Blackstone and the Wolf of Wall Street (24 page)

‘So, now that we're all here, what shall we do first?' Ellie asked the students.

One of them raised his hand tentatively in the air.

‘Yes?' Ellie said.

‘The first thing that we should do, ma'am, is make a chest incision,' he suggested.

Ellie reached on to the trolley, took hold of a scalpel, and held it up under the brilliant white light for all the students to see.

‘Does everyone agree that should be our first step?' she asked.

The students nodded enthusiastically.

Ellie returned the scalpel to the trolley.

‘Say you were going to cut up some cloth to make curtains,' Ellie began. She paused. ‘Sorry, that analogy wouldn't work for you, would it? I forgot for a moment that even though this university has an admissions policy which – in theory – puts men and women on an equal footing, there are, in fact, no women present.' She looked around, as if to confirm the truth of her statement. ‘All right, then, let's try something else. Say you were going to build yourself a chest of drawers – would you start cutting the wood before you'd taken your measurements and studied the grain?'

Even from the gallery, it was possible to sense the students' feeling of bemusement, and when someone chuckled, Blackstone was slightly surprised to discover that that someone was him.

‘None of you has
ever
built a chest of drawers, have you?' Ellie enquired.

The students shook their heads.

‘Of course not,' Ellie said heavily. ‘Coming from the background you
have
come from, you've never felt the need to. In fact, even though you may end up as surgeons, the chances are that you've probably never really done
anything
with your hands – not even make an omelette.'

The students looked down at the ground and shuffled their feet.

‘But don't despair, gentlemen,' Ellie continued, in a much lighter tone. ‘Everyone has to start somewhere. Even I – though you might find this hard to believe – was not
born
a doctor. And between now and the time that you mount the podium to be awarded your shiny new certificate under the eyes of your proud parents, you will have ample opportunity to learn.' She paused for a second. ‘So, to return to my initial question, what's the first thing we should do?'

‘We should study the cadaver in its current state,' said one of the students, who'd latched on to her line of thinking.

‘We should study its current state,' Ellie agreed. ‘This cadaver is as new to me as it is to you – I promise you, I haven't even taken a peek at it – and we'll
all
be looking at it with fresh eyes. The one thing I
can
tell you is that it was found hanging from a tree – so let's see if we can work out how the man died.'

Several of the students laughed, but when they saw the look in their instructor's eyes, the laughter quickly died away.

Ellie Carr stripped back the sheet.

‘Take your time,' she said.

Almost immediately, the student who thought that he'd already got the measure of her said, ‘Asphyxiation.'

Ellie covered the cadaver with the sheet again.

‘What's your name?' she demanded.

‘Jackson,' the student said, with less certainty now. ‘Andrew Jackson. I was named after the president.'

‘Which would seem to suggest that your parents had high hopes for you – at least when you were younger,' Ellie Carr mused. ‘So you think he died of asphyxiation, do you, Mr Jackson?'

‘Yes, ma'am, I do.'

‘And you don't think the gunshot wound to his stomach had anything to do with his death?'

‘The . . . the gunshot wound,' Jackson stammered. ‘I didn't see any gunshot wound.'

‘Didn't see a gunshot wound!' Ellie scoffed. ‘And you call yourself a medical student!'

She stripped off the sheet again.

‘There
is
no gunshot wound!' Jackson protested.

‘No, there isn't,' Ellie Carr agreed. ‘But when I said there was, you couldn't tell me there wasn't – because
you
hadn't looked.'

‘Is she always as formidable as this?' Meade asked Blackstone.

‘This is nothing,' Blackstone told him, and realized he was sounding quite proud of Ellie. ‘She's very much the new girl here, and probably hasn't quite found her feet yet. So she's taking things carefully – holding back a little.'

‘Jesus, in that case, I'd hate to meet her when she has a full head of steam,' Meade said.

‘No, you wouldn't,' Blackstone countered. ‘You'd find her fascinating.'

And
I
find her fascinating, he thought. I find her
much more
than that.

But he was still not sure how to come to terms with the fact that she was actually in New York.

Ellie glanced down at the corpse's face and neck.

‘
Was
it asphyxiation, Mr Jackson?' she asked.

‘I . . . I don't know, ma'am.'

‘Then take a closer look – and this time, please don't rush it.'

The student bent over the body, and examined it for a full two minutes.

‘I'd like to look at the eyes if I may, ma'am,' he said.

‘Be my guest,' Ellie replied.

Jackson pulled back the eyelids, and peered at the dead eyes.

‘He died from occlusion of the blood vessels, leading to cerebral oedema followed by cerebral ischaemia,' he pronounced.

‘And what leads you to that particular conclusion?'

‘There's evidence of petechiae – little bloodmarks – on the face. And also in the eyes.'

‘There you are, Mr Jackson, you see just how good you
can
be when you let your mind – rather than your mouth – do your thinking for you?' Ellie asked.

For a moment, Jackson was unsure whether to take it as an insult or a compliment.

‘It's a compliment,' Ellie said, reading his mind.

‘Thank you, ma'am.'

‘Now I've been nice to you – and you're pleased with yourself – and it's time to move on,' Ellie said. ‘What caused the occlusions that you've so correctly noted?'

‘The rope,' Jackson said.

‘You're doing it again,' Ellie warned. ‘Never
assume
anything, Mr Jackson. Study the neck carefully.'

‘Am I wrong, ma'am?'

‘I don't know,' Ellie said, deliberately looking away from the cadaver. ‘
You
tell
me
.'

Jackson leant over the body again. ‘The bruising is in the form of a continuous band, which is certainly consistent with the ligature marks common in most hangings,' he said carefully.

‘Good,' Ellie said, continuing to stare into space.

‘But . . .' Jackson said tentatively.

‘But what?'

‘When you look closely, you can see that the pattern isn't as regular as it might be. There are some slight protuberances in it. And there's some bruising which is not part of the pattern at all.'

Ellie swung round, abandoning all show of indifference.

‘Show me!' she said.

Jackson pointed out the bruising.

‘Check on his hyoid bone,' Ellie ordered.

Jackson placed two of his fingers on the cadaver's neck, just below the chin.

‘Not like that!' Ellie snapped. ‘You're not stroking a kitten, for Christ's sake – you're checking for damage.'

Applying more pressure, Jackson ran his fingers up and down the bone.

‘I think it's broken,' he said.

Ellie did not
quite
push him out of the way, but she came pretty close to it, and, once she was in position, she ran her own fingers over the bone in the same way as Jackson had done – though with a great deal more assurance and expertise.

‘I think you're right,' she said. ‘I think it
is
broken. And what does that tell us, Mr Jackson?'

‘It tells us that . . . that he didn't die from being hanged.'

‘Try again,' Ellie said severely.

‘It tells us that, although the hanging may have been what actually
killed
him, there'd been some manual strangulation
before
he was strung up.'

‘And since it would have been impossible for him to strangle himself – and unlikely that he'd have been in any position to hang himself once he
had
been strangled by someone else – I think we can rule out suicide,' Ellie said. ‘What we have here, gentlemen, is a murder victim.'

‘
Are you sure that's what he said?
' Blackstone had demanded of the snitch, after the man had told him about Jake's boast in the saloon. ‘
That they had to kill
three
men?
'

‘
I'm sure – 'cos while he was speakin', he held up three fingers
,' the snitch had replied.

‘I think we've just found out who Jake and Bob's third victim was,' Blackstone said to Meade.

‘Yeah – ain't that a bitch,' Meade replied.

TWENTY-ONE

T
he first meal that Blackstone and Meade had ever eaten together had been at Delmonico's on Beaver Street. Alex had claimed at the time – and on matters New York, Alex was invariably right – that not only was it the oldest restaurant in the city, but that some of the marble pillars which supported the entrance had been especially shipped out from the ruins of the ancient Roman city of Pompeii.

It had been Alex who'd paid for the meal on that occasion – which was just as well, since Blackstone's salary would have been all but eaten up by the cover charge – and it was Alex who insisted on treating Blackstone and Ellie to another Delmonico's meal after the autopsy.

‘I thought you were magnificent this afternoon, Dr Carr, and you should regard this meal as nothing more than a modest repayment for your having allowed me to watch you work,' he said smoothly, as they sipped their welcome cocktail.

‘Gawd, love-a-duck, if that's why yer doin' it, then I'm 'ere under false pretences, 'cos I din't know nuffink bart yer being in the gallery,' Ellie replied, in her broadest cockney.

Meade looked mystified. ‘I beg your pardon?' he said.

‘She goes off like that sometimes,' Blackstone told him. ‘Just ignore her.'

‘No, really, I couldn't,' Alex Meade protested. ‘If I've offended you in any way, Dr Carr . . .'

‘You haven't offended me at all,' Ellie interrupted. ‘But honestly, Alex – “Regard this meal as nothing more than a modest repayment for allowing me to watch you work”? You sounded like you'd just stepped out of the pages of a badly written novel – and I just couldn't resist taking the mickey.'

Meade smiled sheepishly. ‘Actually, I sounded more as if I'd just stepped out of a New York high society gathering,' he said. ‘I suppose I was trying to impress you.'

‘You've no need to try,' Ellie responded. ‘If you're good enough for Sam Blackstone – as you clearly are – then you're good enough for me.'

She fell into a sudden silence, the expression on her face saying she thought she'd said too much – that she'd inadvertently revealed more of herself than she might have wished to.

‘I've been puzzling over Fanshawe's murder, and something about it doesn't quite add up,' Meade said, coming to the rescue with a change of subject.

‘You're thinking of the timing,' Blackstone said.

‘I am,' Meade agreed. ‘If the kidnappers had always intended for him to die, then why didn't they tell Mad Bob and Snake to do it during the actual kidnapping itself? That would surely have been easier – and safer – than having them spirit Holt away and then come back – when the police had already arrived – to finish Fanshawe off.'

‘And why did they try to make it look like suicide?' Blackstone added. ‘They already had the blood of the two Pinkerton men on their hands – why not just slit his throat, too?'

Ellie laughed.

‘What's so funny?' Meade asked.

‘I assist half a dozen inspectors from the Yard nowadays,' Ellie said, ‘and almost all the cases I've worked on have been so simple that an intelligent dormouse could have cracked them. A man murders his wife, one business partner kills another, and they leave behind them a trail of forensic evidence wide enough to drive a coach and four along. But somehow, when Sam's involved, it's never simple. He's like . . . he's like the iron filings of detective work, constantly being pulled towards the magnet of complexity.' She grinned. ‘It's quite clever, that – I must remember it, so I can use it again. And next time, of course, it will be much more polished, so everyone will think I'm brilliant.'

‘A lot of people
already
think you're brilliant – almost as many as think you can be real pain in the arse,' Blackstone said drily.

Ellie laughed again. ‘You see, Alex,' she said. ‘
That's
how you should talk to a woman.' She stood up. ‘And now, if you'll excuse me, I must follow a biological imperative.'