphy’s chatter, Jake stared out the window at the forested hills and reviewed homicide investigation procedures in his head. He’d have to memorise any differences between Tasmanian and Victorian guidelines—the last thing he wanted was a mistake on his first case here.
They rounded another corner into stabbing sunlight. All was suddenly fields of red earth, thick, golden-flowered roadside vegetation, and the bright green of well-fertilised crops as they entered a broad valley. Jake felt for the sunglasses in his jacket pocket.
‘You worked with Doctor Gill before?’ he asked.
‘Not much. Another blow-i … ah, a new arrival, like you.’
Houses began to appear here and there, white-washed weatherboards with corrugated rooves of rust and peeling paint. Then clusters of homes and a small housing development. And finally the petrol stations, fast food franchises, clusters of outlet stores and light industry that heralded the outskirts of a decent-sized Australian regional city.
Ten minutes later Murphy drew to a halt outside the district hospital, a brick-veneer relic of the sixties. They located Doctor Meena Gill in a small shabby office adjacent to the institution’s morgue, the unmistakable fetor of formaldehyde permeating Jake's nose.
The doctor smiled in response to his introductions. ‘Detective Hunter, Constable Murphy, please have a seat. Sorry I was unable to meet you at the scene.’
The office floor’s green carpet squares were fraying at the edges, somehow at odds with the doctor’s crisp expression. ‘I understand you’re the only forensic pathologist in the district,’ Jake replied. ‘You must have a heavy caseload.’
‘Some days.’ Her smile subsided. ‘I trust you took photos of the scene for the coroner’s report?’
‘Yes,’ Jake said. ‘Is there any chance you’ve had an opportunity to examine Ava O’Brien?’
‘Cursory only. It will be days, maybe weeks, before I can complete my report. I can probably get to a CT scan tomorrow, though, and if an internal examination is necessary, I could schedule that early next week. Toxicology might take longer, as that has to be sent to the team in Hobart.’
‘Have you got anything for us now?’ Murphy asked.
‘My preliminary assessment’—the doctor held up a warning finger—‘is that Ms O’Brien’s death most likely occurred sometime between five a.m. and the time she was discovered. Based on lividity and the timing of the onset of rigour, it was unlikely to be as early as four a.m.’
‘What about her hands?’
‘It appears that the fingernails on all ten digits have been removed in their entirety, but other than that, I have nothing yet. I’ll know more once I’m able to clean her hands and examine them more closely.’
‘Anything else?’ the constable pushed.
‘It’s possible she has petechial haemorrhaging in and around the eyes; though, again, please consider that unconfirmed.’