TORN

Casey Hill

Copyrigh
t
Casey Hill 2012

The right of Casey Hill to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author. You must not circulate this book in any format.

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

Sandra Coffey was desperately struggling to breathe.

The smell, an over-ripe suffocating stench, completely overwhelmed her, making her nauseous and dizzy. She shook her head in panic, suppressing an urge to gag, thinking she wouldn’t be able to hold out for much longer.

Suddenly she heard the crunch of tires on the gravel outside, and through the window she saw drawing to a halt a white van with familiar blue writing on its side.

At last, help had arrived.

Sandra stood up, smoothed down her trousers, and, trying to regain her poise, headed quickly for the front door.

              ‘Morning, Mrs Coffey,’  Paddy Murphy, the local plumber, greeted her amiably. He had a round, red face, long, white muttonchop sideburns, and his bulky frame filled every inch of his extra-large, navy-blue boiler suit. He looked up at her, a frown of concern on his face. ‘Toilet backing up, you said?’

. ‘Not just one, Paddy. All of them. The smell … it’s unbearable.’

His frown deepened.  ‘Probably your septic tank then.’ The plumber removed his cap to reveal his shiny bald head and scratched at it thoughtfully.  ‘Sounds unusual. Maybe a rat or something found its way in there.  Only way we’ll know for sure is to go and have a look.’

Paddy set his toolbox down, loosened the cap of the inspection pipe, then stood back and averted his face.  He didn’t want to be hammered by the acrid funk he knew would rush his nostrils when the system was opened.

He rummaged in his toolbox and came up with a large industrial torch. Tapping it on the heel of his hand, he flicked it on, aimed it down the tank and peered into the murky depths.

The inspection pipe was narrow – maybe sixty centimeters across – and didn’t show much of the tank itself.  He moved the torch around and peered in as far as he could to see if he could identify a blockage, but all he saw was the layer of scum that floated on top of the mottled and putrid grays and browns. Instinctively he held his breath. Helluva of a way to make a living …

‘Can you see anything?’

Paddy jumped, startled.

Unheard, Mrs Coffey had come up behind him, her feet in a pair of patterned Wellington boots, a Barbour jacket draped across her shoulders.

He grunted as he stood up, trying to regain his composure. The woman was standing very close and her proximity was unaccountably disconcerting.

‘You can never really see much down these. Reckon I’ll just have to open up the manhole cover.’ He sighed as he recapped the pipe.

What a pain in the arse – digging around in a heap of shite was not what Paddy had in mind just before lunchtime on a Friday morning, especially with yer woman over his shoulder watching his every move.

He grabbed his toolbox and trudged across the sloping lawn and around a line of low-growing shrubs, Mrs Coffey hard on his heels. Then he stopped so suddenly that she almost stumbled into the back of him.

‘What is it?’

He turned and looked at her, puzzled. ‘Have you had someone else in to check the system lately?’

‘No. Why do you ask?’

‘Someone seems to have been digging for the manhole cover, but from the looks of that mess, they didn’t know exactly where to find it.’

They both observed the turned-over soil, dark and rich from the recent rain.

‘Maybe Tony noticed it was backing up before he left and tried to fix it, though he didn’t mention anything ...’

The plumber approached the metal manhole cover. ‘Someone’s been at this for sure.’

He kneeled down, slipped a small crowbar from his toolbox, and placed it under one edge of the cover.  He glanced over his shoulder at Mrs Coffey. ‘You might want to stand back a bit – these things reek to high heaven when opened.’

She duly took a couple of steps back and pulled her jacket tightly around her.  Paddy flipped the cover off, and once again averted his nose to evade the malodorous stink racing up to greet him.

Waiting for the air to clear a little, he was reaching for his torch when a horrified cry from behind stopped him short. He shook his head. Serves her right for standing over hi
m
this was no place for a—

But Paddy quickly realized that it wasn’t merely the stench that had affected Mrs Coffey.

Once, twice, three times her high-pitched screams split the cold, damp air, before she finally clamped her hand across her mouth, her eyes wide with horror.

What the …? Paddy stared at her, puzzled, before slowly turning back to the tank to see what had so affected her.

Floating up to greet him was the bloated, distorted face of a man, his eyes protruding, skin purple with putrefaction, sewage spilling from his open mouth as he bobbed in the effluent pool.

Frozen with shock, the plumber just stared, unable to take his eyes away. The dead man’s deeply veined, bloodshot eyes seemed be staring back at him in mute accusation.

Behind him, Mrs Coffey was whimpering little sobs of pure animal fear and horror.

Finally Paddy Murphy gagged and fell backwards onto the damp grass.

‘Jesus Christ Almighty ...’

‘Can you please state your name and occupation for the benefit of the Court,?’ the lawyer asked.

The oak-paneled courtroom was still, all eyes on the woman sitting in the witness stand.

She sat upright, her piercing blue eyes fixed on the man who was questioning her. Patrick Masterton was a picture-perfect lawyer in his immaculate dark suit, crisp white shirt, and just enough gray in his hair to make him appear distinguished.

As Masterton referred to his notes, a court artist worked quickly to capture the scene. He had already finished drawing Masterton – he looked elegant, determined,  powerful, even – and was now working on the witness.

With quick strokes he portrayed the shape of her head, the sheet of blond hair falling onto her shoulders, her high cheekbones and strong jaw line. Her eyes were an unusual shade of deep blue and her strongest feature. In just a few strokes he managed to capture the fierce light of intelligence – defiance almost - that shone through. She wore an elegant charcoal skirt and jacket, her shirt a complimentary pale pink. The only adornment was a small brooch in her lapel, shaped like a dragon.

‘Reilly Steel, GFU investigator,’ she replied, in a strong American accent.

‘GFU?’

‘Garda Forensic Unit,’ she clarified. ‘We collect and analyze evidence from crime scenes.’

‘And how long have you been in this profession, Ms Steel?’

‘I’ve been employed by the GFU for approximately thirteen months. Before that, I led an ERT – Evidence Response Tea
m
out of the FBI San Francisco field office for almost seven years. Throughout this time, my Office carried out ex
tensive crime scene investigative work with contacts in local, state, federal and international law enforcement agencies.’

Her answers were clear. Absolutely no hesitation – just statements of fact.

‘And your qualifications?’

‘In 2003 I graduated in Crime Scene Investigation from the FBI National Academy in Quantico, Virginia.’

‘Impressive credentials, I’m sure the Court will agree,’ Masterson said.

He smoothed his tie, and looked from the jury back to Reilly. ‘Ms Steel, can you tell us about the evidence you found at Elizabeth Walker’s house on the night of the 15th of August last?’ the lawyer asked, pointing to a nearby projector screen, upon which two  photographs were displayed side by side. The first photo showed the head of a bed, a heavy bloodstain on a pillow against the wooden slatted headboard. The second was a close-up of the same image, displaying a dark, frizzy hair wedged between the pillow and the headboard.

Reilly’s voice was even. ‘The hair was collected from the victim's bed.’

Masterton moved a step closer, once again focusing the jury’s attention on her. ‘What can you tell us about it, based on your forensic analysis?’

‘It’s male, Caucasian.’ 

‘You were able to extract DNA from it?’ Masterson had his notes behind his back, but he had no need to refer to them.

‘Yes. The follicle was attached, so we were able to extract primary DNA from the sample.’

‘And you compared this with a saliva sample obtained from the accused?’ He nodded towards a young man with dark curly hair, who sat slouched between two guards, his ill-fitting suit making him appear uncomfortable, out of place in these formal surroundings.

‘Correct.’

‘The hair was a match?’

‘It was.’

Masterton moved towards the jury, making sure he had their full attention before asking the key question. ‘Ms Steel, what would you estimate as the likelihood that the hair you found on the pillow belongs to the accused?’

Reilly sat up even straighter. This was her world – forensic evidence, scientific certainties. She could answer with complete confidence. ‘The likelihood that the hair we found on that pillow belongs to the accused is 99.97 percent.’

A small murmur went through the courtroom. One or two members of the jury gave slight involuntary nods. This type of evidence – precise, cold, scientific – always hit home hard, and helped sway wavering minds.

Masterton resumed his questions. ‘Ms Steel, could you now please tell the Court what you found beneath the victim's fingernails?’

‘Samples of blood and skin tissue.’

‘These are typically evidence of a struggle?’

‘That’s correct,’ Reilly replied.

A photo of the female victim's upturned hand appeared on the projector, the woman’s elegant fingernails darkened by the blood beneath them. The jury’s gaze turned towards the image – there was something brutal about those cold, lifeless hands, the blood-flecked nails mute testimony to just how hard Elizabeth Walker had fought for her life.

The artist glanced quickly at the jury – faces were hardening, decisions were being made, and cold glances flashed across the room at the accused, Danny Doyle.

Masterton continued, relentless now that he was closing in on his prey. ‘Ms Steel, you were able to extract DNA from these samples also?’

‘We were.’

‘And the DNA matched that of the accused, Daniel Doyle?  Matched that of the hair sample, as well the saliva sample you obtained from the accused?’

‘Correct.’

The word hung heavily in the air, and rolled around the courtroom with a resounding air of finality. Whatever else the defense might say, whatever tricks or stratagems they might come up with, the science had spoken – clearly and incontrovertibly. Danny Doyle had been in Elizabeth Walker’s bed the night she died; his hair was on her pillow, his skin and blood beneath her battered, broken fingernails.

Masterton allowed himself a smile. ‘Thank you, Ms Steel.’  He turned to the defense. ‘Your witness.’

The defense lawyer wore a tired, defeated look. In his late fifties, with a thousand tough cases behind him, Michael Liston knew when to attack, or when to regroup and look for a weak point elsewhere.

Reilly Steel, GFU investigator, had revealed no chinks in her armor.  She had a rock-solid chain of evidence, unimpeachable scientific credibility, unshakeable conclusions, and a manner that spoke of unquestionable competence. Experience told him there was no value in pursuing her – what he needed was to get her off the witness stand as quickly as possible. Liston shook his head. ‘No further questions, Your Honor.’

The judge nodded to Reilly. ‘Thank you, Ms Steel, that will be all.’

As the GFU investigator stood and walked quickly back to her seat, the artist noticed that all eyes were on her. She had delivered her evidence with such certainty, such an air of confidence, that it was hard not to feel admiration for her.