Extract: The Blood Says Otherwise by Ruben Miller

A compelling account of Ruben Miller's years working as a forensic scientist, visiting crime scenes and gathering evidence. His detailed descriptions of what he sees are often heart-breaking. The behaviour of the people he meets - lawyers, police, the media and even the occasional suspect - is always fascinating and occasionally hilarious. Insights into the techniques of forensic science give a fascinating view of what it can and can't do vs what the public, and even legal experts, expect.

With unflinching honesty and flashes of dark humour, Ruben takes readers beyond the police tape to the questions that hang heavy in the air and the small details that change everything.

Part true-crime and part memoir - this is what it really takes to face the darkest scenes, and still walk away.

Extract from The Blood Says Otherwise by Ruben Miller, HarperCollins, RRP $39.95, published here with kind permission. 

Chapter 1: The Morgue

The staff member handed us over to the forensic pathologist on duty. The pathologist greeted us with a clinical smile, just visible above her lowered mask, that was entirely matching the cold and steely surroundings. She was in her mid-50s and I found myself wishing that she had a more maternal vibe. I was clearly yearning for some comfort and support to get myself through this experience. In the background, I could see a technician using a hose to clean something off the floor, something that was now draining down one of those holes. I was looking but I was not looking, aware that no one else was looking.

There were three gurneys out in the large room, each with a medical-green, cloth blanket covering a mound. But one of the blankets was not quite large enough and two ominously translucent feet stuck out from the end of one of the others. I was here just as an observer; it wasn’t like I was going to be given a scalpel to have a go. But I was getting the sense that this wasn’t going to go as well as I had hoped.

The technician, Bob (I’m not sure if he was introduced as Bob or if I’ve just applied this name to him), had a slightly deranged look, with wide eyes and a semi-permanent smile, which was unusual to see as he didn’t have a facemask. That was weird – we were all wearing masks and were told to wear them, and I couldn’t imagine choosing not to, even though the thin material seemed to do nothing to minimise the smell. He was still busy spraying the floor and washing the contents down the drains, although the water was now running clear – the blood had long washed away but he didn’t show any signs of slowing.

As he meticulously cleaned the floor, I was drawn to looking at his apron, which was covered in blood. Overly so.

The apron looked like a set-design team had been in, providing props, and I suddenly felt slightly better as I imagined myself back as a special-effects make-up artist – maybe this was not real after all. For an irrational moment, I prided myself on being the only one able to spot the fake item in the room, undoubtedly as another way to distract myself from what was actually going on.

Bob picked up a small circular saw from the workbench and turned it on; it emitted a high-pitched whirr that automatically set my teeth on edge as I was reminded of the murder house (what we as kids called the dentist). I wondered what that particular saw was used for. I could see scalpels, incredibly shiny scissors of various sizes, a strange hammer with a hook on the end and a variety of small saw- and chisel- looking implements on the stainless-steel trolley next to one of the bodies.

Bob walked around, turning his saw on and off for a few minutes, presumably contemplating something, and then returned to the workbench and placed it back with the other instruments. What the hell was that all about? Was it for our benefit? Was Bob actually an actor placed here to provide a complete experience for a bunch of wannabe forensic scientists? He had to be.

Meanwhile, the pathologist had picked up a scalpel from the tool tray. She held it up close to her face and examined it – how shiny and sharp it looked. I was wondering if this was a dramatic pause for effect? We were standing next to the mound with the feet sticking out. Bob the technician rushed over and, while the pathologist’s hand was occupied with the scalpel, he seized his opportunity for the big reveal. With a stage magician’s flourish, he whipped back the sheet – I think he had been practising that. And ... it was a body. Of course it was. For a moment, it seemed that it should have been a giant rabbit or something.

It was an obese man, lying on his back, looking totally serene. There weren’t any obvious wounds or injuries. I felt a surge of hope that perhaps this wouldn’t be as bad as I thought – it wasn’t a horror scene.

Then came the whiplash of hope turning to dread; no, it was going to be worse than I thought – this serene-looking man was about to be opened up with that scalpel. I immediately felt bad for him; he was lying there vulnerable and exposed. The pathologist announced, ‘This is a suspected heart attack,’ and I thought, Well, what the hell are we opening him up for then?! I soothed myself with what again felt like a revelation that I was not going to open him up, that I was just here to watch. Just watching that sharp, shiny scalpel as it made its way towards his chest. I was sure this was happening in slow motion. I forced myself to keep focus on the blade but, as soon as it penetrated the skin, I turned away. Bob was standing there, watching me with another big smile on his face.

I realise as I am writing this that I was avoiding thinking about the scalpel bit – in fact, I actually don’t remember a lot else of this moment. It is a bit like trying to remember a nightmare: fragmented snapshots, hyper-realism, sharp sounds, wet sounds and bleak hues contrasted with intense red. Over the years in my profession, I would end up building up a veritable databank of nightmares, associations and triggers. In many ways, I wish I had recognised what it was that that damn scalpel was trying to tell me on that fateful day in the bowels of that creepy building. Alas, my skill at avoidance was to be honed from that day forth.

A student named Stephanie had organised this visit to the morgue, which was ironic as she and the others actually had no interest in a job that involved working with dead bodies, preferring the safety of an analytical, laboratory-based position that dealt with carefully labelled samples. I couldn’t say my reasons for going to the morgue were actually that well articulated – I guess I felt that as I wanted to work in a role in which there were dead bodies, it would be a good idea to get used to them. I was now cursing Steph and her curiosity, especially since she and the little group of equally curious students seemed to be totally fine, engrossed and with some level of adulation for the pathologist and her work.

Although I was freaking out within the confines of my own mind, alternating between distracting myself and worrying about my reactions, with what little consciousness I had left I was also feeling increasingly spiteful towards all of them – clearly, they were sociopaths and ... I was going to make a useless forensic scientist. Which was a shame given this was my intended career.

How was I being perceived? Apart from the crazed smiley guy with the bloodstained apron, I realised I was the only male in the room. My masculinity-protection system was activated as I worried about the judgements of the women who were sailing through this grisly experience.

That was not on the trolley! Where did she hide that? The pathologist was holding what I can only describe as gardener’s loppers. Really shiny gardener’s loppers. They were coming towards me. Had I missed something? Were she and Bob actually even more sinister than they looked? While Bob might have been as sinister as he looked, I had held out a little more hope for the pathologist. Were we about to be butchered down here? Was this how they got more bodies – the unsuspecting students? My overactive imagination, probably spurred on by the number of slasher movies I had both been involved in making and had watched over the years, was kicking into overdrive. I realised that I might have been about to lose it completely. At that point, I was not quite sure which was worse – either I was about to be butchered or I was watching a butchering. 

Groping around in my head, I somehow connected that the loppers were about to be used to open the ribcage. The room was starting to spin. There were a couple of options here and my mind weighed up the respective shame in each. I found my voice, albeit a tiny, high-pitched version of my voice: ‘Er, could we just stop for a moment?’ Though what I really wanted to say was, ‘Can we please stop this insanity now, you horrible people!?’

The Blood says otherwise is available in bookstores now.