The Body Thief (6 page)

“I don’t know how you do this every winter,”
Rohan said. Choosing another log from the wood heap, he lifted the
ax again. With a crack that sounded like gunfire, he brought the
blade down hard.

“I don’t work as rigorously as you do, son.
I only cut what we need for the night. You’ve been at it for an
hour. No wonder you’ve worked up a sweat.”

“It’s the least I can do after you invited
me to dinner. I can smell Mom’s chicken pot pie from here. With a
serving of her famous mashed potato and fresh garden peas on the
side, I could die a happy man.”

“You need to find yourself a good woman,
Rohan. One who knows how to cook.”

“I’m not sure that kind of woman exists
anymore, Dad. They’re all too busy with their careers to spend time
getting up close and personal with the oven.”

“Yeah, I’m afraid you’re right. I only have
to look at your younger sisters to see that. Where did your mother
and I go wrong?” he asked in mock dismay, shaking his head.

“Lucky Mom insisted on showing us the
basics. At least we can all cook bacon and eggs and I do a mean
barbeque. I have you to thank for that.”

He shot his father a grin and turned back
toward the woodpile. Bringing the ax up over his shoulder, he drove
it once again into the log. This time, it split open and he bent
down and added the pieces to the growing pile.

“A couple more should do it,” his father
commented. “It should see us through to warmer weather. Thanks for
that, son. It’s much appreciated.”

“No problem, Dad. I’m glad I can help out. I
don’t get home as often as I want to. It’s nice to be able to do
something for you and Mom, when I can.”

“Too bad you moved closer to the city. It’s
a fair commute for you to come out to Cronulla now.”

“Yeah, that’s the down side, but I’m so much
closer to work and I spend a hell of a lot more hours there, let me
assure you. Mostly sitting on my ass,” he teased.

“They don’t give officers bravery medals for
sitting around, Rohan.”

Rohan looked at him in surprise.

“It was all over the news.”

“Of course.” Rohan accepted the comment
quietly.

“I saw it on the television. You pulled that
baby out of the car only moments before that tanker blew sky high.
Someone uploaded a video to YouTube. I lost count of the number of
times I watched it. You could have been killed, son.”

Rohan shrugged and ducked his head,
uncomfortable with the praise. He’d done what had to be done. He’d
attended the accident in the course of his job. There was nothing
special about him or his so-called courageous actions in those
circumstances and he couldn’t forget how, despite his mammoth
efforts, the baby’s parents hadn’t survived.

Forcing the sad memory aside, he grimaced,
stood another log on its end and brought the ax down hard. A couple
more swings and the log split in half and the pieces joined the
others in the laden wheelbarrow.

“Did they ever find out what caused the
accident?”

Rohan swallowed a sigh and wearily set the
ax aside. “The tanker driver’s blood alcohol level was well over
the legal limit. He should never have been behind the wheel.
Forty-eight years old, he has a wife and three children. He’ll be
doing some serious time.”

“What happened to the baby?”

“He was put into the care of relatives. I
guess the courts will sort out that one, too.”

Throwing the last two pieces of wood into
the wheelbarrow, Rohan moved to pick up the handles. His dad beat
him to it.

“I’ll do that, Dad. It’s way too heavy for
you.”

“It’s all right, son. I’m as strong as an
ox.” Bill took a moment to set the wheelbarrow down and flexed his
muscles. His long-sleeved flannel shirt rode high, exposing a
generous belly that hung over the top of his jeans.

“Of course you are,” Rohan agreed, “but
you’re not as young as you used to be. There’s no harm in taking it
a little easy, especially since I’m here and can do it for
you.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” his dad
muttered and stepped out of the way. Rohan took his father’s place
in front of the wheelbarrow and pushed it to the back door. Without
being asked, he began unloading it, stacking the wood in a neat
pile against the side of the house.

“I’m worried about your mother,” Bill said,
taking Rohan by surprise.

“Why is that?”

“Her blood pressure’s a little higher than
her doctor wants it to be and she’s got that awful cough. She’s had
it a couple months. If anyone needs to take it easy, it’s her.
Every time I turn around, she’s heading out the door. Between the
charity projects she’s involved in, the bingo and her lawn bowls,
she hardly draws breath.”

“Do you want me to talk to her?”

“Would you?” Bill asked with a grateful
expression on his face. “She’ll listen to you. Whenever I say
anything, she just accuses me of interfering and fussing over her
too much.”

Rohan chuckled. “Well, Dad, I have to agree
with her there. You do tend to hover.”

Bill had the grace to blush. “It’s only
because I care about her, son. She has a few years on me. I don’t
want her leaving before me.”

Rohan’s smile faded and a rush of emotion
tightened his chest. He loved his parents and knew they had
something rare and special. Nearly forty years they’d been together
and they loved each other now, as much as they had when they’d
married. He couldn’t help but hope he’d find a woman whose heart
would remain so true.

“I’m sure Mom’s not planning to die anytime
soon, Dad. She’s almost as fit as me. Is she still jogging around
the esplanade every day?”

“Yes, of course she is. I’d never hear the
end of it if she wasn’t well enough to do that! She says it’s the
highlight of her day. Watching the freighters way out in the ocean
and the people milling around on the shore… Depending on the
season, sometimes she’s even spotted a pod of dolphins.”

“See, there you go! Does that sound like
someone heading toward their grave?” Though Rohan spoke lightly, he
couldn’t help but notice his father’s expression remained
troubled.

“Wintertime is hard on old folks,” Bill
murmured. “The cold seeps into our bones. We get aches and pains
that we don’t even notice in the summer. This cough your mother has
just doesn’t seem to want to go away.”

“When was the last visit to her doctor?”

“Earlier in the month. She was so
breathless, I insisted she go and see him.”

“What did he say?”

“He said she had a bout of bronchitis and
gave her a prescription for some antibiotics. She finished the
course a week ago, but the cough hasn’t eased.”

“Perhaps you ought to take her back? Or
phone for a repeat of the medication?”

“Yeah, I guess so. I just can’t help feeling
there’s more to it. You know what I mean?”

Rohan stared at his dad and his gut slowly
filled with dread. “What are you saying, Dad?”

His father held his gaze for a long moment
and then lowered it and picked up a log. “Nothing, son. Forget I
said anything. I’m sure you’re right. Your mom’s as fit as a
fiddle. She’ll probably outlive me.”

Before Rohan could respond, Bill turned away
and added the split wood to the stacked pile. Wiping his hands on
his jeans, he pulled open the back door. “Let’s wash up for dinner
and then go and enjoy your mother’s pie.”

Rohan stared after his father’s departing
back. All of a sudden, eating pie was the last thing on his
mind.

* * *

Samantha checked the toe tag against the
paperwork in her hand and proceeded to pull the body off the wire
shelf of the fridge where it lay. She rolled it onto the gurney.
The blue plastic sheeting that covered most of what used to be
Natalie Piccoli crackled with the movement. Positioning the body so
that it wouldn’t fall, Sam hurriedly pushed the trolley out of the
fridge.

It was a Saturday and she shouldn’t have
even been working. The fact that she’d been called in put her out
of sorts. She was rostered to work the weekdays, but the usual
pathologists who covered the weekend were both off sick, including
Richard. Staffing had phoned her in desperation, asking if she’d
come in and deal with the backlog of cases. The day was winding
down. Soon it would be dark and she still had another two cases to
go, including Natalie Piccoli.

With a sigh, she wheeled the body to her
usual workstation and quietly and efficiently prepared her tools.
When all was as she liked it, she picked up a scalpel and turned to
make the Y incision. A fresh surgical scar gave her pause.

In the notes Sam had scanned earlier, there
had been no mention that the woman had undergone recent surgery in
the hospital and yet it was obvious she had. Reopening the incision
with her scalpel, she noticed the woman’s ribs had already been
sawn through. Prising open the chest cavity, Sam did a preliminary
search for Natalie’s organs.

Which weren’t there. At least, not all of
them. The heart, lungs, liver, kidneys, intestine and pancreas were
missing.

They’d obviously been donated.
It had
been a few weeks since Sam had autopsied a donor body. When she’d
noticed the evidence of recent abdominal surgery, harvesting of
organs hadn’t immediately come to mind. But now, there was no other
explanation, though it was unusual for someone to donate almost
every organ they had. Most chose to limit their donation to the
heart and the lungs.

According to the report the police had
prepared for the coroner, Natalie Piccoli’s suspected cause of
death was a brain aneurysm. Sam hoped that the doctors who’d
treated the woman were right because there was very little else for
her to examine. Tugging off her gloves, she reached for the
paperwork again.

Flipping through the pages, she searched for
the consent form that was usually signed by the deceased’s next of
kin, giving permission for the organs to be recovered. She couldn’t
find it. Frowning, she went through the pages again, more slowly,
and still she couldn’t locate it.

With an impatient curse, she went through
the paperwork a third time. This time, she loosened the clip that
held all the papers together and went through them individually,
checking both the front and the back. The consent simply had to be
there.

And yet, it wasn’t.

Perplexed, Sam took a moment to flip back to
the start of the notes and looked for the doctor who had signed off
on the death certificate. Her brother’s name and signature were
there in bold black ink:
Doctor Alistair Wolfe
. He’d also
done the organ recovery.

There was no surprise in that. He was the
head of the donation for transplantation team. Much of the organ
recovery surgery was carried out by him. His name had also been on
the paperwork for the donor bodies she’d autopsied the previous
month.

She checked for the letter of authorization
that would have come from the coroner’s office and found it. A
quick scan of its contents showed that Deputy Coroner Richard Davis
had authorized the removal of the donor organs prior to the
autopsy.

Again, there was nothing unusual about that.
Richard must have taken Alistair’s call from the ICU, just prior to
the patient’s death. It had happened before. In fact, she seemed to
recall Richard had also consented to the last donor body she’d
autopsied.

Perhaps the consent form had been misplaced
or simply gone astray somewhere between the hospital and the
morgue? It wasn’t unheard of. Though the morgue workers took care
to ensure nothing was lost in transit, nobody was perfect. It could
have happened.

Satisfied that was the only reasonable
explanation, Sam made a mental note to speak with Richard about it
on Monday morning and let him know that the consent form was
missing. If the relatives of the deceased ever questioned the organ
donation, the consent would become important. Besides, she didn’t
like to think of any paperwork being mislaid.

Swallowing a sigh, she once again set the
paperwork aside and pulled on another pair of latex gloves. If she
didn’t get on with the PM, she’d be there half the night. Working
quickly, she used the scalpel to make the incision, then peeled
back the woman’s face. The Stryker saw made short work of the skull
and a moment later, Natalie Piccoli’s brain was exposed.

It was immediately obvious the woman had
suffered a severe bleed. The dark, clotted blood filled almost half
of the right rear quadrant and left Sam in no doubt as to what had
caused the woman’s death. After taking note of the size and
position of the infarction and recording the weight of the brain,
Sam returned the organ to its original location and fitted the
skull back in place.

Returning to the woman’s chest cavity, Sam
retrieved the few organs that were still present in Natalie’s
abdomen and carefully examined, weighed and returned them to where
they’d come from. With neat stitches, she sutured closed the
woman’s chest and wheeled her back to the fridge where she’d soon
be collected by staff from the appointed funeral home.

Sam cleaned up and headed to the tea room.
Pulling open the door to the staff drinks fridge, she retrieved a
can of Diet Coke. Taking a grateful mouthful, she sat and rested a
moment. Conducting any autopsy was exhausting—both mentally and
physically. It was essential she communicate with the body on the
table and find the answers that had eluded the person’s doctors in
life. If nothing else, it gave closure, and quite often peace of
mind, to the relatives left behind—and to Sam that was
important.

She prided herself on being thorough—and the
fact the consent form hadn’t been with Natalie Piccoli’s other
hospital papers had put her out of sorts. It was an irritation,
like a burr under her skin, that wouldn’t go away and she was
annoyed someone’s carelessness had ruined her Saturday evening. She
just knew she’d be thinking about it all night, probably for the
rest of the weekend.