Overkill

    First glance; her throat had been cut, a bloodstained second mouth carved under her chin; up close, opinions changed, sharp blades don’t leave jagged edges, they had to be bite marks.
    She’d been dumped among burnt out cars and fly tipped rubbish in a bleak, South London landfill, her arms and legs splayed like the limbs of a discarded rag doll. Pale skin torn by razor wire; brambles and nettles spattered red, pools of mud diluted dirty pink. Foot and paw prints, where the dog walker had first spotted her.
    The Investigation had identified the last person to see her, a work colleague, who’d walked her to the station and watched her board a late commuter train, they’d both been working overtime; she’d hinted she was saving for something special. The girl had shaken her head sadly and said ‘guess we’ll never know what the something special was’. A steady stream of information flowed from family and friends. The main opinion: attractive, friendly, well-liked, quick to learn, hard working; one compliment followed another, no one had a bad word.
    Detectives and police frowned and nodded knowingly at each other. The Modus Operandi was familiar, this time the body’d been moved, evidence pointed to an accomplice.
    One of the Forensics team rose and brushed mud from the knees of his white coveralls. His face bland and expressionless, he said one word as he opened his scene of crime kit.
    “Exsanguination.” Those around him had heard the word before; knew what he meant, but he explained anyway, “she bled out.” Three words in an emotionless monotone. The man who uttered them protected by mental armour he’d devised against the crimson nightmares that filled his day. His hands performed well-rehearsed, deliberate movements as he pushed against the flesh, and withdrew the brutal spike thermometer that recorded liver temperature.
    “Time of death,” he read the dial and worked it back, “ten, eleven o’clock last night.”