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“Did your dad ask him what was wrong?”
“He did, but he said his friend wasn’t very talkative, which was unusual in itself. But he also said that Leonard seemed worried about his wife... and how she was going to take the news.”
“What news?” Reilly asked.
“That’s just it, he didn’t say, even though my dad tried to get it out of him. He said he seemed depressed. My dad had the feeling something awful had happened, and his friend couldn’t bring himself to discuss it.”
“Still, it doesn’t really matter now, does it? We already know that your dad wasn’t talking to his lifelong friend,” Reilly said.
“Frightening thought, that one.”
Both men turned and continued toward the steel silver door at the end of the corridor. Reilly opened it, allowing Gardener to walk in first. Theatre No.1 was a narrow building, long and low with strip lighting, accommodating four steel gurneys. Only one was occupied. Fitz stood behind it, facing Gardener, talking to DCI Alan Briggs. The pathologist wore gloves and a green surgical gown. His mask had been lowered. A microphone hung above his head.
The smell of formaldehyde was overpowering. Gardener had never become accustomed to it.
“Morning,” said Fitz. “You’re just in time.”
Before Gardener had a chance to reply, four wall-mounted speakers powered out the opening bars of Puccini’s Tosca, which was quite possibly the only opera that Gardener knew. After the loud opening, the volume dropped to a more acceptable level. “For what?” he asked.
“The next piece of the puzzle,” said Briggs, nodding to Fitz.
“I’d like you to take a look at this.”
Fitz had obviously been at work some time – the bottom half of Leonard White’s body was already naked. The pathologist pointed to the bruising on the inside of the dead man’s left thigh. “The killer has pumped the blood out through the femoral artery. While he shows a small amount of medical knowledge, he’s not as good as he’d like us to believe. If you look here...” – Fitz pointed – “…there’s extensive bruising where he’s probably jabbed away with the syringe until he’s found the artery.”
“Looks like he’s had a game of darts,” added Reilly.
“The blood in the pint glasses. Was it Leonard White’s?” asked Gardener.
“I’ve taken samples for analysis. I think it’s safe to assume it was.” Fitz paused before continuing. “I can’t see where all this is leading. He’s drained the man’s blood, and then given it back to us. There are no broken bones. If you look at the hands, all the fingernails are intact, which suggests no sign of torture. There seems to be a sense of purpose to what he’s done, but it’s not obvious.”
“A ritual?” asked Reilly.
“That’s more your territory, Sean,” said Briggs. “You ever come across anything like this?”
“No.”
“I don’t think it’s a ritual,” added Gardener. “If he’d kept the blood, maybe.”
“Was the blood drained while he was still alive?” asked Briggs. “I saw a film like that once.”
“It’s possible,” said Fitz. “I know the film you’re thinking of, The Abominable Doctor Phibes with Vincent Price.”
“Sounds about right,” said Briggs. “But that was just a film. Is it possible to do that in real life?”
“Nothing surprises me with the criminal mind,” replied the pathologist. “You can do anything if you’re so determined.”
“Interesting comment,” said Gardener to Briggs. “If the killer is a master of disguise, maybe the film world is somewhere we should start looking for clues.”
Briggs was about to speak when Fitz interrupted. “There’s something on his chest,” he said, with a sense of urgency.
Fitz had removed Leonard White’s evening jacket, revealing a starched white shirt. Allowing time for photographs, he then quickly took away the aged actor’s final item of clothing. He lowered the microphone ready for his report.
“We have a message on his chest,” said Fitz, examining more closely. “It hasn’t been written on top of the skin, but burned into it, and very possibly while he was still alive if the blisters were anything to go by.”
Gardener leaned forward, reading:
Man cannot hide from his sin
