Find a Victim

Chapter 27

Her body lay on a rimmed table made of stainless steel. It was ivory white except for the tips of the breasts, the hole under the left breast, the two long incisions curving down from the shoulders to a point below the breastbone.

A middle-aged pathologist named Treloar was working at a sink in the corner. He cleaned his instruments and set them on the sinkboard one by one: a scalpel and a larger knife, a bone-saw, ah electric vibrator saw. They gleamed in the frosty fluorescent light.

He turned to me, peeling off his rubber gloves. “You had some questions.”

“Have you recovered the bullet?”

He nodded and smiled with professional cheerfulness. “I went after it first thing. Had to use X-ray to find it. It pierced the heart and lodged between the ribs close to the spine.”

“Can I have a look at it?”

“I turned it over to Danelaw an hour ago. It’s definitely .38-caliber, but he has to use his comparison microscope to ascertain if it came from the same revolver.”

“How long has she been dead, doctor?”

“I can give you a more precise answer when I have a chance to make some slides. Right now I’d say a week, give or take a day.”

“Six days minimum?”

“Absolute minimum.”

“This is Saturday. She was shot last Sunday then.”

“No later than last Sunday.”

“And she couldn’t have been seen alive on Monday.”

“Not a chance. I’m telling you the same thing I told Westmore. I’m scientifically certain, even without the slides.” Professional pride sparkled behind his glasses. “I’ve done over forty-three hundred autopsies, here and overseas.”

“I’m not questioning your competence, doctor.”

“I didn’t think you were. Your witness was either lying or mistaken. Westmore believes he was lying.”

“Where’s Westmore now?”

“In the hospital somewhere. Try the emergency room – they’re sewing up your prisoner.”

Treloar went back to the sink to wash his hands. I started for the door. It opened before I touched it. Displaced air moved coldly against my face, and Church came in.

He passed me without noticing me. All he saw was the woman under the light. He leaned on the foot of the table.

Treloar glanced over his shoulder. “Where have you been, Brand? We held up the p. m. as long as we thought we should.”

Church paid no attention. His eyes were steady and shining, focused on the woman. They seemed to be witnessing a revelation, looking directly into the white heat at the center of things.

“You’re dead, Anne.” He spoke to her as though he was addressing a dumb animal, or a child too young to talk. “You’re really dead, Anne.”

Treloar looked at him curiously and came forward wiping his fingers on a hospital towel. Church was unaware. He was alone with the woman, hidden in the intensity of his dream. His large hands moved and took one of her feet between them. He chafed it gently as if he could warm it back to life.

Treloar backed to the door and jerked his head at me. We went outside. The door shushed closed behind us.

He whistled softly. “I heard that he was stuck on his sister-in-law. I didn’t realize he had it so bad.” His smile was crooked with embarrassment. “Cigarette?”

I shook my head. Something deeper than embarrassment tied my tongue. On the other side of the metal door there were rough and broken sounds: a man’s dry grief, a woman’s name repeated in deaf ears.

“Excuse me,” Treloar said. “I have to make a call.”

He walked away quickly, his white smock flapping behind him.