The Big Over Easy

It was raining hard when Jack, Mary and Tibbit pulled up at the perimeter of Palmer Park, a sports field and public amenity site to the east of town. A uniformed officer in a raincoat pointed them towards a white scene-of-crime tent set up behind the grandstand. The rain had discouraged all onlookers, and the only member of the public visible was a lone runner who plodded around the track, seemingly oblivious to the downpour.

“Tibbit, start on some house-to-house, will you? I want to know if anybody saw anything.”

Tibbit took out his notepad and walked over to the row of houses that faced the field.

“How far are we from Grimm’s Road?” asked Mary as they trudged across the wet grass.

“A couple of hundred yards. The other side of that road.”

The immediate area around the crime scene had been taped off. Shenstone was the Scene of Crime Officer, and he had conveniently rigged a narrow “exit and entrance” walkway delineated by white tape so they could all come and go without destroying any potential footprints. Mary started to talk to the officer first on the scene, who was relieved that it was an NCD case; it meant a lot less paperwork.

“Hello, Shenstone,” said Jack. “What have you got?”

Shenstone stood up from where he had been examining the ground.

“Good morning, sir. I thought this one might be under your jurisdiction.” He pointed at the ground. “Some healthy footprints, but nothing exciting—a size-ten Barbour wellie by the look of it. But what seems odd is that the person in the wellies has tried to obliterate some of the evidence. You can see where they’ve made an effort to scour the ground.” He pointed again. “Just there… and again, over there.”

“So two people, one of whom might have had distinctive shoes?”

“Something like that.”

Jack thanked him and stepped into the white tent. Winkie’s body was lying facedown in the mud. His nightgown and nightcap were soaking wet and clung to his pale white flesh. The grass and mud around him were darkly stained with blood, and a candlestick was on the ground next to him. His hands had already been bagged, and Mrs. Singh and her assistants were just about to turn him over.

Jack crouched down next to the pathologist, glad for the protection the tent could offer from the rain.

“Hello, Jack,” said Mrs. Singh cheerfully. “You certainly know how to show a girl a good time. Know him?” She leaned back so he could get a good look at the body.

“His name’s William Winkie. Lived next door to Humpty over at Grimm’s Road. How did he die?”

“We’ll know soon enough.”

She gave a few instructions to her assistants, and they gently rolled the body over. It was not a pretty sight. His eyes were still wide open, an expression of stark terror etched on his features. The cause of death was obvious. Jack looked away, but Mrs. Singh leaned closer. To her this wasn’t just a human body but a riddle in need of a solution.

“One slash, very powerful and very deep, from right collarbone to halfway down the midthorax. They even managed to split his sternum.”

“Ax?”

“I think not. A broadsword or samurai weapon would be more likely. A cut this deep needs to have a lot of momentum behind it. He died from shock and blood loss, probably between three and six A.M. The assailant came from the front and was violently aggressive in the attack, but controlled. One slash and no more. Was Mr. Winkie part of the Humpty investigation?”

“Not really, but it was from his backyard that Humpty’s fatal shot was fired.”

Mrs. Singh raised her eyebrows. “That would make sense of what he’s holding. Take a look.”

Jack looked closely at the dead man’s fist. Held tightly between his finger and thumb were the corners of what looked like pieces of paper.

“Several fifty-pound notes,” she said helpfully.

“Idiot,” muttered Jack.

“He can’t hear you,” replied Mrs. Singh, busying herself with her task as the photographer took some pictures.

“What makes pathologists so facetious, Mrs. Singh?”

She smiled. “Pathologists are just happy people, Jack.”

“Oh, yes? And why’s that?”

“No possibility of malpractice suits for one thing.” She looked closer at Winkie’s mouth and murmured, “What have we here?”

She pushed his mouth open, had a look with a penlight and closed it.

“I was hoping I wouldn’t see that again.”

Mary stepped into the tent, glanced at the corpse, muttered “Oh my God,” held her hand over her mouth and stepped out.

“See what again?”

“They split his tongue.”

“Porgia,” muttered Jack.

“A classic Porgia MO,” agreed Mrs. Singh. “I should call the dogs’ home if I were you.”

“Mary?”

“Yes?” came Mary’s voice from outside the tent.

“Call the Reading Dog Shelter and tell them to set aside any anonymous offerings of scraps they might receive.”

Mary didn’t quite understand what was going on but flipped open her mobile and called Ops to get the number.

“Porgia?” repeated Jack with incredulity. “Is there anything else?”