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femoral line is that any fluid could just fill the abdomen. We need to go in to know what damage is in the belly.”
    He had to be a surgical registrar.
    “I’m in the humeral head,” Greg announced from the girl’s right shoulder. He flushed the line with saline and attached the blood for immediate transfusion. A nurse stood, arms above her head, squeezing the blood to get it into the body faster.
    The monitor beeped seventy-five, a dangerously low blood pressure. Even if the girl survived, there was a chance she could suffer organ damage because of the prolonged poor blood supply.
    The number on the monitor slowly increased with each squeeze of the bag. The blood was doing some good.
    “Everyone, this is Doctor Crichton, a pathologist and forensic physician,” Greg introduced.
    “Aren’t you a bit early? Business must be slow in the morgue,” the surgical registrar muttered and stepped outside the curtain.
    Some things in hospitals never changed.
    “Don’t suppose you want to put in a subclavian line?” Greg looked up. “Your anatomy is better than all of ours put together.”
    “Not today thanks. But I will bag her shirt if anyone knows where it is.”
    “Ah, I listened to your last lecture and split it along the buttons so knife cuts stayed intact.”
    “Much appreciated.” For the first time, Anya had a clear view of Sophie’s head and neck. The wound gaped from one ear to the other, exposing veins and vital structures.
    “I’ve never seen a wound that deep on anyone alive,” Anya thought out loud.
    The breathing tube was placed straight into the trachea, bypassing the mouth and upper neck, kept stable by a towel clip attached to the sheet. In this instance, everyone was improvising as best they could. Textbooks couldn’t cover situations this complicated.
    No wonder the woman at the top was keeping the head stable. Even a slight movement could tear large veins and prove fatal.
    Greg glanced at Anya, then paused to look at his patient. “God knows how she crawled all that way without severing a vessel completely. The ambo officers did a top job getting her here alive.” Gloves on, he wiped his forehead with his forearm. “You know, I’ve got a daughter the same age.”
    Moving a piece of hair from the neck area, he paused. “It’s hard to believe someone did this deliberately.”
    Blood pressure hovered at eighty to eighty-five.
    The surgical registrar returned. “Vascular surgeon’s upstairs prepping. No time for a CT scan. As soon as that other line’s in, we’ll take her straight to theater.”
    “What about gynecology?” As the forensic physician, Anya was concerned about Liz’s mention of a bleeding vaginal injury.
    Greg explained, “Registrar’s upstairs standing by. You might as well photograph what you can. It’s the best chance for the neck and stab wounds you’re likely to get.”
    Anya already had the digital camera in her hand. Any opportunity to examine the wounds would be gone once surgeons started operating. With no time to grab a tape measure, she pulled the lid off a pen and placed it on the skin near the girl’s left shoulder. The lid would be the consistent measure of scale for each wound.
    She recorded a number of stab wounds on the chest without interfering with the resuscitation. The woman at the head mentioned marks on the forearms and Anya gently collected images of them as well as of the hands and fingernails with the assistance of another nurse. Classic defense injuries, she thought. Sophie had tried to fend off her attacker, or attackers. She had probably seen whoever stabbed her.
    “Thanks, Greg.”
    “They should know to expect you in theater as well. Any problems, get them to ring me.”
    “Give us a few minutes,” said the woman still quietly holding Sophie’s head. “You can meet me in the anesthetic bay. I’m Jenny Rafferty.”
    Anya recognized the name of the Director of Anesthesiology and Intensive Care. Sophie was in the best possible