A Rip Through Time(38)

Gray stiffens at that. Before I can apologize for an apparent misstep, McCreadie says gently, “Dr. Gray possesses a medical degree, but he cannot—er, does not—practice medicine. Even if he did, there is only one police surgeon in Edinburgh. It is an elected position. The police surgeon autopsies the victim. I examine the scene and make observations regarding the body.”

“So you’re trained in the principles of forensic science? I presume it is part of your policing education.”

McCreadie frowns at Gray.

“She means the science I am doing,” Gray says. “‘Forensic science’ is her term for it. As for the education a criminal officer receives…”

McCreadie snorts. “A high-minded ideal, Catriona, but I believe the breadth of my professional instruction was ‘Can you wield a cudgel? Yes? Excellent!’”

“Hugh is joking,” Gray says. “But only slightly. As with many new areas of study, being new means your ‘forensic science’ has not been proven to the satisfaction of those who oppose change. Most officers of the law, not being scientists, mistrust the science. They solve a robbery by questioning witnesses. Not by matching finger marks left on the window frame to the fingers of a suspect.”

“Still not convinced of that one myself,” McCreadie murmurs.

“Remind me to lend you a treatise on the matter.”

“Please don’t. The only thing those articles are good for is helping me sleep. Finger marks are intriguing, but there’s no possible way they can solve a crime.”

“Why not?” I say. “Everyone’s prints are different, which makes them a unique identifier.”

Both men turn slowly my way.

“Er, that was something I, uh, read,” I say. “I think. Possibly?”

Gray is about to comment when a noise from the examination room catches his attention. He strides toward it and flings open the door. I think he’s going to give hell to whoever’s in there, but it’s only Constable Findlay, protecting Evans’s body from being taken. The young man stands on the other side of the room, taking great interest in a medical clamp.

“You may leave, Colin,” McCreadie says. “Thank you for your assistance. I do hope the sight hasn’t put you off your lunch.”

The young man straightens and demurs, but when his gaze flicks toward the body, he turns away quickly.

Findlay catches my eye and lifts his chin. A stiff “Miss Catriona,” and then he strides past.

“What ever did you do to my constable?” McCreadie murmurs as he leaves.

“I-I honestly do not remember, sir.”

“I was teasing, lass. A young woman is entitled to change her mind, as much as a young man may wish otherwise. He will be himself soon enough. Now, to work?”



* * *



As we stand beside Evans’s body, I realize why poor Findlay looked so uncomfortable. Evans’s chest has been unstitched and cracked open again. McCreadie sees that, stops abruptly, and reverses course to stand by the wall. If Gray notices, he ignores it.

“I credit Catriona with this discovery,” Gray says. “Or our conversation from yesterday, at least. We discussed Song Ci’s book, which I took to her last night, and with that playing upon my mind, I bolted awake in the middle of the night remembering something. Then I went back to sleep and promptly forgot it until I had my coffee this morning.”

“All praise the goddess of caffeine,” I murmur under my breath. Both men glance over, but clearly decide they have misheard.

Gray continues, “When I examined the body yesterday, I found signs of damage to the lungs. I presumed it was from the strangulation, robbing the body of air, but it must have been bothering me, because last night, thinking of Song Ci’s book, my mind turned to the section on how to identify a victim of drowning. I opened him up again and found this in his lungs.”

Gray hoists a vial like it’s the Holy Grail. Inside is an opaque liquid.

“Mucus?” McCreadie says.

“Water,” I say, before I can stop myself.

Gray smiles at me. “Very good, Catriona. It is water. There was a significant quantity of water in his lungs, meaning he inhaled it shortly before his death.”

“So he died of drowning?” McCreadie says. “Not strangulation?”

“Well, that is the question. I do not believe there is any foolproof way to tell the difference, though I shall research that further, of course. Yet if I were pressed on the matter, I would say the strangulation caused his ultimate demise. If that is the case, what was the purpose of the drowning? I’ll have Isla examine the water, of course, but from my preliminary examination, I believe the lack of soil particles indicates household water.”

“There are signs of restraint, are there not?” I say, moving to get a better look at Evans’s arms.

“Yes, soft restraints on both the wrists and ankles.”

“Then it’s waterboarding,” I say.

Both men stare at me, their empty expressions telling me I’m using a modern word.

“Er, I, uh, do not know the proper terminology for it,” I say. “That is the word I have heard, I think. I mean the method of torture in which one pours water over the victim’s mouth and nose, to inflict the sensation of drowning.”