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unaffected.
    She stepped closer to the opening and peered inside it.
    Tony Coffey’s face floated gently on the scummy surface, framed by a thick, viscous soup of gray foam. His eyes were open, staring upwards, the moment of his death captured forever in his ghastly grimace.
    What had the poor guy been thinking, Reilly wondered. What goes through your mind as you slowly drown in sewage or choke on lethal fumes, all alone in the dark confines of a tiny space surrounded by human filth? Did he know his murderer?  Did he have any idea why he was being subjected to such punishment?
    She bent down to take a better look at the area below. The tank itself looked ol d ancient, actuall y and she figured it must have been there for decades, perhaps part of the original friary. The original waste system was just as old, as was often the way with these period houses, and the entire lower portion of the tank was hewn directly into living rock, with heavy limestone blocks stacked above it, creating large walls over which giant crosspieces were laid.
    Between the layers of limestone were delicate frets of a soot-like substance, as if the whole thing had been constructed with burned or burning wood between the stones: plenty of dark little corners in which Reilly hoped trace evidence might lurk.
    They’d be draining the tank once the body was removed, but until then …
    Catching a whiff of methane that almost made her dizzy, yet again Reilly bemoaned her delicate nose. Normally when working a scene all her senses were hyperaware, but this time she was definitely going to have to do without her trusty nose.
    Taking one last gasp of fresh air, she slipped on a gas mask to shield her from the toxic fumes, and kneeled down properly on the damp grass. If she felt the cold wet ground through the knees of her contamination suit as she tried to look past the purple-splotched face of the body, she barely registered it. Her focus was now entirely on collecting evidence, finding clues as to how this had happened, and who might be responsible.
    Not for the first time, Reilly wondered how in the world she had ended up here – on this occasion hovering over an open sewer with only a putrifying corpse for company – instead of spending her days sitting at a desk and exchanging pleasantries and coffee with colleagues, like most normal people.
    Faced with a situation like this – with such a disgusting horrific mess –  wouldn’t most sane people throw up and run away screaming? That fact that she could face it all with such equanamity made her wonder what kind of person that made her. As bad as the killer if this was just another part of the day job? Or as bad as  …?  A thought surfaced unbidden and, attempting to banish the notion from her mind, she flicked on her torch, and began carefully examining the rim of the manhole opening. It was wet, rusting and crusted with a thick layer of dried scum.
    She knew that chemically, 99.9 percent of the dank gray soup in the tank consisted merely of water, yet it was amazing how that other tiny percentage of offensive fecal bacteria was responsible for the assailing reek, and the main reason Reilly was restricting the majority of her person to outside the tank.
    She choked back a gag, and began searching along the rim. After a few minutes, a short hair clinging to the damp metal on the inside caught her attention. It looked to be human, with the follicle still attached, and while she knew it could be anyone’s (and being coarse and curly was likely to be a pubic hair that had passed through the Coffeys’ toilet) at least it was something. She gently lifted it with her tweezers and dropped it into an evidence bag.
    She continued to scan the area, following the beam of the torch as it illuminated the dark interior, then leaned further inside the opening, her face just inches from the dead man’s. The putrid foam moved gently as the victim bobbed on the surface, the gases in his stomach keeping him