Attempted Suicide

I only had two burglaries and I was done. I looked at my watch, it read 1554. I've not been on duty two hours yet.

Now, what to do whilst I wait for the next job? A certain High Street coffee shop gets a large portion of my salary.

Why not, I've got time.

I park the van in the staff car park at the rear, they've told me to do this before. There's always a few spare spaces.

"Black Forest Hot Chocolate?" The Manager asks,

"Go on then...!"

I held it in my hand for no more than three minutes when the radio went.

An attempted suicide. An attempted suicide?

Its about seven miles away. Enough time to drink my hot chocolate I guess.

The job is on a different division to the one I'm on at the moment.

"CSI Guy to Control, over"

"Ah, good afternoon CSI Guy, go ahead"

"Good afternoon. I've been asked to attend Flat 56, Huge Tower, Any Road. I'll be twenty minutes, over"

"Noted, Thank-you"

I use the Sat Nav on my iPhone, so I programme the address in and set off.

Whilst I'm driving, I'm trying to figure out how this is an attempted suicide. I've heard small bits over the radio but not enough to understand it.

I arrived in just over twenty minutes.

As I approach, access to the small service road ahead of the tower block is restricted by a Police van.

The passenger gets out and I wind down the window. She says "The gaffa is just down there" and she points towards a bin area at the right hand side of the block.

I park up and grab my clipboard. I write down the time in the top right corner of the front page.

As I walk around the fence of the bin store, there's an Inspector and Sergeant staring towards the sky. The Inspector is tapping his finger towards the sky and squinting.

There's claret all over the ground. Thick, dark red claret. There's Paramedic paraphernalia on the ground around the blood.

The Inspector gives me the run down.

Turns out that the thirty-something male tried to hang himself from the balcony railing.

Tried being the operative word.

Depending on which way you look at it, this guy was either very lucky or very unlucky.

He lowered himself over the railing with the ligature around his neck. His fiance and two four year old twin girls were inside.

By all accounts, he only hung there for about three seconds before his fiance came out to see what was going on.

She tried to help him back up. He had changed his mind.

He didn't want to die.

She pulled with all her might, he was seventeen stone in weight, she was ten- it wasn't going to work.

She lost her gripped and the ligature tightened. Then it snapped.

He fell nine stories and landed on his back beside the bin area, he whacked his head on a skip as he did.

He was still alive. The Paramedics had whisked him off to A&E before I got there.

It was my job to ensure there was no foul play and to document the scene in case he did pass away.

I've mentioned before, I don't like lifts. Thankfully it was only the ninth floor.

A case in each hand and my clipboard under my left arm.

I opened the door to the flat.

It stank. Not a smell I'm use to at home. I've grown accustomed to it, its skank and dirt. People and clothes that haven't been washed for a while.

The corridor had a number of doors leading off of it.

Each internal door had holes in the main panel. I see this a lot in these blocks. I used to wonder what these were. They are fist holes.

Someone gets angry and punches the nearest thing, three or four times. At least it wasn't his fiance, or his twins.

There is no carpet, there use to be floor tiles. Some of them remain, broken.

It should be a two bedroom flat. The master bedroom has a 50 inch flat screen on the wall. There's a double bed and a single bed. Everyone sleeps in this room.

The second bedroom is full of junk. There's what looks to be the remains of a cannabis grow room. This is the room that the twins should be sleeping in.

I take photographs as I progress through the scene. I take a few steps and take another.

As I get to the living room I can see the door to the balcony. I walk outside and the remains of the bed sheet is flapping in the wind.

There are marks on the rail and the wall beneath the balcony, most likely to be where he desperately tried to climb back up.

I take a photograph from the balcony showing the ground. I need to shout down to clear officers out of the scene.

I take the remainder piece of the bed sheet and exhibit it.

I make note of some other bits and pieces that I can see about the place that may be relevant later.

I walk back downstairs with my cases and take some photos of the bin area. The rest of the bed sheet is on the floor, it's been cut of by Paramedics.

The guy didn't die. He was in hospital for some time. I'm unsure of what his circumstances are now.

A Load of Cr*p

I sat at my desk with a coffee at about 0645 hours. I start at 0700.
I had a flick through emails, responding to some and flagging others to deal with later.

The control room called up: "Any CSI on the air?"

I replied "CSI Guy, go ahead, over"

They passed me a log number that needed attendance as a priority as the owner was waiting to leave.

It was a break in at a nightclub. The manager had been working all night and wanted to get going.

I arrived by about 0725, missing most of the traffic on the way there.

I knew of the nightclub, but hadn't been to it. This would be the first time I see the inside.

As I pulled up to park the van, I couldn't see any obvious signs of a break in. There was a small blue Fiesta in the car park, that must be the manager'. I'll park there.

The manager opened the door before I knocked. He must have seen me coming.

"SOCO ain't it?"

Technically it's CSI, but hey, SOCO works for me.

"Yes fella, what've we got here then?"

I followed the manager in the door. I could smell stale alcohol and sweat. We walked past five or six large wheelie bins full of glass bottles.

"Busy night?" I asked.

"It was alright, bloody student night wasn't it?"

I laughed. No idea what he meant.

We walked through the nightclub. My feet stuck to the carpet each time I took a step.

We went through the bar area and along a corridor. The break in was in the office space upstairs.

As the manager opened the door, there was an awful smell.

I didn't say anything incase that was normal here.

The manager was pointing out rooms that had been broken into, drawers that had been opened and the space where the safe use to be.

And then he said "And I've been told to leave this for you"

He was talking about the smelliest pile of faeces I had ever seen.

"Right" was my reply. This was a surprise to me. No one had mentioned this before I attended.

It turns out an offender had entered the office area whilst the club was open and the staff were busy with 'the bloody students'. The offender had a sudden urge to defecate and couldn't make his way to the toilet at the other end of the corridor so squatted down at the top of the stairs.

I'm also assuming that he had no toilet roll. There was a brown swipe across the Health and Safety poster on the wall.

It's before 0800, I've had no breakfast and I'm about to scoop up someone else's excrement.

Oh Joy.

I'm not touching this stuff without a suit and a mask. There is no chance that any of that is ending up on me.

I want to keep the pile as a pile. I've got some tubs the size of a small ice cream tub in the van. I'll use one of those.

This is going to be a tricky mission. The success of this depends on the consistency of said faeces. I get a piece of acetate that is usually used in footwear recovery. I slide it slowly into the base of the pile and push. It works it's way through and underneath.

All sorts of smells are now hitting me. My face is no more than two feet away. This stinks.

I hold the stool on the acetate in my right hand and without moving my eyes off of it, I slide the tub closer with my left hand.  It goes in, just. The lid is touching the top of it.

I pull the poster down and roll it on itself.

I recover a few fingerprints and take some photos.

The prints didn't give me a match against anyone.

The faeces are sent off to the lab. This costs a fortune; probably because the task is so unpleasant.

Thankfully I got a name from the faeces and the guy is locked up for the job.

Selfish

Someone called me lazy and selfish yesterday.
They may be right, I'd like to think they are not.

"Have a good day off" They said.

I'm striking. Not for a day off, although it's nice. Not because I'm selfish, far from it. Am I lazy? Hell no.

I'm a member of Police Staff, a Public Sector worker.

Today is a day of action against proposed pension reforms. The Government want me to pay a greater contribution.

But you'll get it back when you retire, you say? No I won't. If I'm still alive when I reach pension age, I won't get back this additional contribution, in any form.

These extra payments are to help pay off the UK deficit.

I rent my flat. I can't afford to buy a house. I pay for my own gas, electric, water, Council tax, contents insurance, TV licence and so on. Nothing I have is paid for by the Government or anyone else.

I'm proud of that.

I'm engaged to Miss CSI, our wedding day planning has made us realise, we probably can't afford that either.

Do we still invite that annoying cousin?

I'm on a decent wage, but I don't live the life of Riley. I have a few hundred pounds a months as disposable income. Most of which goes on diesel for my car.

I, like most Public Sector workers put in 150% at my job. I work through my lunch, I don't take breaks and I very rarely go home on time.

Do I moan about it? Sometimes. Most of the time, I just get on with the job. Why? Because I love it and it makes a difference and that's the way I am.

I work for a living.

My working week a few weeks ago:

Monday: Rest Day - Volunteered for ten hours with a neighbouring Police Force as a Special Constable - Travelling 100 miles round trip for this force. Most of which is paid by me.
Tuesday: (0700-1500) At work at 0645. Worked through lunch. Got home at 1615. No overtime.
Wednesday: (0700-1500) At work at 0645. Worked through lunch. Got home at 1600. No overtime.
Thursday: (1000-1800) At work at 0930. Had a sandwich whilst at a job. Got home on time.
Friday: (1400-2200) At work at 1330. No lunch or dinner. Home at 2230. On call until 0700.
Saturday: (1200-2000) At work at 1130. Cup of soup before I went out. Off duty at 2030. No overtime.
Sunday: Rest Day working as we haven't got enough staff. Overtime paid. Tomorrow will be my first day off in seven.

This is a typical working week.

Sometimes, home is just where I sleep.

On top of the Pension reform. The Policing budget has been cut by millions of pounds. By next year, my department will be thinner on the ground.

We're likely to lose all overtime, weekend working allowances, shift allowance and on call payments are to be hacked.

The new shift pattern will include nights and seven out of nine weekends at work. With no additional payment.

I'm often on call between 2200 and 0700. I'll get a call and I need to be at the scene within an hour. Anytime of the night, anywhere within the force area. For being on call through the night, I get about two hours worth of pay. I'm happy with this. This will be halved.

All of this means a pay reduction for most people.

The Autumn statement yesterday suggests that even more public sector jobs are to go, which will affect me and my colleagues. If I am still here then, my pay is to be capped after the current freeze.

I don't get expenses for gardeners, second houses, drivers, cars, advisors and I don't take home millions in bonuses.

"Think of all the inconvenience you'll cause" I'm aware of that. What would the point be in striking and no one noticing? None.

I'll lose a day's pay. I should, I'm not at work.

I went to burglary the other day, the tenant let me in. The house was cold. Did she shut her windows and doors? No. She lit all four gas rings on her hob, turned them to full whack and they remained on the whole time I was there.

"I ain't paying for it mate" She says whilst laughing.

And I'm the selfish one.

I walked along the path beside the water towards fluorescent jackets, I could see their reflection in the clouds in the murky brown water as the wind blew ripples in it, Fire, Ambulance, Police, Special Rescue and others were up ahead.

One of the firefighters had a long pole, on the end of the pole was a man.

Floating. Face down.

Contrary to popular belief, bodies don't float straight away.

When someone dies in water, they normally sink. This is often as a result of the water filling their body, normally through the lungs. As decomposition continues, the bacteria in the chest and gut produce gases. These gases cause the person to float, normally by the torso. The head and limbs often follow suit.

Bodies that fall into the water face down, already dead, may float from the off. This is normally because the air in the lungs can't escape.

This man was wearing a green three quarter length jacket, a scarf, grey trousers and black shoes.

He wasn't young.

He had to come out of the water, the Fire Brigade were itching to get him out, they had been there for a while.

When people see someone in water, they're not sure who to call first. Normally, each Emergency Service will contact the other and notify them. All services are likely to go to such an incident.

I was with another CSI, and we lay a plastic sheet on the ground in line with him. The Firemen pulled him out, as gracefully as they could and lay him on the sheet, then it was up to me to search his pockets for ID.

I had gloves on but he was cold. I could feel that much.

He had a hanky in his left pocket, which along with everything else, was soaked through.

I checked him for injuries as I went, but I couldn't see any.

He had his watch on his left wrist, the hands surrounded by water. A bubble remained inside the face, it looked like he'd worn that watch every day of his life, and now his death.

As I put my hand into his left hand inside pocket of his jacket, I struck gold.

A clear Lloyds moneybag; inside was a driving licence with current address, a roll of notes, a shopping list and two Rover keys.

This doesn't look like someone has bopped him on the head or pushed him in for his valuables.  

I checked under his clothes for injuries and marks. There were none. I checked front and back of his neck, nothing.

He had very hairy ears.

It turns out the gent had left home earlier that morning to go to the City to do some shopping with a friend- he never got there, and now he never would.

He was widowed and lived alone, so no one would have missed him at home. His friend wasn't sure why he hadn't arrived but wasn't worried, supposing there was no reason to be worried.

Whilst I was there, a police unit had found the male's car parked up and secure only a mile away.

The male had no injuries and he had all of his valuables. There was nothing suspicious about his death.

This wasn't a crime. This was a tragic accident.

CSI Guy

Suspicious Death

The words "Suspicious Death" came over the radio.

That's going to be the next job, I thought.

Pretty much everything else will be put on hold for such a job.

A death can be labelled as suspicious for many reasons and by a number of people. The most common scenario is that a Paramedic has attended a job and found a person deceased. The Paramedic will normally make an informed decision as to whether or not two and two make four.

If it doesn't add up then they will call us.

The normal response is an Officer or Supervisor, sometimes both, will attend the scene and collect the facts.

An Inspector and a PC attended this job and they agreed with the Paramedic that the death appeared suspicious.

Sometimes the Officers don't agree, but Supervision will often ask for CSI in order to confirm or deny these suspicious aspects. That's always a tough one. Diplomacy at it's best.

If a death is likely to turn into a murder investigation, then a Crime Scene Manager (CSM) will always be appointed. The CSM will coordinate department's response.

Luckily for us, CSM Lady was on duty. She's been off for a while. It's nice to have her back. I asked if I could come along to assist and she agreed.

I drove to the scene. I've got a shiny new van, full of kit. This would be it's first decent job.

The address should have given it away. Maybe I hadn't noticed, maybe I was thinking about other things. This part of town has a large number of tower blocks. They're not called 'Sunny Tower Block' but they're all called 'Something' 'House'.

I don't know if it's the Council's way of brightening up a deprived area, or whether or not the person in charge at the time, thought it funny. They don't look like a house, they don't smell like a house and it's downright misleading to call them a 'House'.

I wouldn't live there.

I reversed the van up next to the Police car, so we could access the back doors of the van from the pavement. We put a collection of equipment into a small box to carry it to the scene, grabbed our cases and headed inside.

You get used to the aroma by the time you reach the stairs.
We looked at each other in realisation that the scene was on the top floor.

Two options, two flights of stairs for each floor for sixteen floors or the lift.

CSM was in charge. Sixteen flights was an awful long way to walk with the kit.

The lift it was.

I hate the lift. There was the usual; graffiti on the wall, smell of urine, chewing gum on the buttons. Someone here though had taken it up a notch. Faeces on the ceiling. Great.

We get out on the correct floor and we are met by a bobby guarding the scene. Half an hour ago, this floor was buzzing with people. Paramedics, a handful of bobbies, neighbours and Council workers. All in a space impossible for two people to pass each other.

Now it was the PC, CSM Lady and me. I prefer it this way.

CSM had a discussion with the bobby and then a conversation on the phone with the Inspector who attended.

CSM Lady delegates the videoing of the scene to me. She volunteers to take the photos. She takes the photos first. I follow behind her, making sure I'm not in any of them.

This place is a mess. I wasn't expecting much, but this is a wreck.
The guy has very little furniture. The living room consists of a single mattress with a waterproof cover as a sheet, an avocado coloured arm chair and a television.

That's it.

There was no carpet on the floor, no door handles on the doors, no light bulbs in the lights and no food in the cupboards.

There were six empty cans of strong cider, an empty packet of Monster Munch and some chocolate wrappers on the floor amongst the other rubbish.

The floor was covered in a thick layer of dirt and grime. I'm glad I have my white suit and footwear protectors on. As always, two pairs of gloves.

This is a property provided by the Council.

This is Social Housing.

The kitchen sink had dried blood and mucus in it. It was clear this guy wasn't well. No wonder, looking at where he sleeps and lives.
He was on a cocktail of drugs for various conditions. Empty boxes lay on the floor, as did the odd crushed tablet.

The male lay on his back, on the mattress. He was in his late forties. He looked in his late sixties.

The TV was still on, but just giving out static. I wonder what he was watching before he died?

Once all the photos had been taken, it was my turn to come in with the video.
The video won't show anything that the photos didn't show. The video is often used at any subsequent briefing.

I started at the front door. I pushed record. I took a breath and began.

"I am CSI Guy 999 of Anytown CSI and the time is 1100 on the 1st January 2001"
It felt weird at first, talking to the camera. I soon got into the swing of it. As I progressed through the property, I gave a commentary.

People use the camera in different ways. I try to stand still whilst it's recording and pan from left to right. I will talk about what can be seen and then hit pause. I will then move to another part of the room and do the same again. I will do this from each corner of the room, ensuring that everything is captured on film. Some people try to walk with the camera or use the zoom, I've seen one of these videos and it feels like a roller coaster ride. The screen is all over the place and it's difficult to keep track of what is where.

It felt like I had been in the property with the camera for fifteen minutes. The elapsed time was 05:04. Not long at all.

There wasn't much to see.

It was hot inside. Not because the heating was on, I doubt this flat ever had the heating on. Being in a suit, with a mask and gloves on whilst working can work up a sweat.

The only clean place to put the camera was an Argos catalogue. It couldn't have been here long. I put the camera down on top of it and I stepped out onto the balcony. I'm on the sixteenth floor, no one's going to see me in my suit up here. I could see for miles and miles. It was a brilliant view. I'd love to get a photo from this balcony at night.

I'm not sure I'd want to walk in this area at night, let alone with my camera. It's sad really, there are some really nice people that live near here, I'm sure. The problem is, there are some really nasty people too. Once an area gets a reputation, it's difficult to shake it.
I'm not sure if this was the highest building I'd been in or not, the cars look like toys on the road below.

Once I finished with the video, I went back into the hallway. CSM Lady was on the phone to the Inspector. When she finished we went back inside.

The suspicious element of this job came about when and how the male was found. There was nothing else to suggest his death was untoward. We always check the person for any injuries. That was next.

This is where my double gloves come in handy.

CSM Lady took some close up photos of the male. She took one of his face, square on, this may be useful if his identity is unknown. The male had some tattoos and she photographed these too. I held his arms and hands in place for photos.

We need to check his back.

I took hold of his right arm and right leg and rolled him away from me. He was stiff. Rigor Mortis had set in. When I rolled him over, his back was different colours. Parts of his back were deep purple and some were pale, almost white.

When someone dies, the blood in their body stops circulating and as a result of gravity, will sink to the lowest accessible parts. This is known as 'Hypostasis' or 'Lividity' as well as other similar names. This can be useful determining whether or not someone has been moved after death. After a period of time, and this varies, the blood will remain fixed in the lower parts of the body. If a person is then moved, it will be clear to an investigator that the body isn't in the position it was when it died. This difference can also be seen in a person's organs.
The white parts of the male were where his body had been against the mattress. It was visible on his shoulders and his buttocks. The pressure on the skin prevented the blood settling there. These white areas can be seen on most people when they've died. Elasticated socks, tight belts, bra straps, watches and any ligature will have the same effect.

I could also see the dirt and grime from the mattress that had stuck to his back, along with a few copper coins.
He had no injuries that would give CSM Lady or myself cause for concern.

CSM Lady decided that the male would have a Post Mortem to determine the cause of death. Until that was completed, the property would remain secure.

We brought in two body bags. We lay the first one out next to the male. We unzipped it and lifted him into it. We lay the second body bag out next to the first and lifted that one into the second. Once they were both zipped up, the outer bag needs a tamper evident seal. This allows the Dr at the PM to be confident that the bag hasn't been opened in transport or storage. CSM Lady photographed this.

I didn't go to the Post Mortem, it took place the following day whilst I was off. It turned out the male died as a result of the numerous conditions he suffered from and there was no indication of foul play.

The Council will be happy that the can let that flat out again. I wonder what the next tenants would do with the place.

CSI Guy

Murder

Apologies for the delay in getting a new post up. I've been busy recently. Work takes up a lot of my time.

I'll discuss my thoughts of a job I did over a year ago now.

I was on lates, which is a 1400-2200 hour shift.

For once, I was off on time. To tell the truth, I left ten minutes early. Who's to know?

It had been a busy few weeks, it may have been the time of year, it may just have been luck. Or the lack of it.

I hadn't eaten whilst at work so I put some left over chicken pie, potatoes and peas in the microwave. Two minutes and thirty seconds later and a splash of brown sauce and all was good.

I hadn't quite finished the plate when the phone rang.

I'm on call. And that's a call out. It has to be.

There's been a murder. Never quite the same as Taggart.

I live close enough to the station to be able to finish my food before I get ready to go again. I got in the office within twenty minutes, it felt like I'd only been here a couple of hours ago.

I had been.

I read the incident on the computer system, it had been running for just short of three hours and was already on page thirty two, most incidents are two pages long, maximum.

The incident normally includes details from the initial caller, descriptions, address, telephone number and what has happened. From there, details of responding officers are attached, decisions that have been made, observations, names of witnesses, suspects and much more will be placed on an incident. It soon adds up.

There was already a Crime Scene Manager (CSM) at the scene. A CSM will always take the lead on a murder. The CSM makes decisions on how to process the scene and the CSI will normally carry out the work. The CSM will work closely with the Senior Investigating Officer (SIO) to progress the investigation.

The CSM had requested a CSI to assist him at the scene. I like the CSM at this job. He's knocking on a bit but a great guy. He's experienced, calm, professional and has the best sense of humour in the office. Except for me.

I called the CSM on the radio, using a point to point (a personal conversation on the radio system), and checked to see if he needed anything in particular from the store room before I headed his way. I grabbed a few bits and pieces and put a flask of coffee together, anticipating a long night.

It didn't take long to get to the location, there was hardly any traffic on the roads. I knew the road where the incident had occurred, though the Police vans and scene tape on approach gave it away.

It was a particularly cold night so I had my force issue woolly hat on, it looks ridiculous, but keeps me warm and Miss CSI says I look cute, besdies which it's not a fashion show, especially at this time of the night.

As I approached the cordon, an Officer hastily jumped out of the passenger side of the van, he was probably sitting in front of the heater, he put his hat on and started to point towards a side road.

I'm not going down there. I'm coming in the cordon. He just doesn't know it yet.

As I got closer, it wasn't my van, it wasn't my uniform, nor was it my radio giving off an incredible amount of light, it was my hat that made him realise who I was. "You must be SOCO, with a stupid hat like that. Your colleague is over there, he has one of those!"

He lifted the tape as I drove under it. The tape is strecthy and usually goes over the top of the van easily. I parked up and the CSM came out to greet me.

He gave me a run down of what happened. "It's not good" He said.

I gathered as much, seeing as someone had been murdered.

I took my hat and jacket off and put on a white suit and footwear protectors. I slipped on two pairs of gloves.

The CSM took me towards the door of the property, the deceased's place of work, and I could smell blood. There was a tent over space in the back of the building, as I entered the tent, there was a lot of blood on the floor. This is probably the most blood I've seen in one area before.

As we entered the door into the property, there was a trail of blood.

This wasn't blood drops, nor was it cast off from a weapon, this was blood transfer. Something, or more likely, someone, wet with blood, has moved across this floor.

The transfer went in the door, down the steps, around the corner and across the floor.


At the end of this trail, I knew there was going to be a person. This trail was the last movements of the man who had been murdered. Dragging himself along the floor trying to get help. Not many people will see this, thankfully.

The floor was covered in footwear impressions trod into blood. It was clear people were here at the time of the incident or after it. I could see at least four different impressions, there would be many more that can't be seen which would be developed later. It's likely that some of the impressions would belong to paramedics and Officers.

None of them will belong to me, I can make that promise.

The male had been attacked whilst at work by strangers, this doesn't happen very often. The offenders are normally known to the victim or there is normally a connection of sorts.

Not here, apparently.

I spent a few minutes just looking, taking it all in. The male way laying on his right side. There was a small pool of blood on the floor beneath him. His mouth was wide open. His left leg was on top of his right leg. His Adidas jacket had six or seven holes in it. These holes were were the knife had ripped it open before it was plunged into his body.

This had been a frenzy. A book shelf lay on the ground ahead of the male, books were strewn all over the floor.

Both the CSM and I had to prepare this male for removal to a mortuary, this almost always means taking clothes and jewellery off. Each piece of clothing has to be packaged seperately, I had to do this. The problem with these clothes were that they were still wet. Normally, clothing goes into brown paper bags, but blood would have soaked straight through. I wrote the exhibit details on the outside of the paper bag and then I placed the wet clothing in an open plastic bag, then placed it inside the paper bag.

I never thought I'd have a job taking other people's clothes off, especially in these sort of circumstances.

Any such clothing removed would need to be dried before being sealed completely, we have cabinets for this back at the station.

As I was doing this, the CSM was videoing the scene and taking photos of other important points.

I put the bags of clothes into the back of my van, it was nice to step outside into the cold air. I remembered I had a flask of coffee and felt fully deserving of a break, as did the CSM. I went back inside with my flask in my hand, the CSM's eyes lit up.

We took ten minutes aside to have a coffee and got back to it.

Before we put the male in a body bag, we had to cover his hands, feet and head. I've discussed this before, but it never stops feeling completely unnatural to put a plastic bag over someone's head, even when they are deceased.

I pulled the black drawstrings on the bags, tightening the seal on each.

Putting the male in a body bag was a two man job. CSM had packed the video camera away and changed gloves. I'm not sure why he changed gloves, he hadn't touched anything except the camera yet.

We had to find a clean space to lay the bag out. We've got new bags. They've got stronger handles. I wonder who makes these items. Bags for heads and bags for bodies. I thought I had a strange job.

There's no graceful way to put someone in a bag. I held him by his arms, CSM held him by the legs. Once inside the first bag, the male goes into a second bag. Inner and outer bags.

As I left people were starting to head to work. The road closure was causing chaos. It didn't bother me, I was driving the opposite way.

This job made the National News. Thankfully, I was tucked up in bed before the TV crews got there.

Play it safe

Every now and then a keen gardener, a developer or a metal detector enthusiast will discover bones during their adventures.

My force, like most forces, will have a protocol for dealing with such incidents as and when they arise.

The idea is to treat any find as a potential scene until it can be determined that it isn't.

Play it safe. Works well.

I'd been in the office towards the end of my shift for an hour or so already. I was catching up on some paperwork, a regular challenge in this line of work, when the phone rang.

It was the control room for the division in which my station is based. This isn't normally the division I cover, just where my station is. I didn't know the controller so the conversation was brief.

"I've got a Sergeant over at Anytown Station who has a bone"

Now, I'm not sure if this was a deliberate play on words or not. In the split second it took me to reply, all sorts of witty comments went through my mind, shall I?

Better not. Play it safe.

"Righto. What's his number, I'll give him a call" I said.

The Sergeant was also a stranger to me, this happens a lot due to the size of my force. Even on the division where I spend most of my time, it's difficult to meet the same Officer more than once. When you do, it's like you've met an old friend!

I've learnt to make friends with the DS's and DI's. These are the people that want to know what I think when I am at a scene. It makes it easier if you are on good terms. Some CSIs I know have feuds with some of the DI's (for good reason) but it doesn't half make it awkward when they get together at a scene.

We can't like everyone, nor expect everyone to like us, we are all human after all.

I rang the Sergeant at Anytown Station and asked him about the job. He told me that this bone had been discovered at an allotment whilst they were turning over the soil.

I've heard that there are waiting lists for allotments that are longer than the waiting list to be in the audience of Top Gear.

Seriously? A shed and some soil?

 "It looks like a child's hip bone" the Sergeant said.

He doesn't want to be saying things like this for two reasons. One, it scares me, and two, it scares the DI in CID.

The Sergeant thought it'd be a good idea to put the bone in a Tesco carrier bag and take it back to Anytown Station in his car. Not a great problem if he knew it wasn't human, but he's told me already he thinks it's a child's hip bone!

I ask a few questions about the allotment and who is guarding the scene. They are rhetorical questions. I know no one is guarding the scene.

They should be.

It turns out that the allotments have been locked up and the owner is aware that we may, at any point, come back and excavate his radishes.

I ask the Sergeant to carefully bring the bone to me at CSI HQ.

"Straight away, CSI Guy." I could hear a quiver in his voice. I think he's just realised that he may actually have the remains of a person on the back seat of his panda in a carrier bag.

Really, the only person who can say whether a bone is human or not is a Forensic Archaeologist. I can have a go, but it'd need confirming.

Some forces have Forensic Archaeologists, some don't. Some are available 24/7, some aren't. It turns out that I had the number for one who was on call 24/7. I gave her a call and asked her if I could send some photos to her to have a look at.

"Go for it CSI Guy, I'll call you straight back."

This sort of service is invaluable. This Archaeologist could get a call from any one of the UK Police forces at any time day or night, to look at a bone. She is always willing to help.

I bet her husband loves her getting up at 0400 to have a look at photos of bones sent by Police Officers. No play on words, honest.

I meet the Sergeant in the car park and lead him to the examination room, he's holding the carrier bag in his hands, palms face up and at arms length.

I've mentioned before how particular I am with my photos. I like them to be right. In the examination room we have use of a copy stand, it's like a table top tripod, but isn't.

The Sergeant puts the carrier bag on the desk next to the copy stand and stands back. I can sense his relief, he's passed it to me now, not his problem.

I prepare my camera, format my memory card and fix the camera to the copy stand.

I put brown paper over the copy stand base, I don't want bones on the copy stand. I put two pairs of gloves on.

I take the bone out of the carrier bag with my right hand, there's a receipt in the bag, Walkers salt and vinegar crisps and a prawn and mayonaise sandwich.

"Not mine!" the Sergeant says.

I smile at him and raise my eyebrows.

I turn the bone around in one hand, looking at each side of it.

It looks like a hip bone to me, it looks odd though, which I hope means that it isn't human.

"I think it's human" I said to the Sergeant.

He went pale and quiet. He used an expletive. I didn't let on then I was having him on.

"Lets photograph it and get it off to the Forensic Archaeologist" I said.

He nodded in agreement. "Play it safe" he said.

It was mean I know, I shouldn't have strung him along like that.

I took a series of photos with and without a scale. I took a photograph of each side, one edge of the bone appeared as if something had damaged it. It was sharp.

The photos took about ten minutes.

During this time, the Sergeant was on the computer in the examination room, using Google to find images of human hip bones.

What would the Police service do without Google? Seriously. I use it a lot. I often use my iPhone to google names of things, locations and postcodes. It's great.

I left the bone on the copy stand. Depending on the reply from the Forensic Archaeologist, will depend on what I do with the bone.

I took my CF card out of the camera and went to the office. The Sergeant stayed in the exam room. I got to the car park and realised he wasn't with me. I walked back to the exam room and he's stood where I left him. I look at him and say "You alright Sarge?"

"Oh, I'm coming with you? Right, of course."

I emailed the photos to the Forensic Archaeologist and within ten minutes she called back.

It's a cow she said. That's the answer we all wanted. I'm sure she was a little disappointed though. Imagine how many photos she studies and how very few of them are bones from humans.

The Sergeant was distracted with his Blackberry. I put the phone down and completed my report on the computer.

I turned and looked at him. He looked up from his phone and smiled. I explained that the phone call was from the Forensic Archaeologist.

"She said it's human"

He put his head in his hands.

"I'm joking, it's a cow!"

He called me every name under the sun. Twice. He shook my hand, said thanks and left.

I'd always reccommend that Officers take extra precautions at jobs like these. It's difficult to backtrack at a later stage. It turned out that there use to be a slaughter house near the allotments and the bones are likely to be from that. It had been chewed by a rat or two over the years. No dramas.

The bone is still on my desk in a window box. I don't want to throw it away. I'll use it at school talks or training inputs.