I apologize for the very LONNNG delay in getting back to this mystery. So here we go!

Chapter 10 – Discoveries

Dr. Weatherall coughed into a tissue, and then cleared his throat. "Sorry. Picked up a cold."

Scribbs wrinkled her nose. "Hope it's nothing you picked up from a corpse."

He tried to laugh, but it turned into a hacking cough.

Automatically Ash and Scribbs each took a step back. Scribbs clapped her hands over her mouth. "Lord, Doc. Plague's not funny," she told him.

"Can you just tell us what you found?" Ash asked, while trying not to inhale.

Weatherall wiped his nose, binned the tissue, and then whisked a sheet off a naked body. Blue and ashen looking, the man they'd found in the basement lay flat on the steel table. "Caught this cold from my boys," he explained. "But this man, death due to massive intracranial hemorrhage, caused by trauma from being struck with steel bar we found." He half-turned to a small table where the three-foot long rod lay. "The size of the bar is a perfect fit to the depression in the skull." He grimaced. "From the angle, it appears that he was struck from the rear. Unless the assailant stood on a ladder. No prints on the bar. Just rust, dirt, and smudges. They must have had on gloves. The back of the head is shattered outward. Death would have been quick. He didn't feel much after the initial blow."

"A ladder we did not find," Ash pointed out. "So shorter than him?"

"Perhaps," he answered. "Right. The wound is to the right side of the cranium, so either a right-handed person swung it, or they did it left-handed while off to his right." He smiled. "Or used both hands."

Scribbs bent down to examine the depressed wound on the back of deceased's head. "Nasty. How much force do you think this took?"

Weatherall shook his head. "A fair bit. Either a very strong person, or someone in the throes of passion."

"Murder could always be said to be passionate," Ash observed. "Unfortunately."

"Of course," he answered, then wiped his dripping nose. "I also found that the tibia and fibula, both lower leg bones, are shattered each side, as well as the bones of the right foot. I'd say those were from the fall into the trash-filled basement. A fifteen-foot fall will do that." He stood and stared at the detectives.

When they didn't respond he went on with his exposition. "So, he was struck, and then fell forward through the hole in the floor, into the basement, and collapsed to his back. Lividity marks, and the amount of decomposition, seem to indicate death was days ago; as many as eight to ten. Recent cool days and nights would have slowed the rate of tissue decay."

Scribbs looked down at the dead man. "He worked out. Look at those muscles."

Weatherall coughed. "He's just as dead as if he didn't work out. No defensive injuries. Now the other one," he turned to a second shrouded table.

The dead woman found with the man in the basement lay exposed when the cover was taken off.

Weatherall let the detectives absorb the view for a moment. The body was as ashy-blue as the dead man. It always gave him a chill to examine young and fit people. The old, or accident victims, he could deal with readily enough. The worst were the children. These cases of violent death were an insult to all he knew from medicine, for the magic of life fascinated him. Yet his job as a Medical Examiner helped him gather facts so the police could send someone to justice. "She was stabbed in the heart, you saw that at the house. No defensive injuries, so whoever stabbed her did it quickly."

"Can we see the knife?" Scribbs asked.

Weatherall pushed a tray towards them, where the short-handled knife lay on a blue surgical towel.

Ash and Scribbs bent their heads over it.

"A paring knife?" Scribbs said.

"A bit longer than that, Scribbs," Ash retorted.

Weatherall coughed. "10 cm blade, forged stainless. Plastic handle with rivets." He reached out a gloved hand to flip the thing over, exposing the maker's name etched on the blade. "Ebbers," he read. "A rather common brand. You can buy these at any home goods or department store. I've a set myself."

Ash sucked air through her nose. "A too common knife."

"Wielded by an uncommon killer," Scribbs added.

"Man or woman?" Ash said.

"Depends," Weatherall answered. "It doesn't take a man to stab someone in the heart or to cosh someone fatally." He sighed. "Bad business all around."

Ash peered down at the blade. "But they carried it with them? They were looking for trouble."

"We didn't find any missing knives in Barnard home. All his knives were high class; Swiss," Scribbs told her. "I looked."

"She was stabbed right in the heart," Ash told him. "Luck or skill?"

Weatherall shrugged. "Almost; aorta actually. Could be luck. Or someone with knowledge, such as medical or military, perhaps. Even a butcher or even a fisherman."

Scribbs was chewing on her thumbnail then stopped herself with a will. "The man gets hit, and goes into the hole. Then the woman gets stabbed, and she falls in as well. Or was pushed."

Ash shook her head. "But she was holding his elbow. We found her that way. She was lying on her front with his hand on his arm."

Weatherall screwed up his face. "About that. The puncture to the aorta was not complete; it partially severed the vessel. She may have been alive for a few minutes after being stabbed. She too had broken ankles. And there were signs on her clothing she had dragged herself towards the man. Plus, I found dried tears on her face."

Ash gave Scribbs a startled look who gave it back. "Horrible. While the killer stood above watching her struggle," Ash hissed.

Scribbs shook her head sadly. "Cold-blooded. Is there more?"

The M.E. cocked his head. "She worked out as well. Very fit young woman and…" he said triumphantly, "she was pregnant."

"Oh," Ash groaned.

Scribbs grimaced. "We had a theory she was trying to get pregnant. How far along?"

The M.E. examined a clipboard. "Eight weeks or so. She might not have known it."

"Any chance to know the blood type of the foetus?" Ash asked.

Weatherall shook his head. "I'm sorry, not much left there, I'm afraid. The lab is trying to process what we found. I'll let you know. But being pregnant…" he stopped to blow his nose loudly. "Excuse me. Ask the husband if he knew. She might have been having morning sickness. Perhaps he noticed. There a chance the child is his?"

Ash shook her head. "Not sure. Or maybe it was this man," she touched the dead man's cold hand briefly. She felt the chill of his flesh and she shuddered.

Scribbs squatted down to look at the woman's profile. "Poor thing." She stared up at the M.E. "Is this Jenny Browning?"

Weatherall nodded slowly. "'Fraid so. Dental records match. It's her. Two fillings and a crown restoration. And she had fallen from a horse as a child. I found the mended bones in her arm."

Ash pulled out her notebook to note the time and date of the identity find. "And this man?"

Weatherall turned a page on the clipboard. "Barnard, Michael Thomas. Thirty-four years old. We confirmed his fingerprints from Royal Navy records."

"The vet," Scribbs said, "Now we have both the missing woman and a veterinarian. Lord." She stared at the body. "No trip to Majorca, my friend."

Ash wrote this down as well, flipped her notebook closed, and taking a long look at the bodies, whispered, "We'll find who done this."

Weatherall tipped his head to one side. "Jealousy, you think?"

"What else?" Scribbs replied.

"Good hunting," Weatherall told them in reply as he covered the bodies.

Ash and Scribbs left the mortuary. "Sometimes I hate this job," Scribbs said to her partner as they walked down the corridor.

Ash replied, "Sometimes?"

"Well, a lot of times," Scribbs said. She threw her thumb over her shoulder at the closed doors to the morgue behind them. "Like back there."