Chapter Ten
The cell phone on the bedside table chirped out Beethoven's ninth. Bridger leaned across Laura's still warm side of the bed and made an unsuccessful grab at it, knocking it onto the floor. Buy the time he retrieved it, the Symphony was in full swing.
"Sorry to bother you at home Sergeant, but the roster has you down as on call, is that right?” a timid female voice enquired. "Only a body has been found at the bottom of Lawyers Head".
"Shit".
"Pardon me".
"Sorry, did I say that out loud?” Bridger apologized, "It wasn't directed at you. I'll be there in ten minutes".
Grabbing a jacket on the way out the door Bridger thought about leaving note for Laura, but not seeing one from her as to her whereabouts decided against it. Besides, she knew this was his duty weekend.
Lawyers Head, he knew, was a scenic place for tourists but a notorious spot for suicides. Situated at the end of John Wilson Drive, it was a long straight piece of road that followed the top of the sand dunes running along St Kilda beach. As he drove up onto the embankment, he could not help but notice how it afforded a great view of the now turbulent grey blue Pacific Ocean, which to Bridger looked very cold and unforgiving in the early morning light. He could see the whitecaps forming and breaking on the white sandy foreshore, coming to rest near the high tide line, and then they sucked back out to repeat the process leaving a foamy residue on the sand.
The city council had closed John Wilson drive off to vehicle traffic just over halfway along its length to allow construction of the city’s wastewater outlet pipes; this had an effect on the amount of suicides, with no on jumping to their deaths for the entire construction process. It had opened briefly after construction but within three days, there was another suicide prompting the permanent closure. A closure, which looked like it was going to be very inconvenient this morning, as Bridger pulled up next to the marked patrol car parked beside the bollards in the middle of the road.
A uniform Constable stood guard, shivering in just a shirt and stab proof vest. Bridger recognized the face.
"Steve, why won’t you ever learn to wear a jacket? If you get any bluer in the face I might think you need CPR".
"How would I show off these big guns if I wore a jacket", he said, breaking into a pose that looked like a constipated gorilla.
Bridger could think of better ways to spend time in a grunting sweating closeness with other men at the gym, only to stand in the cold with hardly any clothes on to show off the results but he was not about to let Steve 'the muscle' Kirkland know about any of them.
"Before you ask Sarge the council have been called to come and unlock the bollards, but because it’s Sunday the on call guy has to come from home, he lives out of town apparently".
Great, thought Bridger, he was looking at the walk of just over a kilometer in front of him to reach Lawyers Head.
"Who's down there Steve, is it Gillian?”
"Only Jo and the guy who found the body, Gillian's got the day off recovering from her black eye. I'm surprised you didn't see it happen, it all kicked off at the jungle bar as you were sneaking away with that blonde Lawyer on Friday night".
Bridger could not tell whether there was any accusation in what Steve had said or he was just making conversation.
"I didn't sneak anywhere, Steve. I was three sheets took the wind and was probably just sharing a taxi home," he said, feeling slightly embarrassed.
"Whose home…?” Steve replied grinning.
The look he received back from Bridger changed his mind about pressing the point to much.
"Where is the body Steve?”
"Jo will point her out to you when you get down there. It looks like she jumped".
The hairs on the back of Bridger's neck stood up the mention of 'She'. He hoped it was not who he thought it was. Pulling his jacket tighter around his neck he started walking towards the prominent point of Lawyers Head, named for its similarity to a lawyer wearing the traditional wig.
Approaching the headland, Bridger took in his surroundings. The wind was blowing but there was not much around in the way of vegetation to judge its strength. The Chilsom park golf course off to his left flowed seamlessly into one of the cities cemeteries. He could see the angular features of the cities crematorium silhouetted against the skyline. The large chimney was jutting out of the top sending any un-burnt particles blowing out to sea.
Would that not put someone off their intended course of action, seeing where they would be in a very short space of time, he thought.
As he got nearer to the point, he saw a female Constable standing shivering in the unused car park beside an elderly grey haired man dressed in a thick down jacket. A fat old yellow Labrador was on a lead at his feet.
"You must be Jo", he said, taking in the attractive face and her blonde hair tied back in a ponytail.
"Yes Sergeant, I was the one who called you. She went over there", Jo said, as she pointed towards the cliff edge. "I've had a quick look and it's not pretty, definitely dead, no one could survive a fall from that height".
"I suppose I will have to take a quick a look", he said, more to convince himself than anything else. He looked over to the cliffs edge, just beyond the fence rails.
Bridger was glad the prevailing wind was an Easterly blowing back in towards the cliff, the way it was gusting he would not fancy getting anywhere near the shear drop if it was blowing out to sea.
"It's not often you would see them after jumping from there", piped in the man with the dog. "Usually it's straight into the sea and into Davy Jones locker, not to be seen again until the tide washes them up on the beach down the ways. That’s if the sharks and the dam smelly seals don't get to them first".
"I'm not sure that seals eat anything other than small fish, sir", Bridger said, looking back at him.
The old man stared at Bridger in a condescending manner, and just nodded as if he was just humoring him.
"Sergeant, this is Mr. Potter, he called us after seeing her down there". Jo said.
"Call me John, Sergeant", he said putting his hand out to shake with Bridger.
"Ok John. My names Mike Bridger, I'm a Detective Sergeant".
"Of course you are", Mr. Potter said, looking him up and down. "I would expect nothing less. It is good to see our police taking these things so seriously. There is always a reason, you know, behind the jumpers. People blame it on mental health issues, but I blame the parents. In my day, you respected your parents; you listened to them and you would not ever disobey them. These days the young ones run free and get up to all sorts. It is a wonder we do not have more of them doing this. Society is going to the dogs if you ask me". Mr. Potter gave a tug on the dogs lead and it jumped up excitedly and licked the palm of his hand.
"Well I can't really comment on the state of society John, but I agree with you that there are less restrictions on our young ones these days", Bridger said, looking towards the cliff edge. "I will just go and have a quick look to see what we are dealing with, and then I will need to have a chat with you and get some details. Just stay here with Constable Williamson for the time being".
He went to the edge of the paved area and took a deep breath before climbing over the railing; he felt the wind gust coldly around his body, penetrating the layers of his expensive but useless feather down jacket. He made his way gingerly towards the cliff face. He thought to himself that it must take guts to climb over the fence to start with. He did not know why people chose to jump off something high to end their life; he guessed fear did not even come into it when you were in that state of mind.
Not trusting himself or his balance, he got down on his knees as he approached the side. Cautiously peering over the edge, he felt a moment of panic as his body recoiled at the height, butterflies swirled in his stomach. Regaining a little composure he looked over the edge again, he could just make out the naked body of a female lying on a small ledge almost at sea level. Salt spray whipped up by the wind and
waves obscured most of his view. He tried to compare what he was seeing with the picture of Marion Watson he had in his mind. He could not make a connection, but that was not surprising.
He was struggling to think of reasons Marion would choose this way, but then he only knew Marion from Mrs. Watson's description of her; maybe she had some deep-seated issues that were unresolved.
Focusing his eyes through the sea mist, he tried detect any movement. By the unnatural way her body was bent and the red stain that covered what he guessed was her face he knew for certain she would be dead. He could see a bloody and concaved area at the top of her head.
She was lucky, if you could call it that, to land where she did. She would return to her loved ones sooner. Having a body to bury meant closure for them, but it would still be a recovery as opposed to a rescue.
He looked around the cliff edge, searching for anything that may have been relevant. Something green caught his eye just below him. Reaching down he retrieved a tennis ball caught in one of the small bushes clinging to the cliff face.
The ball had more luck than the young girl did, he thought, the image of her had stained the back of Bridger's retinas.
He backed away from the edge and stood up, a gust of wind threatening to blow him back down. Steadying himself, he looked over to the car park in time to see the cavalry arriving at the car park.
The councilperson must have gotten out of bed at last, he thought thankfully. More bodies meant less work. He made a mental note to check on the whereabouts of the key provided to the police for this sort of an occasion.
Looking around him from where he stood he could not see the girls clothes anywhere. People committing suicide would sometimes strip and neatly fold their clothes before committing themselves to oblivion; sometimes you would find the clothes in a neat pile where they jumped, but not always.
Giving up he walked back towards the expanding group of people and cars, absently juggling the tennis ball in his hand. As he approached, he noticed the fat Labrador getting excited at the sight of the ball. That explained why anyone would be looking over the cliff edge, to retrieve a lost ball. Bridger was not sure he would be doing the same if he had dog who had lost its ball.
"Thank you so much Sergeant that is Jakes favorite ball. I thought it had gone for good when it went over the edge. I had to have a peek, just to show willing. I could not have old Jake here thinking I did not care. But when I saw her…, well, the ball went out of my mind".
Bridger handed the ball over, Jake scrambling at the lead and barking.
He spent the next ten minutes questioning Mr. Potter while the fat Labrador bounced on the lead at his feet. Bridger had to retrieve the ball twice from the ground as the dog dropped it in front of him. The slobber from the ball had made his hands wet and slippery but he did not want to give the dog the pleasure of seeing his distaste.
Next time you drop that ball I will throw it over the edge properly, he thought. We will see how you like that. Maybe you will go over as well, while trying to retrieve it.
The dog just continued to bounce on the lead and stare at Bridger, unaware of his thoughts.
Mr. Potter was a fountain of knowledge about the area and its history; he supported the road closure on John Wilson Drive. It would help stop silly little girls, who have not lived yet, from ending it all, before they got a chance to contribute to this world, he had said fervently.
"They haven't experienced hardship in their lives. Not like when I was growing up. They don't know they are born half these kids," Mr. Potter continued.
It did not stop this one, Bridger thought.
For all of his knowledge, all Mr. Potter could really help with was the time he found the body. Bridger sent him on his way with a promise to keep him informed of any developments.
Not likely, he thought; as he wandered over to the group of police officers standing idle in the car park. I do not want to contribute to any of his war stories he would no doubt rattle off at his next ‘grey power’ meeting, or where ever a man of his age goes.
Bridger stood and looked at the group gathered in front of him, notebooks out and pens ready. They were all looking at him expectantly, waiting for instruction. The only faces he recognized were Steve and Jo.
Organizing a small group of Constables would normally be a simple task but Bridger had found himself at a loss for what to say. His stomach had started to feel a bit nauseous, maybe it was a delayed reaction from the height earlier on. He let out a belch into his arm and immediately felt better. The faces on the group in front of him remained stony.
"Right you lot, we're looking for how she got here, her clothes, and anything else you might find along the way", Bridger instructed. "I know it's a long shot but knock on the doors up on the Tomahawk and Tahuna Road areas, near the entrance to the cemetery or golf course. Someone may have seen something. It's the quickest way to the headland now that John Wilson Drive has been shut off". He could not imagine anyone wanting to walk too far on the way to a self-inflicted death, there was too much time to change your mind. Too much time to think the thoughts that got you there in the first place.
"Steve, can you organize who goes where please". Bridger said, watching his face light up.
"No problems", Steve said, with a look of importance.
Bridger turned his back and another belch erupted from his throat. Not very professional, he thought, but it was making him feel a bit better.
He fumbled in his pocket for his cell phone. He tried calling the officer in charge of the CIB, Detective Inspector Matthews, to apprise him of the situation but could not raise him on either his cell or home phone numbers.
"Bloody ridiculous, what if something needed to be done that requires direction from higher up," Bridger said aloud to the still ringing phone in his hand. Looking at the screen, he cut the connection. "It looks like it's up to me then".
Well that is the day gone, Bridger thought, as he got back into the warmth of the car. The photographers had taken their photographs; the scenes of crime officers had been and gone. He had even called the duty coroner, but he had declined to attend the scene, claiming it would probably just be a suicide, nothing pressing to get him out of his Sunday lunch.
Bridger had watched as they recovered the body of the female from the rocks, a surfboat struggling against the waves while its crew struggled with the lifeless corpse. Then he had watched again as she was wrapped in white sheets and then zipped into a black polyurethane bag. He saw her being loaded into the rear of the grey hearse and driven away behind tinted windows to the hospital mortuary.
The search of the area had not turned up anything. No clothes, no abandoned vehicles registered to a young female, but that would have been too easy. The door knocks had no result either; nobody looks outside their windows in the wintertime. It is just a reminder of the miserable weather. He expected nothing less; having happened overnight, it was always going to be a long shot.
In the absence of an identity or reason for this unfortunate soul to be where she was, protocol dictated that it be treated as suspicious until decided otherwise, which to Bridger meant work. There would have to be a post-mortem organized. They would need to do various enquiries; speak to various people, they would have to take statements. All of which fell on his shoulders this weekend.
He wished it were Monday morning when he could share out the workload. Actually, he thought, it could have been delegated out, privilege of his new rank.
He quickly reprimanded himself for his lazy thoughts; he was more professional than that. Then whom was he kidding, he knew he was a lazy as the next man. A small mercy in that he had pushed his hangover from yesterday into the annals of history but his stomach was still a bit iffy.
He could theoretically put the call out for assistance from off duty detectives, but he could not see any reason to suspect foul play. He could imagine the grief he would get from his colleagues about not being able to handle a simple suicide on his own, recently pr
omoted Detective Sergeant or not.
He ran over what he had done and what he had left to do in his mind, trying to formulate at least a loose plan of action. As the post-mortem would not be undertaken until tomorrow, pathologists working gentleman's hours, the most pressing question now was, who was this girl?.
Every enquiry needs a name. Every corpse needed identification. It is the first step to finding answers.
One name that was sitting in the back of his mind, and there was one enquiry Bridger knew he should be doing first, but he was not looking forward to the awkward questions he would have to ask and would have to answer.
He started the car and drove reluctantly towards Mrs. Watson's house.
Pulling up outside the address Bridger saw a newish looking dark colored BMW pulling away from the curb, the driver turning his face away as he drove by, vaguely familiar.
Looking back towards the house, he was surprised to see Mrs. Watson standing in the doorway. She must be constantly looking out the window, he thought. Then she would be waiting for her daughter to turn up.
He had hoped that she would turn up as well; even going as far as reassuring Mrs. Watson yesterday that she would, but the morning’s developments had most probably made a lie out of those reassurances.
"You've found her haven’t you Sergeant", there were tears in her eyes already.
She did not seem surprised when he told her of the young woman that they found at Lawyers Head earlier that morning.
"Where is she now Sergeant? I have to see her, to see for myself. She would not do that to herself, she was not that type…. Why would she jump off a cliff?”
Mrs. Watson was starting to become agitated as Bridger gently led her to his car. Dressed in a thick woolen cardigan, and floral print skirt, Mrs. Watson reminded Bridger of his mother, all dressed up in her Sunday best. The woolen cardigan was almost a uniform for women of her age.
His heart went out to her; he hated this part of his job. He hated telling someone that the person who was close to him or her was not going to be at the dinner table that evening. It was even worse when he could not tell them why.
He told her that they had not confirmed it was Marion, but the circumstances certainly pointed that way so it was best that she prepared. It was no comfort to Mrs. Watson.
Starting the car, Shane Carter's voice sang through the stereo, 'Bad Note for a Heart'. Hearing this Bridger quickly skipped to the next track, which unfortunately turned out to be 'Missing Presumed Drowned'. Banging the off button on the stereo, he hoped Mrs. Watson had not noticed his taste in music. He made a mental note to change the Straightjacket Fits CD as soon as possible.
Mrs. Watson had sat in a nervous silence as they drove towards the hospital, fidgeting slightly with the hem of her Cardigan. An orderly dressed in a blue smock and trousers met them at the door and then led them into the bowels of the building where the deceased ended up prior to post-mortem procedures. It is a surprisingly well-lit, modern facility with rooms for visiting the deceased. It was not at all; as you would expect a morgue to look like.
The former city morgue was located in the old Hercus Building next door, which was well before Bridger's time. He had heard it was a maze of small gloomy rooms and corridors. Dark places that held many secrets. It had looked and felt like a place of the dead. Now after a recent refurbishment it was a state of the art teaching and research facility with the Otago university medical school.
"She's through here", the orderly told them, "But you will have to prepare yourself, she won't look like the person you remember". The orderly looked at Bridger as if to say, should you really be doing this.
Bridger just stared back at him, willing him to get on with it.
"There was a lot of damage done to her cranial and facial region", the orderly continued. "There was also a lot of damage to her skeletal structure so we would be unable to tell how tall or what build she was without the post-mortem”.
"Thank you", Bridger said, cutting him off midstream. Mrs. Watson did not need to hear any more about her daughter as she was about to see for herself what a one hundred foot fall could do to a human body.
Bridger thought the orderly must be a moonlighting medical student, with the terms he was using, or maybe he was just more observant than most, mimicking the doctors and with a bit of Walter Mitty about him. He remembered that the fictional Mitty had imagined himself, amongst other things, an emergency room surgeon.
"It could be her, I just don't know, she looks so…, so dead", Mrs. Watson was crying. She had not touched the cold pale body lying on the gurney before them.
Bridger was thinking he should be doing more to offer comfort to her, but could not think how. The girl he saw before him did not even look human, let alone like someone's daughter. The facial injuries were more severe than he had been able to see from his vantage point back on the cliff edge. The hollow concave area of her skull making her face look like a hideous Halloween mask. The mortuary attendants had done what they could, but it would never be enough for a family member to look at.
Maybe this had not been a very good idea, he thought.
Mrs. Watson was struggling to get her glasses off in an attempt to blur the image laid out in front of her. Bridger knew from experience that the image would sear itself into her memory for a long while to come, glasses or no glasses. A person recently deceased from an accident involving injury very rarely looked at peace.
"As hard as this is Mrs. Watson, can you think of anything that might identify Marion, a birthmark, a scar perhaps"?
"No Sergeant, she had nothing like that, I could not even tell you if she had a tattoo, she was such a private person lately, even when she lived at home. I have not seen her anywhere near undressed recently to even tell you what her body shape was. She was always going on about her weight, I was always telling her she looked fine, but she insisted on telling me otherwise and covering up with baggy clothes". Her voice cracked as she broke down, her tears turned to hopeless anguish. She clutched at Bridger as he maneuvered her out of the room and into the hallway.
"I'm sorry you had to go through that Mrs. Watson". Bridger was crouching next to her while she was sitting on a soft covered seat. He had fetched a small cup of milky tea from the machine down the corridor and he handed this to her gently. "There are a few more bits of information I need that may be able to help us".
"I don't know what more I can do Sergeant; I don't even recognize my own daughter. Do you know how distressing that is?"
"I can't imagine how you are feeling Mrs. Watson, I am really sorry to ask this, but can you give me the name of her dentist, they may be able to provide dental records to compare". A long shot, Bridger was thinking, remembering the severely damaged face and mouth.
"Maybe you could also provide us with something of Marion's we could get some DNA off of; in case we need to compare it".
Mrs. Watson looked shocked at the suggestion. "I don't know about that Sergeant, DNA just sounds so intrusive. Don't you think she has been through enough"?
Bridger explained that the procedure was routine and would only involve taking a swab or a small amount of blood, which seemed to placate her. She would not like to think too much about the post-mortem which would follow, that was a much more intrusive procedure. There was no dignity in death with your insides on the outside for all to see.
"Okay Sergeant, I need to know if this really is my daughter here in this frigid place. I know it seems crazy after seeing her in there like that, but I do not think its Marion. I still think she is out there; she needs me to find her…, to keep her safe…. I'll do whatever you need me to".
"Just a hair brush or toothbrush, something like that will do", Bridger told her.
"You might have to go to her flat for that, I don't think I have anything of hers at home, except a few pictures".
"If it comes to it would you be willing to supply us with a sample of your DNA, a familial sample is almost as good".
"If
I have to Sergeant, but I would rather not".
"Okay Mrs. Watson, I will go and have a look in the flat first, in the meantime let’s take you home". A positive ID would have to wait.