Icy Clutches

Chapter 13

By the time Gideon had mixed the Duco-and-acetone solution, coated the fragments, and set them out to dry, it was 12:20. He locked up the contact station and went seeking fresh air to clear the sharp fumes from his lungs. He walked out to the end of the wooden pier that began a few paces away and jutted two hundred feet into Bartlett Cove. Here and there the silver flank of a salmon would break the rippled surface of the water momentarily and disappear again, almost before the eye had registered it, leaving a small splash like an afterimage. Above, dark wisps of cloud drifted like flecks of ash under a luminous, oyster-gray cloud sheet. He leaned his elbows on the railing and stared down at the dark water.

Murder. No mere intellectual exercise this time, no decades-old shards of bone posing a dusty forensic puzzle. Flesh-and-blood murder. So had the other been, of course, but what a difference time made. Tremaine had been alive yesterday; Gideon had talked to him. And no more than three hours afterward someone had stolen a passkey to his room and strangled him-had pressed brutal thumbs into the fragile, elderly windpipe, holding them there until Tremaine's face turned purple from the desperate need for air, and his tongue stuck out, and his mouth frothed, and his eyes popped. And the left superior cornu of his larynx snapped.

The killer had left him lying on his back while he-or she-rummaged through the closet, looking for something of Tremaine's to make it look like a credible suicide. He had found the boots, removed the laces, wrapped them around Tremaine's neck, hoisted the body into position-that couldn't have been an easy job-and knotted the laces around the hook. Then, for a little extra verisimilitude, the overnight case- cum -gallows stool had been provided. The killer had left, perhaps immediately, perhaps waiting until late at night, through either the window or the door, locking it behind him.

Had there been an argument? Had Tremaine threatened to reveal something that someone wanted hidden? Had someone…Still looking at the water, Gideon shook his head. Too early for answers. Too early for the questions. There was nothing to go on yet.

Who the “someone was, was easier. The possibilities, after all, were limited. It had to have been one of the five people Tremaine was working with. Who else was there with any connection to him?

The dark underclouds were thickening, the day growing colder. Tiny whitecaps were forming even in the protected cove. Two or three hundred feet down the wild shoreline, across a shallow, rock-strewn inlet, the breeze ruffled the neck fur of a mother bear and cub browsing choosily among the blueberry bushes. Gideon zipped his windbreaker up to his neck, but still the wind chilled him. He turned to head back and saw someone peering into the window of the contact station, face pressed against the glass, hand to his forehead to block the reflections. When the figure moved, Gideon recognized him.

"Arthur!” he called.

Tibbett turned around. “Gideon! I was just looking for you.” He hurried to meet Gideon, his pale face doughy with misgiving. A cardboard box was clamped under one arm. “Is it definitely true? He was murdered?"

"I'm afraid so."

"Awful. The vultures have already begun to gather,” he said with distaste. He blew out his cheeks, walking hunch-shouldered with Gideon back toward the head of the pier. “I've just had a call from the Anchorage Daily News, wanting to know if a press conference has been scheduled yet."

"You'll probably have to hold one eventually, Arthur. Tremaine was a nationally known figure."

"You don't really think so!” Tibbett's head jiggled back and forth in disapproval, but beneath the surface Gideon sensed a dawning excitement; the glittering exhilaration of involvement with murdered celebrities. Gideon had seen it before, in cops, coroners, even priests. Why not an assistant park superintendent?

They had reached the head of the pier. Arthur stopped and looked at him with mild reproof. “Owen told me about the other murder-the old one, the skull. You might have told me, you know."

"Well, I didn't want to bother you,” Gideon said lamely. “I wasn't really positive at first."

"But you're positive now?"

"Yes."

"Do you know, I don't think there's ever been a murder in this park before. And now, here we are with two in two days.” He started a nervous giggle, but broke it off. “You know what I mean. Oh, I almost forgot. This is for you.” He extended the box.

Gideon took out a white kitchen scale. “For me?” he said, confused.

"You said you needed an accurate scale. You wanted to do some kind of regression equation on the bones."

"Oh, yes, that's right.” He'd forgotten all about it. It had been mentioned originally only to soothe Arthur's anxieties. There was a way to use bone weights to find out whether a set of bones had come from the same person, but you needed the right bones, and Gideon didn't have them. Of course, with Owen's rangers out searching for more, there was a possibility that they'd turn up, and then a scale would come in handy. But not this scale.

"Actually, Arthur, I'd need something a little more accurate. This-"

"Accurate?" Arthur cried. “Good heavens, man, this is a Cusinart!"

"Well, I know, and I'm sure it's a good one. But it's a spring scale. I need a-what do you call it-a beam scale, a counter scale."

"You don't mean the old-fashioned kind where you put little weights on one side?"

"Right, and something that will weigh in grams and centigrams."

"I'll see what I can do,” Arthur said. He was put out. The box was snatched back. “I'm afraid I have more bad news for you,” he said grumpily. “We've been unable to come up with the records you wanted. If such things ever existed."

"Records?"

"Of the recovery of those bones in 1964; the ones that came out of the glacier. Owen told me you were interested."

Gideon had forgotten all about that too. First-thing-in-the-morning corpses had a way of clearing the mind. “Damn, they could have been useful. You don't have any files on it at all?"

"We don't have any files from 1964. On anything."

"Maybe your office in Washington, D.C.-"

Arthur shook his head. “I called. Nothing."

"But there was a skeletal-identification expert involved. He must have submitted a report somewhere."

"No doubt, but it's a little difficult when we don't even have a name to go on."

Gideon nodded. “Well, thanks for trying, anyway.” Arthur took pity on him. “I still have Owen working on it for you. Maybe he'll turn something up."

"Maybe."

"You never know,” Arthur said more cheerfully, his mind turning elsewhere; to his coming press conference, perhaps. “You just never know."

It didn't take Owen long to turn something up. By the time Gideon got back to his room to wash up, there was a note under the door.

Gideon Found your skeletal-identification expert for you. Professor Kenneth Worriner, University of Alaska Anthropology Department. Retired, still lives in Juneau. Telephone number 586-3774.

We aim to please.

Owen

Glacier Bay Lodge, which advertised itself as Alaska's premier wilderness resort, took the “wilderness” part seriously. Communication with the outside world wasn't easy. There were no television sets, no radios, no telephones in the rooms. There was a single pay phone on the veranda, but it required a calling credit card, which Gideon was unable to find in his wallet. (Did he own one? He made a mental note to ask Julie.) The only other telephone was in the manager's office, where the shaken Mr. Granle had taken refuge behind his locked door.

He answered Gideon's knock, understandably apprehensive, and when he saw it was Gideon he shrank back. The message on his drawn face was as clear as if he'd spoken: My God, what's happened now?

"It's all right,” Gideon said quickly. “I just wanted to use your phone."

Mr. Granle motioned to it and edged out of his office as Gideon came in, giving Gideon plenty of room. He closed the door softly behind him.

Gideon dialed the number, a little uneasy about calling Worriner now that he was doing it. Say Worriner had been in his forties in 1964; he'd be in his seventies now. If he'd been in his fifties, he'd be in his eighties. How welcome would this call be? How much would he remember? How much would he care?

The telephone was answered on the third ring. The voice was thin, pinched. “Hello?"

In his eighties, Gideon thought. Well into them. “Professor Worriner?"

A noticeable hesitation. “Yes.” No one had called him professor in a while.

"My name is Gideon Oliver, sir. I'm a physical anthropologist too. I'm up at Glacier Bay, and I'm working on some human skeletal fragments-"

"Please hold on, I better turn down the TV.” The telephone clunked down. The old man's speech had been a little slurred. Dentures not in? A stroke? Was Worriner up to this? Gideon shifted uncomfortably.

Worriner returned after what seemed like a long time. “Yes?"

"I'm working on some skeletal fragments up here, sir, and-"

"Excuse me. Is this going to take a while?"

"Well, a few minutes, I suppose. It's about-"

Gideon heard a querulous sigh. “Hold on, I better turn down the soup.” The telephone was put down again, more softly. A murmured, regretful “almost ready, too,” was just audible.

Gideon shifted again in the overpadded chair. He was keeping Worriner from his meal, something octogenarians didn't usually take lightly. This wasn't going very well.

After a good ninety seconds Worriner returned. “Yes, hello?"

"Sir, if this isn't a convenient time, I can-"

"No, it's quite all right.” He paused. “I'm sorry if I sounded uncordial."

"Not at all. The bones I'm working on seem to be from the same party that you worked on in 1964, and-"

"Gideon Oliver, did you say?"

"That's right."

"I know you by reputation, of course.” It was his first show of interest. “It's a pleasure to talk to you."

"Thank you.” Gideon wished intensely that he could say the same thing, but he'd never heard of Kenneth Worriner. He almost said it anyway, but settled for safety's sake on, “It's a pleasure to talk to you, sir."

"And you say you've found some more skeletal material from the Tirku survey?"

"That's right,” Gideon said, relieved. At least Worriner remembered.

A chair scraped. Worriner grunted as he sat down. “Well, that's very remarkable. What do you have? Where did you find it? Have you been able to make an identification?” His dry voice, vacant and listless a few moments before, was crackling. “Listen, have you seen a copy of my report? Did you find any evidence of-"

Gideon needn't have worried. When, after all, had he ever met an old physical anthropologist who'd lost his enthusiasm for the field? Mention bones and they came alive, whatever shape they were in. Gideon had high hopes of becoming such an old anthropologist himself one day.

"I'd like very much to see a copy of your report,” he said. “That's why I'm calling. Things have gotten more complicated, Professor. It looks as if there was a homicide involved."

"Please, call me Kenneth, will you? A homicide? Do you mean to say you've found signs of presumptively lethal antemortem trauma not attributable to the avalanche?"

Gideon smiled. That would have been a mouthful even for a man with his dentures in. “That's right, Kenneth; a one-inch perforation along the right squamous suture, at the parietal notch. Definitely lethal, definitely antemortem."

"Have you identified the skull? As I recall, there were two people involved, weren't there? No, three; two men and a woman. Is that right? It's been a long time."

"That's exactly right."

"Ah, you have no idea how much I'd like to come up and see what you have, Gideon. Unfortunately, I don't travel much anymore. I use a walker these days, you see, and people at airports seem to be in such a hurry-well, that's neither here nor there. Why am I nattering on? Of course I'll send you a copy of my report. And would you mind letting me know how things turn out?"

"What I'd really like is to come down to Juneau tomorrow and meet you, if that's possible. You could have a look at the fragments yourself; I'd appreciate your opinion."

There was a startled pause. “You mean come here? With the bones?

"If it's convenient."

"Convenient? My dear man, I'd be delighted. I may be a bit rusty, you understand."

"I'll take my chances. I don't suppose there are any photographs in the report? I thought we could try matching the new fragments against them. Maybe there are some pieces of the same bones."

"Photographs?” Worriner laughed. “Yes, there are photographs, but I'll do better than that."

"You mean you have casts? That's terrific. We-"

"Gideon, I have the bones."