The Anatomy of Death Read Online Free PDF Page A

unbiased account? We need someone totally neutral on the job.” Shepherd called out to the assistant coroner. “Bright, you’ve conducted autopsies before, haven’t you?”
    “Yes, sir, a fair few, but that was a long time ago, before they changed the regulations.”
    “Sir,” Pike cut in. “Law requires that a medical practitioner conduct—”
    “And the coroner’s office has the legal authority to appoint one.” Shepherd all but sneered. “Bright will find us a medical man, won’t you, Bright?”
    “Dr. Mangini is usually available, sir,” Bright said.
    Pike yanked the cigarette from his mouth. “Mangini? The man’s a soak. Probably only available because no one will employ him!”
    “We don’t have the time to rustle up someone else through the Home Office. I want this off my plate today. Mangini’s a medical practitioner and his rooms are close by; that’s all that counts. We’ll make sure he does the right thing, won’t we, Bright?” Shepherd slapped the assistant coroner on the shoulder.
    Just then Sergeant Walter Fisher, Pike’s assistant, stepped into the frigid basement. “Sorry to disturb you, sirs,” he said, waistcoat buttons straining across his giant belly, bowler hat deferentially twisting in his hand. “I’ve assembled the officers outside your office, Detective Chief Inspector, and they’re waiting for their interviews.” Fisher had a flattened nose and missing front tooth—he’d been a fistfighter in his youth—but he was a gentle giant, and a man Pike was glad to have in his corner.
    Pike hesitated. He wanted to stay for the autopsy, especially now that he knew who was to conduct it.
    “I’ll stay and supervise Mangini, Pike,” Shepherd said with an air of magnanimity. “You’d better get going. Can’t have the men kept waiting indefinitely. Rest assured Bright and I will see the doctor does the right thing.”
    The right thing, Pike mused, the right thing for whom? He didn’t doubt that Shepherd would have conducted the autopsy himself if he thought he could get away with it.
    S ituated on the Embankment, the New Scotland Yard building looked like a cross between a medieval fortress and a French château. The top half of the building was red brick and included a turret overlooking the Thames. The ground-floor walls were made of granite quarried by inmatesof Dartmoor Prison. Rooms of all shapes and sizes were linked by a tangled maze of stairwells and corridors. To avoid putting them to any unnecessary exertion, senior officers were situated at ground level. Many considered this a dubious privilege, for it meant missing out on the views across the Thames from the top floors and the cooling river breezes in summer. Pike, though, appreciated the ground-floor location with its private waiting room and exit, and not only because of his gammy knee. It meant people could enter and leave his office with few of his colleagues being any the wiser. They didn’t understand him or the way he operated, and he was happy to keep it that way.
    Pike gave the cringing constable standing in front of him one last steely look before pointing to the rear door of his office. He didn’t want to give the man any chance of talking with the others in the waiting room. “That way, Excel,” Pike said, handing the man his papers of dismissal. “Collect your pay and arrange the return of your uniforms with the Whitechapel quartermaster.”
    Once the man had gone, Pike stretched his leg out from under his desk. It felt like a block of wood today—in the cold of the autopsy room it had frozen up completely. He rubbed it vigorously for a moment before cautiously pushing himself up from his chair and reaching for his cane. By the time he’d crossed his office, it had loosened up. If time permitted, he would take a long walk this evening to perhaps improve his chances of getting some sleep.
    He stopped at the small window in the wall dividing his office from the waiting room, drew the curtain,