Sin & Penitence

Roy reached into his hip pocket and pulled out a pair of blue rubber gloves. The common thin rubber surgical kind you normally see but minus the powder, perfect for police and forensic work. Carefully, he lifted the plastic bag. Burtman felt sick, not because the image was particularly gruesome, certainly not for a seasoned homicide investigator. In cold, clinical, investigative terms, it was simply a severed human hand, perfectly intact. It had been severed about one to two inches up the wrist. The edge appeared fairly clean which was consistent with a very sharp blade, possibly with a serrated edge. More likely removed with a sawing motion as opposed to a hacking technique, but that was just a guess, The forensic examination should prove more conclusive. Other than a few small nicks, some cracked and broken fingernails and the presence of some insect activity, the artefact appeared fairly fresh. No, it was not the image that disturbed Burtman, it was the fact that the appendage, face down, thumb to the right, appeared to be the left hand of a human female, consistent with that of a young woman, given the small size, slender fingers and bits of nail polish. Burtman’s heart sank. Cops rely heavily on their intuition. It helps keep them safe, engaged and effective in their job. They learn to rely on their 'gut feeling'. It isn’t always right but it rarely leads them astray. Burtman’s intuition was in overdrive. His investigator’s instinct was tingling to beat the band. He was almost sure. In fact, he was willing to bet this week’s paycheck on it. This was the left hand of Sarah Connelly. Was the rest of her somewhere in those bushes? It was not for him to determine. Forensics would be here soon. Burtman played various scenarios in his mind looking for some valid reason he could forgo standard procedure and search the woods himself, right now, for Sarah’s body. A severed hand doesn’t necessarily mean the person is dead. She could be laying in there somewhere in dire need of medical attention. That’s pretty thin, not a likely scenario. Boy, he needed that drink. IDENT and the forensics team arrived at the scene and began their ballet. Both units work in harmony and both approach each scene in a very methodical and deliberate manner. A series of specific tasks performed with specific procedures in a specific sequence, designed to be both effective and unchallengeable in a court of law. It is almost graceful to watch, but to experienced homicide officers, kind of boring. They get to stand around drinking coffee and kicking at the dirt, painfully waiting to see if the evidence turns up the clues they need to solve the case. Burtman was in agony. He knew they couldn’t just cut to the chase and take a fingerprint from the hand and run it through the system, or better yet, just call up Sarah’s prints and see if they matched. All of this would take place, eventually but he was thinking about forensic step number 58, and the team was still working on step 7. First, a cursory search of the general area in the unlikely event someone was there. Negative. A closer, more thorough search would be conducted later, but it was clear no body was visible. Could there be a burial site? More body parts? Possibly. Time and procedure would soon tell. The hand was carefully photographed where it lay. Even though it had been removed from its initial resting place by Buster, the protocols of forensics were still followed. This is where it was when police were informed; this is where it stays until procedure has been met. Photographs, video too, were taken of the general area and the scene. A detailed statement was obtained from the rattled Mr. Jacobson. Lunch with mom didn’t matter anymore. He wasn’t hungry. Martel stayed on site while Burtman suggested he accompany one of the forensic agents back to the coroner’s office, where he would present the find to the morgue attendant and transfer continuity over to the facility. Continuity is extremely important in police work, especially homicides. How evidence is handled throughout the investigation can be as important as the evidence itself. In years to come, O.J. would teach us a lot more than just football. The drive to the coroner’s office was a short one, about 15 blocks. The forensic agent waxed on about how his wife has been driving him crazy trying to find wallpaper for the bathroom that matched the new floor tiles. With a feeble attempt at black humour, the agent pondered aloud whether the recent find would be able to “lend a hand”. It was meant to perhaps break the ice a little, as Burtman appeared distant and cold. Needless to say, the attempt was mired in failure as was evident on the face of the detective. Burtman was not amused. He had forgotten that in the right circumstance, he might toss out a similar remark himself. He looked coldly at the agent and found that he had to restrain himself from lashing out either verbally or physically. This whole thing could be his fault. He had to remind himself that there was no proof yet of anything. In fact, logic suggested the odds were largely against this find being related to the blue folder on his desk. Yet somehow, he knew it was her. Instinct. The forensic van pulled into the garage at the coroner’s office. Coroner and Forensic Unit vehicles are purchased the same way police vehicles are, by the lowest tender. This van was as stark as they come. A plain white cargo van, no tinted windows, no air conditioning, not even a radio with the exception of the aftermarket, 2 way communications radio installed in all agency vehicles. A Plain Jane ride if ever there was one. The agent parked in a standard parking stall rather than backing up to the loading door. No need for that this trip. No carcass to unload, just the small package, neatly wrapped in the small beverage cooler routinely used by the department for tissue samples, body parts and the occasional stillborn. There were no further discussions between Burtman and the agent. His “lend a hand” comment, meant to break the ice, had apparently frozen any further chance of interaction between the two. Burtman didn’t know the agent’s name and didn’t want to. He just wanted to move on to forensic step number 58 and see if his intuition bore any fruit. He hoped, even prayed he was wrong, but deep down, that seemed unlikely They were greeted by the morgue attendant, a ghoulish looking little fellow by the name of William Foxtrot. He was a short, pencil thin man in his mid-thirties. With his sunken eyes and hollow cheeks, he looked the part of a morgue attendant or maybe even one of the cadavers. Not ugly really, just spooky! He was tailor- made to be the butt of an endless supply of jokes, all of which he took quite gracefully and in good stride, seemingly enjoying the ribbing. It made him feel like part of the team. It was good-natured and all in good fun. Good ‘ol Willy was well liked. His name didn’t help matters much. Calls of, “Hey, Willy Foxtrot, (bet he won’t),” or “Hey Will, you should have business cards made up that say, Have Dancing Shoes, Will Foxtrot”, would ring out through the halls of the coroner’s office almost daily and each time, William would laugh as if it were the first time he had ever heard it. A class act, that William.