The Labyrinth of Osiris by Paul Sussman Read Free Book Online Page B

over his turf to their investigating team as well.
    ‘I need to be getting back,’ he said, glancing at his watch. ‘Meeting at Safra Square. Lucky me.’
    He zipped his jacket up to the neck. As well as his Commander’s Insignia, there was a menorah-shaped gold pin on its left breast: the Presidential Award for Outstanding Service.
    ‘I need a result on this, Leah,’ he said. ‘And quick. The press are going to be all over it. OK?’
    ‘OK,’ said Shalev.
    He eyed her and Ben-Roi from beneath bushy brows. Then, with a last look towards the altar table, he stepped down into the cathedral, waving at Baum to follow.
    ‘Keep me informed,’ he called over his shoulder.
    ‘Me too,’ shouted Baum.
    Ben-Roi and Shalev glanced at each other.
    ‘ Maniak ,’ they both said in unison.
    For a couple of minutes they stood watching as the CITs methodically went about their business, then Ben-Roi asked if he could take a closer look at the body.
    ‘Dressing-up box is over there,’ said Shalev, pointing to an open case sitting on the floor at the far end of the room, beside the stack of chairs. Ben-Roi went over and pulled on shoe covers, body suit and gloves, then walked the length of the room and dropped to his knees beside the altar table.
    ‘Knock knock.’
    Schmelling gave a thumbs-up to indicate Ben-Roi could approach. You needed to be careful with Schmelling. He was notoriously protective of his crime scenes.
    There was only about 70cm of head space beneath the table and Ben-Roi was a big man, long-limbed and broad-shouldered, unlike Schmelling, whose size was all in the waist and buttocks. Even crawling, it was a squeeze, his back scraping against the underside of the table.
    ‘They should have got a smaller detective,’ said Schmelling.
    ‘They should have got a bloody midget,’ retorted Ben-Roi, puffing. He reached the body, which was right up against the wall, and went down on his elbows, backside in the air. Schmelling shuffled round slightly to give him more room. There was a flash from Kletzmann’s camera.
    The victim was wearing a green canvas raincoat, jumper, slacks and sensible shoes, and up close looked even larger than she had done from the doorway. Huge breasts, bulging belly, heavy thighs – she must have weighed upwards of 100 kilos. Her eyes were partially open, the sclerae tinged a dull brown colour. A balled-up handkerchief, stiff with dried blood, protruded from her mouth; there was more blood caked across her chin, neck and the collar of her jumper. A yellowed indentation circled the lower part of the neck.
    ‘Garrotted,’ said Schmelling. ‘With a wire, judging by the cleanness of the depression. We need to get her down to Abu Kabir for a proper examination, but it looks like whoever did this knew their business. See –’ he indicated the ligature mark. ‘We’ve got some parchmented abrasion and very minor linear abrasion, but there are no obvious congestive features and only limited petachial haemorrhaging.’ He pointed to a faint scatter of reddish dots just beneath the eyes. ‘All of which tells me the garrotte stayed in pretty much the same place throughout the killing, and with constant, heavy pressure. Given the size of the victim, and the fact that she was clearly struggling’ – he touched his finger to a series of scratch marks around the neck, presumably where the woman had clawed at the garrotte – ‘that takes a lot of strength and a lot of skill.’
    He almost sounded impressed.
    ‘Fuck me,’ muttered Ben-Roi.
    ‘Not her though.’
    ‘Sorry?’
    ‘Her clothes are all intact and there are no obvious signs of interference below decks.’ He nodded towards the victim’s groin area. ‘Whatever else his motive was, I’d lay pretty good odds it wasn’t sex. Or at least not the way you and I do it.’
    Ben-Roi winced. The thought of Schmelling on the job was almost as distressing as the corpse itself.
    ‘The handkerchief?’ he asked.
    ‘Again, I can’t say