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43
“NO OFFENSE, BUT I’d be glad never to see you two again.”
Dr. Ross looks up from the cadaver on the stainless steel table as Cara and Deakin come into the room.
“And you’re early,” he adds.
Cara gestures to the phone in her hand. Shenton called from the station on the way over: they have consent from next of kin. “We just need a fingerprint,” she says, and Ross’s gaze drifts to the row of metal doors on the far side of the room.
The three of them go over, and Ross pulls out one of the drawers. Cara can’t help but gasp as he opens the black body bag and she sees Libby’s face. Her skin has taken a bluish tinge from the refrigeration; her hair, stark and pink, jarring in such bleak circumstances.
Ross pulls her arm out from the bag and holds it while Cara puts on gloves and takes the phone out of the evidence bag. She gently presses Libby’s finger against the sensor, and the phone opens. They wait for a few seconds while Cara disables the lock options.
“Have you done the post?” Deakin asks.
“Yes, and there weren’t any surprises,” Ross says. “Shot five times from a reasonable distance away—my guess, from the car, which was about ten meters. Punctured her lungs, liver, one in the spine. But the one that did the most damage hit her aorta. Bullets consistent with the gun found at the scene, a .22 high standard model, 101. Ballistics will confirm.” He pauses, looking down at her face. “The only good thing is she would have bled out fairly quickly.”
“Any other injuries?” Cara asks.
“No, nothing. No defensive wounds on her hands or arms. I’ve taken scrapings from her fingernails just in case, swabs from her nose and mouth, and a full sexual assault kit. They’ve gone to the lab, along with the bullets.”
Cara knows what he’s looking for. The site where they were parked was a well-known lovers’ lane—she might have been kissing the guy, or more, before he turned the gun on her. Traces of saliva might still be present.
Deakin has turned to the corpse on the table, intently looking at his face. Ross does up the body bag, and solemnly pushes the drawer back into the wall.
“And you believe this is your killer? Michael Sharp?” Ross asks, pointing to the body.
“Looks like him,” Deakin says.
“Want to stick around while I do the PM?”
They take a seat on the far side of the mortuary. Cara watches as Ross and his assistant start the postmortem, opening up the chest down the center, trying not to flinch at the high-pitched whine as the saw cuts through the breastbone. They methodically examine every part, every organ, weighing and bagging. Ross talks while he works, notes recorded for transcription later.
Deakin’s phone buzzes and he looks at it.
“Car confirmed as belonging to Michael Sharp,” he whispers. “Cameras show it on the M271 at twenty-two fifty-six that evening.”
“Any CCTV of who was inside?” Cara asks, and Deakin shakes his head.
She turns her attention back to Libby’s mobile phone. She operates the touch screen through the evidence bag, scrolling through the apps. She finds one for Tinder and clicks on it. After a few false starts, she finds the messages section.
There are a few conversations in the history, aborted chats, even a few dick pics.
“Do men really think this works?” she asks, showing one to Noah.
“Oh, please,” he says, recoiling from the image. “I wouldn’t know. It’s not a tactic I’ve ever tried.”
“You’ve been on Tinder then?” Cara asks, surprised. She couldn’t imagine him trying to “date” in a traditional sense.
“Not for long,” he says. “As soon as women find out what I do, they’re either put off or too interested, if you see what I mean.” Cara raises her eyebrows. “Want me to put them in handcuffs—you know, that sort of shit.”
“Not your thing?” she asks.
“Not on a first date,” he replies with a grin. “You got anything?”
Deakin looks over her shoulder as she tries to navigate the app, then takes it from her. He does a few more moves, then hands it back.
“That’s the most recent conversation,” he says.
