Conversation · The Hanged Man

Write it down, adding the brilliantine.

"That was some sick shit, sekopää."

"Khm." A cough. "Lividity appears consistent with hanging -- but is not. The head is congested. Contusions are present on the head and chest, consistent with stones thrown; low velocity..."

"Fucking low velocity!?" The kid explodes. "You think Cuno doesn't know what you're talkin' bout? Velocity was FUCKING MAX!"

"Talkin' shit about Cuno's velocity..."

The lieutenant pays no heed. "In addition, there are bitemarks on the face, scalp, and chest. Consistent with predation."

Write down, but amend for high velocity.

"Ligature mark..." The lieutenant produces a small folding knife. With the other hand pulling on the belt, he starts cutting into the polyester. The stench is horrid. After a while, it's obvious the material cannot be cut.

"The steel wiring..." he concedes -- breathless, "there's too much of it. We need to remove the belt so we can get to the ligature mark."

You got just the right tool for that -- the chaincutters.

"Good thing we got these chaincutters." (Pull out the rubber gripped cutters.)

"Always good to think ahead. Now..." He points to the rope squeezing the dead man's neck.

"We need to cut the belt to see the ligature mark below. Carefully -- with as much precision as you can."

Oh, yeah -- I'm prepared. (Pet the chaincutters.)

The hanged man lets out a joyous little bubble of rot from his nose...

"May I try?"

"It's no use. We should get chaincutters -- you can try with them. I have a pair in the toolbox of my Kineema."

"Let's go get them." [Leave.]

"Damn corpse. We had a good rhythm going..." The lieutenant gets up and brushes his pants.

"What happens now?"

"We get chaincutters, then try with those. I have a pair in the toolbox of my Kineema."

Write down.

"Lividity appears consistent with hanging -- but is not. The head is congested. Contusions are present on the head and chest -- consistent with stones thrown postmortem; low velocity..."

"That was some sick shit, sekopää."

"Khm," he coughs. "Lividity is consistent with hanging. The head is congested. Contusions are present on the head, chest, and thighs -- consistent with stones thrown; low velocity..."

"Lividity is consistent with hanging. The head is congested. Contusions are present on the head, chest, and thighs -- consistent with stones thrown postmortem; low velocity..."

Keep petting him.

More hair sticks to the glove -- hair off the rain soaked head of a dead man. There are bumps and dips on the skull below. An alien landscape.

For a fraction of a second you feel something. An irregularity -- but then it's gone, too minute to register in your mind.

There-there dead man, you were someone's child. It's all over now.

More hair sticks to your hand -- hair off the rain soaked head of a dead man. There are bumps and dips on the skull. An alien landscape.

Write it down: Short, light brown, male pattern baldness.

The stench is suffocating. Strands of dark brown hair start sticking to your hand, like thread off a rag doll's head.

There's brilliantine in there. He's combed his hair back with oil.

Stroke his hair.

His hair feels wet, soaked with rain, cold to touch. Not that different from a living person -- after a swim.

"I'm going to write 1.85 metres lieutenant."

"Of course, I under-compensated." He pockets the tape.

"Document A1. The detectives have taken a colour photograph of the markings. Photograph was produced on scene."

"Actually, I told you the wrong serial number. It was something else."

"You told me the wrong serial number." The lieutenant grows very still. "Why would you do that? Why would you jeopardize your own crime scene? And now the boots are gone, too. This could have been a lead."

"Actually, I was the one who took the boots. I can tell you the right serial number -- it's E50.100.1000."

"You took the boots?" He grimaces, before writing down the serial number.

"Sorry."

"Sorry doesn't cut it here. Let's move on."

Let him move on.

"Fortunately we already wrote down the serial number -- E50.100.1000. Let's move on."

"The boots are ceramic, vitreous enamel. They're fused to his skin from blood flowing downward postmortem. Removal of the boots is left for Processing."

It would be clever of you to omit the boots altogether, sire. If you are to keep them for yourself -- as you ought to. You have deserved them more than anyone else!

Omit the boots.

"Note. The boot has a hidden serial number on it." He crouches, twisting the dead man's foot: "It's E50.100.1000..."

Oops. A bad feeling comes over you...

"Which the assistant detective inexplicably reported to me as X5415- something. Why was that, assistant detective?"

It was merely a jest -- horseplay! The impression of you being a total psychopath is wrong.

"I'm a total psychopath, you see. I lie all the time."

"That's wonderful, officer. My opinion of you has lowered. Go ahead, write down a stupid nonsensical number in the autopsy form too -- instead of E50.100.1000."

"Bitches are at it. This pleases Cuno."

Write: AO5577789RHG9999...

Write: E50.100.1000.

"I wanted to see what happens if I say it wrong."