... When it is hauled – dissolving, hard to see as what was once a human being – out of the winter lake, they gape in silence: puffs of vapour stand for voices.  Brought to shore, it lies upon a canvas sheet; the brightly painted rowing boat is dragged up on the freezing mud, and those with jobs to do leave in relief. The rest look anywhere but at their dripping catch, and wait until the surgeon comes to certify the thing is dead.  It’s whisked away, laid out upon a table, stainless steel — and then the slicing and the sawing, and the grim performance of the modern haruspectic rite that seeks for omens, not of things to come, but of the past.  Here, trapped within the folds of grey, a bullet’s found, striations mapped; upon the wrists and ankles, barely visible, abrasion marks. The organs bottled, tissues laid on slides, and dental work recorded... finally the closing, crudely stitched. The corpse is slid into a chilly drawer, the table’s sluiced, and there’s just time for sandwiches a...