The Dark Places

Rhodes.” Vector gestured with a smile. “I’m just finishing up on this poor fellow’s external examination,” he said, looking down at the body on the table. Parker walked over and stood by the steel gurney. The poor fellow in question was a middle-aged man who sported an extremely impressive thick black beard that instantly reminded Parker of a pirate. He was dressed to the nines, black tux, white vest and even a pressed hankie in the front pocket of his tailored jacket. Parker also noted gold cuff links that appeared to be engraved with a set of initials. The only thing that looked remotely out of place was the brown rope that was looped snuggly around his neck.
“He really outdid himself this one,” Vector stated, shaking his head sadly. “Even shined his shoes.”
Parker looked down, wondering as he always did, how and why someone could have something so bad going on in their life that ending it seemed to be the only way out. To feel so alone must be terrifying.
“Family?” Surin asked from the other side of the table.
“Wife, grown-up son, money problems apparently, emailed his farewell note to his boy ten minutes before he did it. They were estranged and apparently it was the first email he had gotten from his dad in years.”
Vector pulled the white sheet up and covered the dead man’s body.
“Anyway, I leave all those details to you people. After I have finished our girl, I’ll come back and finish him up, his neck is snapped clean, so it’s a pretty open-and-shut one for me at least. I prefer not to know too much; it’s the science, the medical side that’s my business,” he stated absently, waving his hands in the air. “If I thought about the rest, I might not be able to come to work each day.”
Surin and Parker both nodded. It took a special type of person to do the job of medical examiner. Not only were they highly intelligent and medically trained but contrary to their portrayal in TV shows and movies as cold, weird and sterile people, in most cases, they possessed an extraordinary empathy for the dead. From a police perspective, they deserved the utmost respect.
Surin had once witnessed Vector carefully dress and swaddle a deceased new-born baby girl that had been dumped at the door of a convenience store in Newton. The mother was never found, and no one ever came forward to claim her remains. In cases such as these, it was government protocol to petition the Department of Justice for what was called Burial Assistance. Once approved, the remains in question were cremated, stored and then discarded after two years. In the case of what the media had dubbed, the 7/11 baby, Vector had refused to let her be thrown away again. He paid for her funeral and burial himself. Several police officers, including Surin, had attended the small and terribly sad ceremony, and as far as Surin knew, he still visited the tiny headstone marked “Sweetheart” every year since.
Vector pushed the gurney back into the wall fridge and walked to the other end of the cabinet.
“Right, Miss Isabelle Lacross,” he said to himself. “Let’s find out what special kind of hell you have been through.”
Surin and Parker stood back as Vector’s assistant, a young medical science student named Eric, laid out a fresh tray of instruments and switched on, bright, overhead lights. The forensic photographer was standing off to the side, ready to capture each step of the process for the official file. Eric pulled back the white sheet to reveal Isabelle’s lifeless body. Parker immediately noticed the deep lacerations on her wrists. The binds had cut deep, and there were multiple grooves from where she had obviously struggled to free herself. Looking down, he saw the same indentations on her ankles. Reaching into his back pocket, he took out his tatty notebook.
“We’ll get all the details in the report, Rhodes,” Surin murmured, “put your book away.”
Parker stared at her. “What are we doing here then if we can just read the report?” he bit back.
“We are here because sometimes you need to actually witness what she went through, in the flesh, face to face, to feel what he wanted her to feel so that we can understand why. Any monkey can read a report,” she whispered, her eyes not leaving Isabelle as she spoke. “Tell me what you see?”
Vector had already finished her external exam and removed what was left of her clothing, which had been bagged and sent for testing. Photos were continuously being taken of her various wounds when Parker spoke up.
“Obvious restraints, by the looks of the marks, I would say handcuffs, the repetitive pattern up and down caused by violent struggling.” He cleared his throat, trying to remain objective.
“And this?” Surin asked, pointing to a large red-and-purple bruise above the right breast.
“Bite marks?” Parker answered.
Surin nodded. “The first ones are hesitant, here on the left side.” She gestured towards small red indentions below the left nipple. “But these ones are deep, first tormenting her with the idea of pain, then brutally inflicting it.”
“She was raped multiple times,” Vector chipped in. “There’s a multitude of vaginal tearing and bruising. I’ve taken swabs, but it appears he wore a condom. I found a minute amount of latex residue on her inner thigh.”
“Great,” Surin responded, shaking her head. “He’s careful. Let me guess, no fibres in her hair? Under her nails?”
“No, nothing that we will be able to work with. I did take a throat swab to check for oral penetration, there was none by the way, but I found what appears to be some biological flora material in the mucous lining of her larynx that is similar to the properties of Stachybotrys chartarum. It’s a black mould that is sometimes found in soil, requires high moisture content to grow,