Well this is fun.

She has my name.

Good evening, Jessica Dunne. How are your Junior Cert studies going? Good news, you’ll never have to do them. You were stabbed to death in a back alley in Dublin on Tuesday.

You bunked off, didn’t you? Middle of third period. It was bucketing down by the time school had finished, but you came home bone dry.

It was 12.30, wasn’t it? When you were killed? It’s 4PM now. Rigor mortis never lies. And you don’t reek. Well, your wounds smell like raw meat, but that’s to be expected. Even if you were alive.

It was either staged by your mate, the one who thinks you sold her out to the police in January. Maeve Reid, I’m assuming you know her. Everyone says you’ve been friends since you were four.

Or you were actually mugged.

We’ve got Cormac O’Reily in custody, too. Serial offender, but nothing like this. Your brother told us that you rejected him a few weeks back, and he’s been harassing your mates, like a right dickhead.

Even if it wasn’t him, I’d love to see him get arrested. Smashed my car up last week, him and his gang did. Bloody dossers. No reason for it, didn’t nick anything out it.

Just smashed it up for kicks.

I never got the people who committed crime for kicks. I know you didn’t. You wouldn’t be friends with Maeve if you did. You both got warnings for shoplifting when you were twelve, didn’t you? Couldn’t afford your school stuff? Then you got an ASBO order when you were fourteen because you beat up the racist prick at your school. She got off, though. Two day suspension. You got indefinite exclusion. Came back in Year 10.

Just in time for your Junior Cert, bless you.

Got a bloody strong sense of justice, don’t you? You’re a lot like my friends.

I bet you were fuming about that, weren’t you, Jessica?

Do you go by Jess? Or Jessie?

I’ve taken Jessie for myself, sorry love.

You’re in a right state, aren’t you?

You’ve gotten blood all over your uniform. Your skirt’s rolled up, shirt not tucked in.

Your left eye’s proper fucked up. I’m sure you’d be blind if she was alive.

Apparently, she needed to buy something for Orla and Sean. And milk. And to remember that she had an English Lit project to turn in.

I think that says English Lit.

The ink on her palm is running. And covered in blood.

“Paul, do we know who Orla or Sean are?” I ask my colleague, holding up Jess’s limp arm in my gloved hands.

“Little siblings. Twins. Going on six. Birthday on the 15th.”

“Christ.”

“Yeah. You seen the wounds?”

“Stab wounds?”

“Standard kitchen knife. 20cm long, 3.8 wide. Two wounds, one in the left side of the abdomen, one in the back, square between the shoulders.”

“Could that have been symbolic? Like...it was staged then, right? We know Maeve Reid thinks she sold her out. Backstabbing?”

“Could be a stretch.” I say. “Speculating isn’t our job.”

“Don’t tell me you never think about it?” Paul asks.

“Of course I do. But I’m not writing that down. The gardaí’ll get that much. They’re not idiots. Very obvious symbology.”

“And if it was a botched mugging, why would there be multiple wounds?”

“What if it was more than a mugging?”

“What do you mean?”

“She was found with her blouse half undone.”

“Are you implying sexual assault?”

“Plausible. Cormac’s infamous. That’s what I’m saying, we’re not the police.” I say, holding my scalpel up in a way that would definitely get me fired if it wasn’t Paul working night shift today.

“If she was raped, we can prove it. We are forensics.”

“We can. But I’m not saying she was raped for definite. She could’ve been trying to stop the bleeding.”

“Fair point. Still, take swabs though.”

“Thank you. What were you gonna tell me about the bruises?”

“They show signs of struggle. I’d say she was jumped, tried to retaliate, stabbed in the abdomen, tried to fight back, headlock, thrown to the wall, that’s when her eye got fucked, keeled over, kicked to the floor, and,” He thrusts his scalpel into the air. “Right in the back.”

“Wall?”

“I found pieces of brick in her forehead.”

“Jesus.”

“Yeah. Clearly an experienced attacker.”

“Well that doesn’t narrow it down. Both Maeve and Cormac are experienced. What do the footprints show?”

“Mostly rubbed off. I can make out a shoe pattern, but it’s so washed out in blood, I can’t discern anything..”

“Oh my God.”

“I know. But like you said. Not our job.”

“No, it is not.” I say, taking a sample of Jessica’s hair. At least she’s not also a ginger. That would be the last straw.

Kind of like the texture of her hair after her completely botched bleach job. She did choose a very nice shade of pink, but the bleach. It feels like horse hair.

“You’ve gotten everything down, yeah?” Paul asks. “We can pack up?”

“I think so, yeah.”

“Good.”

“How many more bodies so we have?”

“Two.”

“OK. Thanks. I’ll send the results off.”

“Thanks.” Paul says as I step out and peel the gloves off my hands, filling out the form, then scanning it in an email to Murphy.

Miss Jessica Niamh Dunne: Autopsy Report, 13/7/09 - Jessica Gallagher & Paul Campbell