Page 50 of No Safe Place
Thursday | Morning
Field
The sun was already burning hot in the sky.
Field waited outside the crime scene tent, arms folded, scanning the houses on either side of the street. Despite the hot August morning, the curtains in every upstairs room were drawn, windows closed.
The blood on the road had dried a deep rust colour, the ground littered with sterile packaging and medical gauze.
David Moore attacked in the early hours of Wednesday morning.
Less than twenty-four hours later, another stabbing. A murder.
‘All right, ready.’ Young’s voice carried from inside the tent.
Field took a breath and stepped inside.
It was stiflingly hot, the air thick with the scent of blood.
Young hadn’t worked a murder on-scene for years – there was too much demand for her elsewhere. But she’d seenDavid’s injuries up close, so her examination of Sam was a shortcut to a comparison.
Sam’s clothes had been cut away, still pinned under her body. The paramedics had left the breathing apparatus in; the packing material was still in the wound to her throat. Young was kneeling by her midriff, knees resting on a stepping plate.
There was hardly room to move, and Field trod carefully as she took up the same position on Sam’s other side.
Young sat back on her heels. No preamble. ‘Wounds to both legs, as well as her arms and torso. Seven total, so a comparable number to the attack on David Moore.’
Field leaned closer to look at the wounds to her side. They were much closer together than David’s had been.
Young followed her gaze. ‘Bruising has formed here.’ She picked up a torch and shone it onto the skin, revealing a reddish tone. ‘That will be from the handle of the knife hitting the flesh. We should be able to get an idea of the blade’s length from that wound, specifically.’
Field looked at the woman’s face. Even with all the tubes and the blood, Field could tell Sam had been pretty – and she looked younger than thirty-two. She had light silvery-lilac hair, and a few small tattoos on her arms. Her skin was grey and waxy, with a sheen to it that could be mistaken for sweat.
Field tried to look at the slim frame on the ground as evidence, rather than a human being. Only for now, while she needed objectivity.
‘It can’t be a coincidence,’ Field said. ‘I mean – look at the state he’s left her in.’
Young gently moved a lock of Sam’s hair, looking closer at her neck. ‘This wound to her throat will be the cause of death. From what I can see it looks like a similar, if not identical, weapon to the attack on David Moore. Similar wound pattern, too.
‘First wound below the ribs, on the right-hand side. Then a wound to the right of the neck. But Sam wasn’t as lucky as David – this wasn’t a glancing blow.’
Field’s forensic suit rustled as she dabbed at the sweat on her forehead. ‘If he’d called the ambulance earlier, do you think she might have made it?’
‘I don’t think so,’ Young said. ‘That kind of injury, it’s not something they could have got to outside of an operating theatre.’
A grim thought occurred to Field. Could David and Sam have been dating? There was a big age gap – but then his wife was younger.
‘One point you may find interesting,’ Young said, straightening up. ‘Her face.’
Field frowned. There were a few tiny drops of blood on her cheeks, but no wounds to the face.
‘Have a look at this.’ Young pointed to Sam’s hairline with a gloved finger.
On closer inspection, the skin at the edges of Sam’s face was heavily scarred. Small but deep pockmarks, and raised bumps in some places. Field frowned. ‘Chicken pox?’
‘I don’t think so. I know you haven’t had her notes through yet, but I think Sam might have historically had a condition called dermatillomania. Skin picking disorder,’ Young added, for Field’s benefit.
Field already had Moore’s paper bookmarked in her emails, and she had it up on her phone in a few swipes. She scrolled to the participants list and read aloud. ‘Patient B. Hospitalised at fifteen years old with severe—’ she stumbled trying to pronounce the word ‘—derm-a-till-o-mania. Brackets – excoriation disorder.’
