signature at the bottom — firmly of the opinion that the latter were brutal and inhumane. He really went to town on this point, expressing himself with fluency and passion, and then returned to the matter in hand, i.e. the human body he’d found, reverting to a flat, pragmatic prose.
He described tersely how he’d taken photos of the body before lifting and transporting it in the wheelbarrow. He’d walked out of the forest on what he referred to as ‘the shortcut’, wheeling the body down the wide, stony, dry bed of the Orongorongo River to the coast. I’d once done the reverse tramp from the coast road into the forest along that rocky riverbed as far as the campers’ picnic spot, and it had been neither easy nor short. Presumably Scott had been some way further in than the picnic area if he was laying poison traps. It would be quite a feat pushing a laden wheelbarrow over stones for that distance, and I was starting to look forward to meeting this guy.
I slid out the only other document, a one-page police report giving details of the body’s arrival at Wainuiomata Police Station. Robbie had made a note that he’d given the ranger a receipt for thewheelbarrow and a promise to return it once the body had been ‘relocated’. Robbie’s delicately looped signature at the bottom of the page reminded me I’d agreed to the date with him and his mate. Sometime soon I’d have to think about which single girlfriend I could ask to be the double part of the date. Robbie’s mate was, without doubt, a cop, because cops don’t have any other friends. That goes with the job.
I scribbled a note for Damian my dog-walker, letting him know I hadn’t taken Wolf out this morning. I suggested a good long lope would do him good. Wolf, that is. Damian lives a couple of doors down and the deal is he walks Wolf every day whether I’ve already taken him or not, but he appreciates a heads-up as to whether Wolf’s priority is exercise or company on any given day. Wolf whined and drooped his ears but it was a half-hearted performance, and since I knew Damian would be taking him out with a bunch of other dogs within the hour I didn’t take the tragedy of my leaving too much to heart.
I found Smithy in his little office next to the autopsy room. He was bent over his keyboard, head angled at the lopsided screen of his faded cream 1980s computer monitor. I could have sworn it was made out of Bakelite. I knew he was a bit deaf so I knocked on the open door. Smithy reared up, knocking over his empty plastic water cup.
‘Sorry Smithy, I didn’t mean to scare you.’
‘No, no, come in, come in.’ He patted his pockets nervously. He’d given up smoking thirty years ago but his hands still remembered where the packet should be. ‘You’re looking grand,’ he added, though I was pretty sure he hadn’t glanced at me yet.
Actually, it was Smithy who was looking grand. He’d dropped about ten kilos since I’d last seen him, had had his hair cut by a professional instead of his usual own-goal attempts with a scalpel,and had replaced his hand-knitted cable-stitch jersey with a plain black sweater. He’d even hedge-clipped his eyebrows and wrenched out the tufts that usually protruded from his nostrils like boar tusks. The thought made my eyes water in sympathy.
There was no doubt about it. Smithy had gone and got himself a girlfriend. Smithy’s wife had died on her fortieth birthday and though I knew that in the subsequent two decades he’d seen a number of lady friends, as he quaintly called them, none had meant enough for him to have gone under the nasal tweezers. I took the office chair he was thrusting at me and placed it so we were both facing the computer screen.
‘I’ve just started to write up the John Doe now but I suppose you want a preliminary chat,’ he offered.
In green text on a black screen was the beginning of the autopsy report. The cursor, a little black square, was blinking in mid sentence.
‘Smithy, this
He described tersely how he’d taken photos of the body before lifting and transporting it in the wheelbarrow. He’d walked out of the forest on what he referred to as ‘the shortcut’, wheeling the body down the wide, stony, dry bed of the Orongorongo River to the coast. I’d once done the reverse tramp from the coast road into the forest along that rocky riverbed as far as the campers’ picnic spot, and it had been neither easy nor short. Presumably Scott had been some way further in than the picnic area if he was laying poison traps. It would be quite a feat pushing a laden wheelbarrow over stones for that distance, and I was starting to look forward to meeting this guy.
I slid out the only other document, a one-page police report giving details of the body’s arrival at Wainuiomata Police Station. Robbie had made a note that he’d given the ranger a receipt for thewheelbarrow and a promise to return it once the body had been ‘relocated’. Robbie’s delicately looped signature at the bottom of the page reminded me I’d agreed to the date with him and his mate. Sometime soon I’d have to think about which single girlfriend I could ask to be the double part of the date. Robbie’s mate was, without doubt, a cop, because cops don’t have any other friends. That goes with the job.
I scribbled a note for Damian my dog-walker, letting him know I hadn’t taken Wolf out this morning. I suggested a good long lope would do him good. Wolf, that is. Damian lives a couple of doors down and the deal is he walks Wolf every day whether I’ve already taken him or not, but he appreciates a heads-up as to whether Wolf’s priority is exercise or company on any given day. Wolf whined and drooped his ears but it was a half-hearted performance, and since I knew Damian would be taking him out with a bunch of other dogs within the hour I didn’t take the tragedy of my leaving too much to heart.
I found Smithy in his little office next to the autopsy room. He was bent over his keyboard, head angled at the lopsided screen of his faded cream 1980s computer monitor. I could have sworn it was made out of Bakelite. I knew he was a bit deaf so I knocked on the open door. Smithy reared up, knocking over his empty plastic water cup.
‘Sorry Smithy, I didn’t mean to scare you.’
‘No, no, come in, come in.’ He patted his pockets nervously. He’d given up smoking thirty years ago but his hands still remembered where the packet should be. ‘You’re looking grand,’ he added, though I was pretty sure he hadn’t glanced at me yet.
Actually, it was Smithy who was looking grand. He’d dropped about ten kilos since I’d last seen him, had had his hair cut by a professional instead of his usual own-goal attempts with a scalpel,and had replaced his hand-knitted cable-stitch jersey with a plain black sweater. He’d even hedge-clipped his eyebrows and wrenched out the tufts that usually protruded from his nostrils like boar tusks. The thought made my eyes water in sympathy.
There was no doubt about it. Smithy had gone and got himself a girlfriend. Smithy’s wife had died on her fortieth birthday and though I knew that in the subsequent two decades he’d seen a number of lady friends, as he quaintly called them, none had meant enough for him to have gone under the nasal tweezers. I took the office chair he was thrusting at me and placed it so we were both facing the computer screen.
‘I’ve just started to write up the John Doe now but I suppose you want a preliminary chat,’ he offered.
In green text on a black screen was the beginning of the autopsy report. The cursor, a little black square, was blinking in mid sentence.
‘Smithy, this
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