Icy Clutches

Chapter 11

Well, not really. All he had to do was to continue his analysis of the skeletal fragments. There was nothing about this that couldn't wait, but he preferred to give the pathologist plenty of breathing room. Forensic pathologists were a generally amiable-even jolly-breed, but when Gideon hung around watching them ply their trade, they tended to get crabby and make rude remarks about skeleton detectives.

Owen had gotten him a more convenient place to work: the “contact station,” a ranger post that had recently been built to provide information to lodge guests. This was located about two hundred feet from the main building, overlooking Bartlett Cove at the foot of a long pier from which tour boats operated in the summer. A small, neat, wooden building, it had been closed since Labor Day, and it made a good place for him; bright, clean, and uncluttered, still smelling of fresh paint and newly carpentered wood, with plenty of waist-high counter space that allowed him to work standing up, something he preferred.

The perforated cranial fragment was in a safe at park headquarters, but the other bones were here, and his equipment had arrived from the university in Port Angeles. Gideon set up shop on the main counter, under an intimidating wall display of mounted Alaskan crabs. He whistled softly as he unpacked. The smooth, expensive tools of steel and wood were always a delight to handle, always cleared his mind-even of images like Tremaine's dead face and exposed, dewlapped throat. Precise and finely machined the tools might be, but they were marvelously low-tech, uncomplicated things all the same: measuring calipers, jointed boards, gleaming, six-foot-long telescoping rulers. They would have looked fine in a 1930s mad-scientist movie. Even the names would have fit right in. “Bring me the goniometer, Igor.” “Do not be frightened, my dear; “I am merely going to put the head spanner on you."

But soothing as they were to work with, there wasn't much they could tell him. Gideon spent an hour measuring, then checked his measurements. He determined the transverse and vertical breadths of the head of the femur and its subtrochanteric diameters; he computed the various angles, heights, lengths, and thicknesses of the mandible and the tarsals; he patiently measured the five metatarsals and the other foot bones. He made a dubious estimate of total height from the partial femur. (This was getting into “fudge-factor country,” as John called it.)

And when he finished it all, he knew what he had known before: The bones had come from one or more sturdily built males in their mid-twenties and within an inch or so either way of six feet. Almost certainly James Pratt and/or Steven Fisk.

The difference now was that, if need arose, he could justify his conclusions with figures, something that always pleased policemen and prosecuting attorneys. The funny part was that all the measuring really added nothing new. Most of the impressive-sounding calculations-the platymeric index, the claviculo-humeral ratio, the various robusticity indices-were recent approximations of time-honored subjective judgments, and not the other way around at all. When a choice had to be made, was there an experienced practitioner who wouldn't go with the testimony of eyes and fingertips over that of calipers and calculators? Not likely. Or of goniometers either. This was a dark secret that he and other professors guarded from the tender ears of their graduate students, who would, if they stuck with it long enough, eventually find it out for themselves.

Well, at least he could do something about preserving the fragments, now that they were dry. He was looking for a container to mix the acetone and Duco that Owen had gotten for him, when John appeared on the wooden porch of the building, a giant Styrofoam cup in either hand. Gideon pulled open the door for him.

"Hiya, Doc. Figured you could use some coffee."

"I sure can, thanks.” He lifted off the plastic lid and took a grateful swig. “Where'd you find coffee this time of the morning?"

"Restaurant kitchen. They keep a pot going in there."

Gideon laughed. When there was a kitchen around, John usually didn't take long to make a friend in it. He took another swallow. “How's Dr. Wu coming?"

John growled. “He booted me out. Dr. Burton W. Wu. Kind of a touchy little bastard. Like you."

"Me?” Gideon said, surprised. “Touchy?"

"Yeah, like when you come in to look at some bones and you don't let anybody tell you anything about anything. You have to figure it all out yourself."

"That's not being touchy. That's trying to keep myself honest. You know that."

"Yeah, I know, but I'm not used to it from a medical examiner. I was in there examining the scene, you know? Being really careful not to disturb evidence, not getting in anybody's way. But finally this guy turns around and grins with these sharp little teeth and tells me to get the hell out of the room because he's trying to work and I'm bugging him. Jesus Christ,” he muttered, “prima donnas all over the place. Everybody's gotta have everything just the way they want it or they have a temper tantrum."

He put his unopened coffee on the counter and dropped into a chair. “What the hell,” he said with a sigh, never one to sulk very long. “How's the coffee?"

Gideon took another taste, rolling it judiciously on his tongue. “Well, now that you mention it, it's a little heavy on the cream. And I prefer half-and-half to the nondairy stuff. And in the future it'd be nice to get something to stir it with. Also-"

John looked sharply at him, began to speak, and then burst out laughing, a sunny peal that folded the skin around his eyes into a network of happy crinkles. As usual, Gideon couldn't help laughing along.

"Anyway,” John said, stretching his legs out and getting his heels up on a carton on the floor, “I took off and told the little bugger where he could find me. Now, fill me in on what's been going on around here. What are these meetings Tremaine was having? Who're these people he was meeting with?"

"There's not too much I can tell.” Gideon pulled over an armchair and told John what he knew. He explained what Tibbett had told him and described his own meeting with the group with all the detail he could remember. John jotted down a few notes. It took no more than fifteen minutes. “Okay, Doc, that'll be helpful.” His notebook went into a breast pocket of his jacket. “Now tell me what's going on with the bones."

They got up and went to the counter. The fragments were neatly arranged on butcher paper. “Here they are,” Gideon said, “but there isn't anything new to tell. Owen's sending a couple of his rangers back out there today and tomorrow, and maybe they'll come up with some more, but right now, all-” His attention was caught by movement outside, glimpsed through the side window. “Looks like the little bugger's found you."

The diminutive figure of Burton Wu was striding rapidly down the path from the lodge, purposeful and splayfooted. Splay-kneed, really; every small step swung him off to one side or the other with a roller skater's waddle. A moment later he appeared around the corner of the building, walked in, and looked at the two men sourly. Then he went directly to the counter. It took him seven steps to cover the eight feet.

"Bones, huh?"

"Yes,” Gideon said, “they're from-"

"You got some more of that coffee around here, chief?"

"Sorry, no,” Gideon said.

John held out his cup. “Here, I haven't touched it."

"Thanks.” Wu took it, pulled the cover off, and sipped. He made a face. “Cold. And way too much sugar. You know what that stuff does to you?"

All the same he kept it, taking rapid, minuscule sips and continuing to make faces. He looked at the bone fragments without interest for eight or ten seconds, then spoke to John. “Well, that's no suicide in there. It's homicide, all right. No doubt about it."

"That's what I thought,” John said, looking distinctly self-complacent.

"You were lucky, chief,” Wu told him. “That false-teeth crap doesn't prove a thing. Save it for the shrinks.” The pathologist had a small man's way of making everything sound like a challenge. His speech was crisp and blunt, leavened only slightly by echoes of the quick, singing vowels of Canton. Parents from China, Gideon guessed, and himself raised in Los Angeles or San Francisco.

"Is that right?” John said crossly.

John's ancestry was Cantonese too. From an anthropologist's perspective they made an interesting contrast, a textbook demonstration of the difference made by a single generation's interbreeding with the vigorous native stock of Hawaii. At ten inches taller, eight inches broader, and almost a hundred muscular pounds heavier than Wu, John loomed over him.

Not that the waspish Dr. Wu was intimidated. “Yeah, that's right,” he said, narrow chin thrust up and out. “And the missing key doesn't prove a goddamn thing either. Fortunately, we've got some scientific things to go on.” He rubbed his hands briskly together. “Now, the first thing I noticed was indications of postmortem hypostasis superior and inferior to the ligature; diffused but mostly a dorsal distribution."

"No kidding.” John was an excellent cop, but like many excellent cops he had a block against scientific terminology. Or not a block so much as a self-erected barrier; the innate skepticism of the man of action for the man of words.

Wu looked at him. “Hypostasis,” he said. “Livor mortis. Lividity."

"Settling of the blood, you mean?"

"Right, right,” Wu said impatiently. “Blood and body fluids."

"Due to gravity after you die."

"Yeah, yeah, sure."

"And the ligature is the cord around his neck, is that right?"

"Of course, ligature. All of which means he couldn't have died in that position."

Gideon had no prejudice against scientific words, but until Wu spelled it out, he hadn't seen what he was driving at, either. “I see,” he said slowly. “You mean, the blood would have settled below the ligature if he'd been hanging there when he died. So if there was some lividity above it, on the dorsal aspect"-for John's benefit he patted the back of his own neck-” then Tremaine must have been lying on his back for a while after he died; long enough for some of the fluid to settle there."

"Not long; less than an hour,” Wu said. “The lab boys-” He turned abruptly to John. “Who is this guy?"

"Dr. Gideon Oliver. It's okay. He's working with the bureau."

Wu shrugged. “It's your case. Anyway, that's point one. Second, I did a little palpation of the throat area; not much, because I didn't want to screw anything up before the autopsy. But I think I could feel a fracture of the left-well, there are these sort of extensions of cartilage that tend to get broken when you strangle somebody with your hands, but not when you get hanged."

"The laryngeal cornua,” Gideon said.

Wu looked him over again. “Who'd you say this guy's supposed to be?"

"I'm Gideon Oliver, Dr. Wu. I'm a physical anthropologist."

"He's the Skeleton Detective,” John offered helpfully. Gideon managed not to wince.

"Never heard of him,” Wu said, “but it so happens he's right. The left superior cornu. Maybe the inferior too. And the third thing is, the rope's not right. Neither is the burlap on top of the partition."

"What do you mean, not right?” John asked.

"The fraying runs the wrong way. Say a guy wants to hang himself. He ties a rope to a hook on a partition, okay? He runs it over the top of the partition, then ties it around his neck, stands on an overnight case, and kicks the case out from under him. He drops a few inches and ghaagh! -the rope strangles him. Well, when that rope gets pulled over the top and down, the rope itself is going to fray in the opposite direction…” He peered up at John. “You got any idea what I'm talking about?"

"Yeah,” John said peevishly, “I think so. The scraping on the rope is gonna be in the direction of the knot around the hook. And the burlap on the partition is gonna get scraped in the opposite direction when the rope pulls over it."

"Give this guy a banana,” Wu said. “Well, in there, the fibers show signs of friction, all right, but in the wrong direction-which has got to mean someone tied the rope around his neck and then hoisted it up and over the partition. No doubt about it. Any questions?"

"Any idea where the rope came from?” John asked after a moment.

"Not a rope. Two thick bootlaces doubled and tied together. Looks like they came from a pair of hiking boots in the closet."

"What about time of death?"

"Well, rigor's just beginning to recede; small muscles are starting to unstiffen. So I'd say, oh, maybe-"

"Six to ten last night?"

"Right. How'd you know that?"

"Doc here looked at the body."

Wu glared at Gideon. “Skeleton Detective,” he muttered. “Jesus Christ."

Gideon shrugged apologetically.

"I figure it'd be closer to ten than six,” John said.

"You do, huh?” Wu said, unimpressed. “Why's that?"

"The false teeth. They were already in the glass for the night."

Wu's eyes rolled up. “Do you believe this?” he asked the ceiling. He finished the coffee, followed it with a final unappreciative grimace, and set the cup on a corner of a table which held a cautionary display of ruined cans, pots, and other food containers that had been savaged by bears. “I need to find someplace quiet and write up my report. The lab boys should be finished up with their tweezers inside of half an hour.” He opened the door and stepped out onto the porch. “You got a problem with our taking the stiff out with us, then? You get a full report in three days."

"No problem,” John said. “Well, I think I'll go on up to Tremaine's room and see how they're doing."

Wu looked disapprovingly up at him. “Try not to bother them, will you?” He rammed the door closed and headed decisively up the hill toward the lodge.

John looked at Gideon. “Friendly little guy, isn't he?"

Gideon smiled. “A little testy, but he seems to know what he's doing. I guess we really do have ourselves a murder here."

"I guess we do. You want to come up with me and see what's happening?"

"No, thanks,” Gideon said. Not if Tremaine's unstiffening body was still there, he didn't.

"Okay. What do they do for lunch here?"

"They put out a buffet in the dining room from twelve to one-thirty."

"I want to get in a couple of interviews before then. How about meeting me there at one?"

"You're on,” Gideon said.