Page 26 of When You're Alone

Finn immediately stepped closer, but then remembered the first time he nearly got in the pathologist’s way. He hung back a foot, letting Amelia stand beside Wednesday.

With gloved hands, Wednesday carefully unzipped a portion of Geoffrey Wardlow’s body bag. She indicated the top of the victim’s skull, where a clear incision had been made. “Right here is the entry wound—knife driven downward. But look at this detail: a slight spiral effect on the tissue. It suggests the knife twisted mid-thrust.”

Amelia leaned in, eyes narrowing. “Like the killer’s wrist turned it? On purpose?”

“Potentially. Except it would be unusual to do so intentionally and consistently,” Wednesday replied. She zipped the bag again and turned to the second gurney. “Now, with Sir Richard’s injuries—liver, heart, jugular—the incisions also have that slight spiral pattern.”

Finn’s mind raced. “So the murderer has a particular quirk to their stabbing motion?”

"Exactly," Wednesday said, stepping to the side to let them see a portion of Sir Richard's autopsy incisions. She pointed with a pen. "It might be from a chronic injury that forces their wrist to rotate at the moment of impact. Like a bone not set right after a fracture or a ligament tear that never healed. In any case, it’s consistent between both bodies.”

A quiet awe settled over Finn. This meant they had a direct link between the two murders—further evidence that the same individual was behind both. “So we’re certain it’s the same killer,” he murmured.

“Yes,” Wednesday affirmed. “I can’t see it being coincidence for two separate killers to have that exact same twisting motion. It’s precise, easily overlooked, but consistent.”

Amelia put a hand to her chin thoughtfully. “Good work. This could be a big lead. If we find someone with a wrist issue, that might narrow down suspects.”

Finn considered the vast membership of The Monarch. “Plenty of people out there are right-handed. But an old fractureor tendon problem that sets a pattern of twisting… That’s not as common. We can investigate members with sports injuries, past accidents, that kind of thing.”

Wednesday nodded. “If you gather medical records—though I know privacy laws apply—this detail might lead you to the killer. Or at least bring them under suspicion.”

He offered her a nod of thanks. “We’ll do what we can. Great job, Doctor.”

With that, she moved to a small side table where she'd laid out two sealed evidence bags, each holding a single poker chip. "Also, these. The chips removed from both victims. I asked a numismatic expert to examine them. They're definitely from the 1970s, custom-made. Not mass-produced by a known casino. So no straightforward tracing."

“Numismatic?” Finn repeated. “Now that's a hell of a fancy word for a coin expert.”

Amelia sighed. “So it’s a dead end, for now.”

Wednesday gave a small shrug. “I wouldn’t call it a dead end, just inconclusive. He said they might be from a private set someone commissioned decades ago. Possibly a group of gamblers or collectors.”

Finn exhaled slowly, absorbing the news. “Another piece pointing to some long-running gambling circle. Still, at least we know. Thank you.”

She placed the chips back in their storage container with meticulous care. “I’m sure you’d prefer a nicer location to hear all this. But you’ll have to settle for the morgue, I’m afraid.”

“You look at home here,” Finn joked softly, ignoring the mental image of these bodies lying open on the steel tables. “But truly, we appreciate your help.”

Amelia nodded, stepping away from the gurneys with a respectful glance. “We won’t keep you. Thank you. Let’s hope next time we see each other, it’s with someone in custody.”

As they turned to go, Wednesday called after them, arching an eyebrow. “Mr. Wright,” she said, “you don’t suit black hair.”

Finn paused in the doorway, half-smirking. “I am wounded, Dr. Knott. Wounded.” Then he tipped an imaginary hat before following Amelia out.

In the corridor, the overhead lights buzzed a little too loudly. A faint antiseptic odor lingered. Finn brushed off a stray chill, leaning toward Amelia to keep his voice low. “We have a solid link now. Same killer, some kind of wrist injury.”

Amelia nodded, a determined light in her eyes. “Exactly. And it matches the poker-chip MO, so we have no doubt it’s one person. But how do we pinpoint someone with a ‘wrist twist’ with access to medical records or having a medical expert evaluate each member?”

Finn gave a wry shrug. “Between your law enforcement channels and Rob’s connections, maybe we’ll glean a few old injuries. People do talk or brag about sport mishaps, fencing accidents, or old war wounds. We’ll have to be creative.”

“I’m going to look through the members list,” Amelia said. “If I can find someone who has a wrist problem or recently had surgery, it might lead us to the killer.”

“Good idea.”

They exited the morgue building into the midday gloom—clouds rolling overhead, promising more rain soon. The hush of traffic moved around them, tires splashing on wet roads. Finn led Amelia back toward their car, a neutral sedan they’d borrowed from the local station for discreet travel.

He settled behind the wheel, mind drifting to what the evening might hold. “I’ll head back to The Monarch for a bit,” he murmured, adjusting the seat belt, “carry on the infiltration.”

Amelia slumped into the passenger seat, letting out a resigned sigh. “Yes, I figured you would. What’s the plan?”

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