Oh Danny Boy (Molly Murphy Mysteries, #5)

“All right.” She nodded briskly. I gave a sigh of relief as she pushed open the front doors and went inside. Anything to buy a few more minutes. I even eyed the path back to the main gate. Crisply starched nurses were hurrying in pairs, patients were being pushed in wheelchairs with rugs over their knees, although the day was hot. I could just melt among them, get out, and go home. Sabella Goodwin didn’t even know where I lived. I firmly dismissed the little voice whispering in my head. I had always despised weak women. I was not about to become one of them.

I turned back as Sabella Goodwin pushed open the door. “It’s all right. They’ve gone,” she said. “I showed my police badge to the clerk and asked if my fellow officers were still here. He was clearly surprised and told me I’d just missed them, but the doctor was about to do the autopsy if I wanted to go in. So we’ve been given permission. Come on. Let’s go.”

“Excellent,” I managed to say, and followed her into the gloomy interior.

There was an overwhelming smell pervading the place, sweet and cloying to the nostrils. It wasn’t the usual hospital smell, that mixture of strong disinfectant and death. I learned later that it was formaldehyde, in which body parts were preserved. My stomach lurched alarmingly. I reached for a handkerchief and put it to my nose.

“It’s not very pleasant, is it?” Mrs. Goodwin agreed, but she didn’t seem unduly distressed. In fact, she pushed open the swing doors with great confidence. I followed. We found ourselves in a big, well-lit room, dominated by three marble-topped tables. On one of them something lay, covered with a white sheet. I was so glad that the body was not fully exposed that I gave a sigh of relief. The doctor appeared from a side room, washing his hands. He was a jolly-looking man with big mustaches and a red face.

“Who have we here?” he asked. “This is the autopsy room, I’m afraid. You’ve taken a wrong turn.”

“No, we came to find you,” Mrs. Goodwin said. She produced the badge again. “Sabella Goodwin, New York Police. I understand my colleagues have already been here this morning; but I’m also investigating this case, and I wanted to take a look for myself. This is my assistant, Miss Murphy.”

“A woman police officer; now I’ve seen everything,” the doctor said.

“They even have women doctors, so I’m told,” she said sweetly.

“Quite right.” He chuckled. “And some of them do a damned fine job. I’m Dr. Hartman. Now, what can I do for you, Mrs. Goodwin?”

“The body that was brought in today. We’d like to take a look. I understand you haven’t done an autopsy yet?”

“No, only the most preliminary of findings,” Dr. Hartman said. “Cause of death strangulation and then trauma to the face with a blunt instrument as an afterthought.”

“But she lived through all this,” Mrs. Goodwin said. “She was alive when she was found.”

“So I heard. Died as she was being admitted to the hospital.”

“And that was here?” I asked, not remembering to keep quiet and let the police officer do the talking.

He shook his head. “No, that would have been Saint Vincent’s. Closest hospital to where she was found.”

“So you don’t know if she said anything before she died?” I asked.

“I’m afraid my job is to cut up the bodies after they’re dead. My patients rarely speak to me.” He gave a macabre grin. “You’d like to see the body? I’ll keep the face covered. Not a pretty sight and it won’t help you in your investigation. Not even recognizable as a face anymore, just a bloody mess. Whoever did it did a very thorough job.”

He pulled back the sheet.

“She hasn’t been here long. As you can see, we haven’t even got her cleaned up and prepped yet. Your fellow officers wanted to make a full note of her clothing and measurements to see if she matches any of your Bertillon records.”

“Bertillon? What is that?” I blurted out before I remembered that I was supposed to be attached to a police officer myself.

Mrs. Goodwin turned back to me. “It’s a system of identification based on a set of standard measurements. It’s fairly new and proving to be very useful. We take photographs and measurements when we book a criminal, and those cards are kept on file. Every person has a unique set of measurements. So if she has ever been arrested before, we’re likely to have her on file.”

As she talked I was staring at what I could see of the body. She was still wearing a tawdry blue satin skirt, which was slit all the way to the knee on one side, and above it a black-boned corset, liberally decorated with black lace. The sheet still lay over her face, exposing a swollen neck discolored with black-and-yellow bruising. I swallowed hard, repulsed, yet fascinated, by what I saw. Such a frail little thing. Dark curls escaped from below the sheet, lying over one white shoulder. A slim hand lay at her side. I stared at that hand and then shook my head.

“There’s something strange here,” I said.

They both looked at me. “Look at her hand,” I said. “Her fingernails are so clean. And you say you haven’t washed her yet. She doesn’t smell.”