A Rip Through Time(85)

“Surgery,” he says. “Not medicine. I studied jointly in medicine and surgery, but intended to pursue the latter.”

“All right. Surgery then. Still, the fact that you have the degrees means you’re at least as qualified as Addington, licensed or not. I understand the lawyers need the police surgeon on the witness stand, but would it be possible for you to perform autopsies? With him in attendance?”

Gray snorts and slaps the paper onto his desk as he strides from the office. “Addington would never agree to it.”

A hesitation, and then he glances back, his chin dipping. “It is an excellent idea, Catriona. I am not dismissing that. Detective McCreadie and I have discussed it, as we have discussed the possibility of both being present at the autopsy, which is quite routine. Criminal autopsies are sometimes even performed in surgical theaters.”

“But more witnesses would mean more people to realize Addington is screw—making mistakes.”

Gray grunts and pulls open the door to the examination room. “Addington is too well connected for Detective McCreadie to argue with his process. We must simply be thankful that we may confirm his work after the fact. Now, let us do that.”



* * *



It doesn’t take me long to realize the true root of Gray’s anger. Yes, he’s annoyed that Addington left without speaking to McCreadie. But what truly infuriated him was that preliminary report. On it, Addington listed the cut throat as the cause of death. It is not. As we guessed earlier—and Gray confirms now—Rose Wright died of strangulation.

The killer strangled her, moved her body in front of that gate, and then slashed her throat and stabbed her in the stomach. That could be pure convenience. A bloodless killing with the mutilations added on the staged scene. I can’t tell them about the staging, though. Can’t say that the killer moved the body there because it resembles the spot where a woman will be murdered twenty years from now. Gray presumes the killer strangled her in a more private location and then displayed her in a busier one, and I need to go along with that.

“May I speculate, sir?” I ask as he measures the abdominal wounds.

“Certainly. That is the process of learning, Catriona. Ask questions and hazard guesses.”

“I think he strangled her because that’s how he likes to kill. Come up behind a victim and strangle them with rope. It means they don’t see him, but it also means he doesn’t see them. Doesn’t watch their face as they die.”

Gray pauses to look at me. “Interesting. You believe he is affected by their deaths?”

“Mmm, I don’t think so. I would imagine that only applies in cases where you regret needing to kill someone. He’s choosing to kill. It isn’t about caring—it’s about not caring. He isn’t doing it because he enjoys the act of killing. He enjoys hunting his victims and the victory of success and any notoriety that comes with it, but he doesn’t care about the act of killing. He does it quickly and efficiently.”

I pause, but Gray says, “Go on.”

“Archie Evans was a bloodless death. Literally and figuratively, as you said. No one cared. To make them care, he gave them what he thinks they want.” I wave at Rose’s body. “This.”

His head tilts. “You believe he craves attention, then?”

“The elaborate staging of Archie Evans would indicate as much, would it not?”

“It does. It was a theory of my own, which is why I wanted those newspapers the other day.” He looks at Rose. “He failed to attain the desired degree of notoriety, and so he progressed to this.”

“Escalation.”

His lips purse. “Yes, ‘escalation.’ An excellent word. You seem to have a knack for this, Catriona.”

“If you are implying that I understand the killer’s mind too intimately, I was asleep when Rose was murdered. Also, I’m not strong enough to strangle someone Archie Evans’s size.”

“Ah, but you did fight off a killer. I believe you underestimate your strength. No, I don’t suspect you of these murders. The killer must have been sizable enough to carry her to the scene, as a cart would have attracted notice. Therefore, it could not have been you. Unless you have developed superhuman strength as a side effect of your memory loss.” He peers at me. “Have you?”

I smile. “Sadly, no, though I do seem quite capable of lugging around buckets of soapy water.” I glance at him. “How far could you carry a woman of her size?”

His startled look makes me laugh. “I was not insinuating that you might be responsible, sir. I mean that you are larger than the man who attacked me in the alley. You seem quite physically fit. I believe Detective McCreadie mentioned something about a propensity for brawling.”

“Lies, lies, and damnable lies. I take your meaning, though. How far could I carry this woman? It is an excellent question.” He looks down at her. “One that is best answered through experimentation. Sadly, she is in no condition to be slung over my shoulder.”

“Yeah, I’m not running along behind, collecting her entrails.”

That gets a full sputtered laugh from him. “Such a lack of appreciation for science. You are nearly as bad as your predecessor, young James.” He eyes her. “How much do you think she weighs?”

“One thirty,” I say. When his brows shoot up, I say, “Uh, nine stone.”