Human Frailty, a Detective Mike Bridger novel (11 page)

He could theoretically put the call out for
assistance from off duty detectives, but he could not see any
reason to suspect foul play. He could imagine the grief he would
get from his colleagues about not being able to handle a simple
suicide on his own, recently promoted Detective Sergeant or
not.

He ran over what he had done and what he had
left to do in his mind, trying to formulate at least a loose plan
of action. As the post-mortem would not be undertaken until
tomorrow, pathologists working gentleman's hours, the most pressing
question now was, who was this girl?.

Every enquiry needs a name. Every corpse
needed identification. It is the first step to finding answers.

One name that was sitting in the back of his
mind, and there was one enquiry Bridger knew he should be doing
first, but he was not looking forward to the awkward questions he
would have to ask and would have to answer.

He started the car and drove reluctantly
towards Mrs. Watson's house.

Pulling up outside the address Bridger saw a
newish looking dark colored BMW pulling away from the curb, the
driver turning his face away as he drove by, vaguely familiar.

Looking back towards the house, he was
surprised to see Mrs. Watson standing in the doorway. She must be
constantly looking out the window, he thought. Then she would be
waiting for her daughter to turn up.

He had hoped that she would turn up as
well; even going as far as reassuring Mrs. Watson yesterday that
she would, but the morning
’
s developments had most probably made a lie
out of those reassurances.

"You've found her
haven
’
t you
Sergeant", there were tears in her eyes already.

She did not seem surprised when he told her
of the young woman that they found at Lawyers Head earlier that
morning.

"Where is she now Sergeant? I have to
see her, to see for myself. She would not do that to herself, she
was not that type…. Why would she jump off a
cliff?
”

Mrs. Watson was starting to become agitated
as Bridger gently led her to his car. Dressed in a thick woolen
cardigan, and floral print skirt, Mrs. Watson reminded Bridger of
his mother, all dressed up in her Sunday best. The woolen cardigan
was almost a uniform for women of her age.

His heart went out to her; he hated this
part of his job. He hated telling someone that the person who was
close to him or her was not going to be at the dinner table that
evening. It was even worse when he could not tell them why.

He told her that they had not confirmed it
was Marion, but the circumstances certainly pointed that way so it
was best that she prepared. It was no comfort to Mrs. Watson.

Starting the car, Shane Carter's voice sang
through the stereo, 'Bad Note for a Heart'. Hearing this Bridger
quickly skipped to the next track, which unfortunately turned out
to be 'Missing Presumed Drowned'. Banging the off button on the
stereo, he hoped Mrs. Watson had not noticed his taste in music. He
made a mental note to change the Straightjacket Fits CD as soon as
possible.

Mrs. Watson had sat in a nervous silence as
they drove towards the hospital, fidgeting slightly with the hem of
her Cardigan. An orderly dressed in a blue smock and trousers met
them at the door and then led them into the bowels of the building
where the deceased ended up prior to post-mortem procedures. It is
a surprisingly well-lit, modern facility with rooms for visiting
the deceased. It was not at all; as you would expect a morgue to
look like.

The former city morgue was located in the
old Hercus Building next door, which was well before Bridger's
time. He had heard it was a maze of small gloomy rooms and
corridors. Dark places that held many secrets. It had looked and
felt like a place of the dead. Now after a recent refurbishment it
was a state of the art teaching and research facility with the
Otago university medical school.

"She's through here", the orderly told them,
"But you will have to prepare yourself, she won't look like the
person you remember". The orderly looked at Bridger as if to say,
should you really be doing this.

Bridger just stared back at him, willing him
to get on with it.

"There was a lot of damage done to her
cranial and facial region", the orderly continued. "There was also
a lot of damage to her skeletal structure so we would be unable to
tell how tall or what build she was without the
post-mortem
”
.

"Thank you", Bridger said, cutting him off
midstream. Mrs. Watson did not need to hear any more about her
daughter as she was about to see for herself what a one hundred
foot fall could do to a human body.

Bridger thought the orderly must be a
moonlighting medical student, with the terms he was using, or maybe
he was just more observant than most, mimicking the doctors and
with a bit of Walter Mitty about him. He remembered that the
fictional Mitty had imagined himself, amongst other things, an
emergency room surgeon.

"It could be her, I just don't know,
she looks so
…,
so dead", Mrs. Watson was crying. She had not touched the
cold pale body lying on the gurney before them.

Bridger was thinking he should be doing more
to offer comfort to her, but could not think how. The girl he saw
before him did not even look human, let alone like someone's
daughter. The facial injuries were more severe than he had been
able to see from his vantage point back on the cliff edge. The
hollow concave area of her skull making her face look like a
hideous Halloween mask. The mortuary attendants had done what they
could, but it would never be enough for a family member to look
at.

Maybe this had not been a very good idea, he
thought.

Mrs. Watson was struggling to get her
glasses off in an attempt to blur the image laid out in front of
her. Bridger knew from experience that the image would sear itself
into her memory for a long while to come, glasses or no glasses. A
person recently deceased from an accident involving injury very
rarely looked at peace.

"As hard as this is Mrs. Watson, can you
think of anything that might identify Marion, a birthmark, a scar
perhaps"?

"No Sergeant, she had nothing like that, I
could not even tell you if she had a tattoo, she was such a private
person lately, even when she lived at home. I have not seen her
anywhere near undressed recently to even tell you what her body
shape was. She was always going on about her weight, I was always
telling her she looked fine, but she insisted on telling me
otherwise and covering up with baggy clothes". Her voice cracked as
she broke down, her tears turned to hopeless anguish. She clutched
at Bridger as he maneuvered her out of the room and into the
hallway.

"I'm sorry you had to go through that Mrs.
Watson". Bridger was crouching next to her while she was sitting on
a soft covered seat. He had fetched a small cup of milky tea from
the machine down the corridor and he handed this to her gently.
"There are a few more bits of information I need that may be able
to help us".

"I don't know what more I can do Sergeant; I
don't even recognize my own daughter. Do you know how distressing
that is?"

"I can't imagine how you are feeling Mrs.
Watson, I am really sorry to ask this, but can you give me the name
of her dentist, they may be able to provide dental records to
compare". A long shot, Bridger was thinking, remembering the
severely damaged face and mouth.

"Maybe you could also provide us with
something of Marion's we could get some DNA off of; in case we need
to compare it".

Mrs. Watson looked shocked at the
suggestion. "I don't know about that Sergeant, DNA just sounds so
intrusive. Don't you think she has been through enough"?

Bridger explained that the procedure was
routine and would only involve taking a swab or a small amount of
blood, which seemed to placate her. She would not like to think too
much about the post-mortem which would follow, that was a much more
intrusive procedure. There was no dignity in death with your
insides on the outside for all to see.

"Okay Sergeant, I need to know if this
really is my daughter here in this frigid place. I know it seems
crazy after seeing her in there like that, but I do not think its
Marion. I still think she is out there; she needs me to find
her
…
, to
keep her safe
….
I'll do whatever you need me to".

"Just a hair brush or toothbrush, something
like that will do", Bridger told her.

"You might have to go to her flat for that,
I don't think I have anything of hers at home, except a few
pictures".

"If it comes to it would you be willing to
supply us with a sample of your DNA, a familial sample is almost as
good".

"If I have to Sergeant, but I would rather
not".

"Okay Mrs. Watson, I will go and have
a look in the flat first, in the meantime let
’
s take you home". A positive
ID would have to wait.

He had taken her to the place he had chosen,
she was safe from prying eyes. It was hard work, to manhandle her
to where she now was. Her unconscious body had the weight of the
dead. He did not think anyone would find her before he could carry
out the next part, before he would cast the next aspiring actor in
the macabre drama he had planned, before that person would join her
in the encore to the play he had been audience to long ago.

The difference now, he thought, was that
instead of sitting helplessly in the audience waiting for whatever
the director decided past for modern entertainment, he now wrote
the script and only he determined the ending. He had slept like a
newborn baby last night; his mind was at peace with what he had
done. She would thank him in the end; he had given her a chance of
redemption. The scene had been set.

He just hoped the next piece of his plan
went as smoothly. It had been easy taking her, she came willingly,
after she was rendered unconscious, screened from view by the many
trees that surrounded them. Who knew that the fumes of liquid Ether
would do that to a person so quickly? He had held her tightly for
less than five seconds before she went limp, no fight left in her.
A few drops on the cloth were all it took. The dopey student at the
lab had told him not to use too much, and not too often.

From the moment he had seen her, he knew she
was mother. She was back to give him another chance at life. He had
been watching her for months now, making sure he was right. More
and more he became convinced. She had very similar mannerisms to
mother; she had a shy smile that he saw mother use on a very rare
occasion. She would look at you with a faraway expression as if she
was not really seeing you, but caught in some inner turmoil.

It was easy to keep track of her; she was
always at that boys place in the Leith Valley. Mat was his name; he
had heard her speak the name at one time or another. She always
walked the same way home from Mats place, a creature of habit. She
always cut through the forested area beside the gardens on her way
back towards George Street. It was a pleasant environment to calm
the nerves and relax the mind. A pleasant environment for him to do
what he needed to, people would not see him here.

However, that was then and this was now, now
he was driving towards the meeting place he had arranged with his
next acquisition. He would not be so lucky with his next target he
was sure. That would require more cunning on his behalf. Father was
dead, he knew that, but someone needed to stand in for him.

He had said his name was Ben and had been
waiting for this opportunity for a while. He had practically jumped
at the chance of meeting him. A simple add placed on an Internet
chat room, 'Actor required for unusual role, experience not
necessary', had elicited over twenty responses. It had only taken a
few questions of the applicants to narrow it down to Ben.

He was the right age, right ethnic group,
hair colour similar, close enough.

When asked, he had said he lived estranged
from his family, having had a rough upbringing. Maybe this would
help Ben with his issues as well.

It does not matter really, he thought.
It
is
not
about him, it
is
about me.

Why Ben thought that meeting at the Botanic
Gardens was not a little strange, who knew, but it certainly made
it easier for what he had in store.

Ben had the part already and he did not even
know it.

It had been Nine o'clock the previous night
when Bridger had finally arrived home. Laura had been in bed
already, and was in a deep sleep, not even stirring when he had
checked on her. With no dinner that he could find left out for him,
Bridger had made do with a couple of Jamesons with just a drop of
water this time. If anything, it had helped him sleep. Restless
dreams and a stitch of guilt waking him before 6:00 am to find
Laura had already risen; he could hear her in the shower. Closing
his eyes for a second he woke with a start as the front door banged
shut. His eyes shot to the clock on the bedside table, his heart
skipped a beat as his eyes registered the display that read 7:45am.
He must have fallen asleep again. "Shit, shit, shit" he yelled into
his pillow. It would be not a very good look for his first morning
as Detective Sergeant, rolling in late.