Authors: Kathryn Fox
‘He returned an open finding. He says it is probable she threw herself off the cliff, but there isn’t enough evidence to support the finding.’
‘I’m tutoring at the institute tomorrow.’ Anya smiled. ‘I’ll see what I can find out about the autopsy – unofficially, of course.’ She lifted a notebook from her handbag. ‘I’ll ask Peter Latham to dig out the file. What’s her name?’
Kate drained her coffee.
‘Matthews with two Ts. Clare Matthews.’
Anya entered the histology lab at the State Forensic Institute and placed her briefcase beside one of the benches. From a side room came the voice of the institute’s director and the unmistakable sneezes of Derek, a technician who continued to work in the department despite an allergy to the preservative chemical.
Anya popped her head into their room. Derek sat encased in a white bodysuit, his face hidden beneath a mask with a personal ventilation system as he sliced pathology specimens.
Beside him at a microscope was Peter Latham. Like so many pathologists, Peter had unique fashion sense. Today he’d chosen his favorite paisley tie, pale yellow shirt and dark green trousers – a stark contrast to the blue surgical scrubs he wore most days. For court appearances, he liked to formalize his outfit with a brown corduroy jacket.
‘Need a second opinion?’ Anya asked.
Peter looked up and grinned through a salt-and-pepper beard.
‘Anya, come in. We’ll be just a minute.’
Derek muffled ‘Hello’ and made his usual joke about being an alien under the mask.
The shelves around the room contained jars of specimens 14
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marked with Peter’s name for reporting. There were more specimens than usual. He had either fallen behind or taken on the extra cases when Anya resigned. It wasn’t in his nature to delegate to the already overworked staff.
After dictating into a hand-held tape recorder, Peter placed a slide back into its cardboard folder. ‘How does it feel to be back?’
‘I’m only here to tutor.’ Anya thought she sounded defensive and forced a cheerful tone. ‘Teaching pays better than legal aid.’
‘You’re just going through a lean time; a settling-in period,’
he said softly.
‘I only wish you were right.’
‘Give it time. You’ve only been at it a few months.’ Peter removed his glasses and began to clean the lenses with the end of his tie. ‘Anyway, an acquittal in the Barker case would establish your reputation. You’ll be turning down referrals before long.’
Dan Brody had been supportive, but more government forensic employees were using their rights to private practice, which meant stiff competition for the only freelance woman in the field.
Peter held his glasses up to the light. ‘How’s my favorite godson?’
Anya smiled. ‘Ben’s doing well. Thanks again for the train set. He absolutely loves it.’
Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed an Amazonian figure enter the lab with a couple of books clutched under one arm. Sneakers scuffing on the tiled floor announced her arrival as she flicked a long plait from her shoulder. Anya could easily imagine this woman dominating a sporting arena such as a hockey field.
Peter was quick with the introductions. ‘Zara, I’d like you to meet Dr. Crichton, well-respected forensic pathologist and now forensic physician.’ Turning to Anya, he added, ‘This is Zara Chambers, our medical student. She’ll be with us for the rest of the year.’
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There hadn’t been a student willing to complete a Bachelor of Medical Science project in years and Anya knew how much Peter reveled in an opportunity to teach.
‘Zara’s comparing diatoms in various water locations to those found in victims of drowning.’
Anya shook the student’s hand. ‘You’re brave to take this one on. It’s not an easy thing to do.’
‘So far, collecting water specimens with the Water Police hasn’t been very challenging.’ Zara’s confidence belied her inexperience. ‘But tomorrow I’ll start the real pathology.’
Anya wondered how long the enthusiasm could last. The concept was simple but the project involved dissolving bone in nitric acid, a process Zara was bound to find both difficult and unpleasant.
‘Dr. Crichton, you’re the first forensic physician I’ve ever met.’
‘That’s probably because this state has been a bit slow to recognize us. I’m doing my best to change that.’
The medical student’s watch alarm beeped. ‘I’m sorry to cut this short, Dr. Crichton, but I have a tutorial in fifteen minutes and Dr. Latham’s secretary said there are some slides he wanted me to see first.’
‘Yes, yes, of course.’ Peter scratched his beard and led the way down the corridor. ‘Very interesting slides, from the case you called me about, Anya.’
‘Anything I can help with?’ Anya inquired with a wink at Peter and grabbed her case.
‘I’d appreciate a second opinion.’
Peter walked through the lab and into the corridor, followed by the two women. As they passed the first block of stainless steel fridges and plastic double doors, the familiar smell of stale blood wafted from the morgue. The incongruous sound of rock music reminded Anya what she had left behind.
‘Sounds busy,’ Zara said.
‘We’ve had a run of hospital PMs lately,’ Peter commented, distracted from another thought.
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In the director’s office, papers were piled on every surface.
Framed degrees hung on the wall, along with photos of Peter’s work with the United Nations. His citizenship certificate, dated 1994, took pride of place. Beneath it stood a dual-headed microscope, used for teaching and demonstrating significant findings for police investigators.
Peter pulled a slide from a cardboard folder and held it up to the light. After ensuring he had the correct specimen, he lifted the microscope’s plastic cover. ‘This is from the lung of a thirty-five-year-old female found at the base of the Gap a while back. Macroscopically, both lungs had some unusual streaky patches that appeared pale compared with the rest of the lung tissue.’ Peter slid his glasses above his forehead and focused the eyepieces. ‘Anya, what do you make of this?’
Anya rolled a chair forward and peered into the lens.
Stained with hematoxylin and eosin, multiple golden-brown, needle-shaped structures spread throughout the tissue.
‘Did she have any relevant medical history?’ Anya asked. Like a piece in a jigsaw puzzle, histology meant nothing without the full picture.
‘Not to our knowledge.’ Peter adjusted his chair. ‘She lived in a convent, but it’s anybody’s guess what kind of insulation’s been used in those old buildings.’
‘I heard it was an open finding.’
‘True. After you called, I went over the reports again. This woman died from multiple trauma. The injuries are consistent with falling from a height. Based on what we know, the coroner couldn’t have come to any other conclusion.’
Zara interrupted. ‘What does the slide prove?’
Anya moved away to let the student view the slide. ‘What do you see?’
‘There appears to be a group of small needles.’
‘Any idea what sort of fibers are found in lungs?’ Anya remembered one of her old tutors at university saying that 75 percent of what a doctor learned was through humiliation in front of colleagues. She had sworn never to humiliate a stu-KATHRYN FOX
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dent, believing that problem solving and understanding were the best ways to learn.
‘Well, it’s rather obvious. Asbestos!’ Zara declared.
Anya considered making an exception to her rule. ‘You’re close. They resemble asbestos, but are a little unusual. Asbestos fibers are usually dumbbell shaped, skinny with round bits on each end. These are more hourglass shaped.’
‘But wouldn’t you expect to see fibers in older people who’ve had a long history of dust exposure through their jobs, like brake mechanics and asbestos workers?’
Anya glanced at Peter and said, ‘Normally, yes. It’s extremely unusual to see them in such a young woman.’
‘I agree,’ Peter said, replacing the slide with another. ‘Fibers are normally very difficult to see, even under a microscope.
Luckily for us, the body coats the fibers with iron protein.
What you are looking at is the hemosiderin deposit.’ He pro-pelled his chair back to a pile of books on a shelf.
‘Is it like the body mounting an immune response to an infection?’ Zara asked.
‘Not really,’ Anya responded. ‘More like a primitive chemical reaction.’
‘Does this mean the nun was dying of asbestosis?’ Zara looked up, thirsty for a new diagnosis.
Peter handed her a textbook open at a page displaying a color photograph of asbestos fibers. ‘You see, these are a little different. The woman died of the injuries she sustained in the fall, and the fibers are merely an incidental finding to note.’ He returned the slides to their folder. ‘Besides, it could be any of a number of fibers used in buildings over the years.’
‘Shouldn’t we try to find out what it is?’ Zara glanced at the two pathologists. ‘I mean, won’t the police want to know?’
Anya watched her old mentor rub his eyes.
‘Our job is to identify the cause of death, which we have done in this woman’s case. Chasing red herrings is not our role.’
He scratched his collar-length gray hair. ‘The coroner and the 18
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police wanted to know what killed this woman. The fall off the Gap did that.’
‘Peter’s right. The institute has to limit itself to investigating only what’s necessary. There are one to two suicides from the Gap every week in addition to all the other coronial cases.
Concurrent illness in a multitrauma isn’t really relevant and doesn’t help the coroner.’
‘Thanks anyway for showing me the slides.’ Zara stood, replaced the microscope cover and headed for the door. ‘Nice to meet you, Dr. Crichton.’
Anya closed the office door behind Zara. ‘Peter, is the new coroner causing problems?’
‘He wants to clear the backlog and doesn’t want cases deferred unless absolutely necessary. Reports have to be in ASAP.’
‘I heard there was something odd about this death.’
‘Something about it doesn’t sit right.’ Peter clasped both hands behind his head. ‘Did you know the woman was six weeks pregnant?’
Anya nodded. ‘Any evidence of sexual assault?’
‘No, but that doesn’t tell us anything this far down the track. We can’t even be sure she
knew
she was pregnant.’ He wheeled across the carpet again and pulled a file from the top of a pile. ‘It gets more interesting,’ he said, opening the folder.
‘I heard her ears had been clawed.’ Anya sat on the table next to the microscope. ‘Any signs of asphyxiation?’
‘That was my first thought. We had the usual twenty cases that morning and I allocated it to a registrar, who panicked when he saw crescent-shaped scratch marks on her neck, involving her ears. Of course everything stopped. The crime scene guys turned up and immediately called Homicide. But when I had a close look, there was nothing to suggest strangulation – no congestion of the face, petechial hemorrhages, or bruising, and certainly no ligature mark.’
‘Laryngeal trauma?’
‘None.’
‘That is odd. Any history of self-abuse or mental illness?’
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‘Suicide in the context of depression would be logical, but that doesn’t explain the self-mutilation.’
‘What about schizophrenia or depression with delusions?’
Anya had always been shocked when historians suggested that Vincent van Gogh had cut off his ear because of his love for a woman. She believed, most likely, that he suffered from schizophrenia and the self-mutilation was supposed to stop auditory hallucinations. ‘Maybe she scratched her ears in an attempt to stop voices.’ Anya had seen many odd deaths, but the image of a tormented religious woman still seemed particularly disturbing. ‘Any evidence of antidepressants or antipsychotics on toxicology?’
‘Nothing. For all we know, she knew about the pregnancy and couldn’t cope with the guilt, or the baby’s father simply left her. Even if she tried to damage her ears in a psychotic state, the result is still the same.’ Peter glanced around the office before locating his glasses on his head. ‘It makes no difference at this point. The circumstances surrounding the death may be suspicious, but the cause of death is straightforward. The coroner can instruct the police to take it further if more evidence comes to light.’
Anya thought aloud. ‘To a Catholic, suicide is a mortal sin.’
‘I’d forgotten you were a convent schoolgirl.’
‘A mortal sin can’t be forgiven by God without repentance.
I was taught that suicide and murder are mortal sins, which means the sinner is condemned to hell, fire and brimstone, for eternity. A murderer can still get to heaven if he repents, but someone who kills himself goes straight to hell. If this woman knew she was pregnant and killed a fetus as well . . .’
‘This doesn’t mean much to me, I’m afraid.’ Peter had always respected people with religious faith, despite being unable to understand it.
Anya continued. ‘Surely it makes the probability of mental illness, or at least an irrational frame of mind, stronger.’
‘Doesn’t everyone who suicides have an irrational state of mind? I’ve reviewed the case, and the cause of death is clear.
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There’s no physical evidence to suggest interference.’
Anya glanced at the wall clock. ‘Tutorial time.’
‘What’s today’s topic?’
‘Autoerotic asphyxia.’
‘Zara and her colleagues will love it.’ Peter grinned, and walked Anya to the door.
Two days after her court appearance, Anya caught up with Kate by phone to tell her about the Clare Matthews’s PM
report. Kate didn’t say much, which probably meant she was in the Homicide office. Or else she wasn’t impressed that Anya had concurred with Peter Latham. After hanging up, Anya flopped on the waiting room lounge in her Annandale office and bit into an apple. Beside her lay the newspaper with the photograph of Scott Barker hugging her outside his father’s office complex. She looked awkward, which was exactly how she felt at being invited to celebrate the acquittal. Publicly displaying a private moment with Scott made her uncomfortable.