by Kathy Reichs
“That’s probably more than I need to know.”
“Damn, Ryan. How am I going to find the bastard who placed that call?”
“Maybe Schechter knows more than he let on.”
“Maybe.”
“How about this. I’ll hunt lawyer while you examine Lassie. When you’re done, we’ll ambush Schechter instead of Jurmain.”
“If the guy practices with a big firm, we’ll never get past the receptionist. Those people are like samurai warriors guarding the king.”
“Shogun.”
“What?”
“They guarded the shogun. But you really mean the hatamoto, the higher-ranking warriors. Only the hatamoto served as the shogun’s personal guard.”
“Whatever.” I wiggled my toes to generate warmth. “We’ll never get to Schechter.”
“You forget the old Ryan charm.” Ryan winked at me.
“And when that fails?”
“I’ll flash my badge.”
“You have zero jurisdiction here.”
“I’ll flash it very fast.”
* * *
We were in luck. The navy had hedged its bets, and the CCME still had Laszlo Tot’s records on file.
Corcoran and I began by comparing Lassie’s antemortem dental, chest, and right lower-arm films with postmortem X-rays made upon 287JUL05’s arrival at the morgue. Despite the missing teeth, the skull damage, and the fractured ribs, we were able to establish positively that the man found in Thornton Quarry was, in fact, the missing seaman apprentice.
Maybe because intake was slow. Maybe because 287JUL05 now had a name. I didn’t ask, just accepted my upgrade from the storage room to an autopsy suite at the back of the facility.
By ten I had Lassie laid out on stainless steel. Corcoran had disappeared to phone the Chicago PD missing persons unit and authorities at the Great Lakes Naval Base. Ryan had gone to ferret out Perry Schechter.
One by one I viewed skeletal parts under magnification. Arm, leg, hand, and foot bones. Ribs. Vertebrae. Pelvis. Clavicles. Scapulae. Sternum. Now and then I’d stretch, walk the room, compose in my head the sad news I’d deliver to Cukura Kundze and Mr. Tot.
Ryan and Corcoran returned together around noon. I was glad to see them. Though I was pretty certain by then how Lassie had died, I needed answers to several questions.
“Describe the Thornton Quarry,” I said to Corcoran.
“It’s big.”
“How big?”
“Really big.”
I gave him the steely look. He blushed.
“Thornton’s a mile and a half long and a half mile wide, one of the world’s largest quarries. In addition to producing stone or gravel or something, it’s used to prevent stormwater from overwhelming Chicago’s sewage system.”
“How so?” Ryan asked.
“There’s a water control plan in the works called the Deep Tunnel Project. As part of it, the Thornton Quarry will serve as a reservoir to reduce the backflow of runoff and sewage from area rivers into Lake Michigan. I read somewhere that the Thornton reservoir already contributes a three-billion-gallon capacity, and is expected to contribute around eight billion when the system is completed.”
“That’s one monster holding tank,” Ryan said.
“Tanks,” Corcoran corrected. “There are at least five or six pits, or lobes, some abandoned, some active. The project is starting with two of them.”
I tried to visualize the locale in my head. “We’re talking just east of Halsted and just south of the Tri-State Tollway, right?”
Corcoran nodded. “A bridge carries I-294 and I-80 right over the quarry. At that point West 175th Street is called Brown Derby Road, named after a bar and dance hall built in the thirties. The joint actually has quite a history. In the early forties, a carousel and picnic grove were added, and political parties, companies, and schools held their annual picnics there. During the fifties the carousel was torn down and a new bar was built across the street. That was later—”
“Isn’t the quarry secured?” Ryan interrupted the history lesson.
“I wondered about that, so I reread the responding officer’s report. The complex is fenced and there’s an observation building on-site. But Powers found that a gap had been cut in the fencing near the intersection of Brown Derby and Ridge Roads. By his estimate, the gap was large enough to allow entrance of a vehicle. Once inside the complex, Tot could have driven, or been driven, a few yards west along a dirt road right to the edge of the west pit. That’s where the body was found.”
“Assuming Lassie went into the water from up top, how far was the drop?”
“Maybe four hundred feet.”
“That would do it,” I said.
“Do what?”
“Look at this.” I indicated a collection of loosely arranged cranial fragments.
The men stepped to the table. For Ryan’s benefit, I kept it simple.
“These bones formed the base of Lassie’s skull, the part that sat directly on top of his spinal column.” With one gloved finger, I traced a crack that traversed several fragments in a curvilinear pattern. “This fracture extends anteriorally—”
I caught myself slipping into jargon.
“The fracture proceeds from back to front across the petrous portions of both temporal bones.” I pointed to the two oblong bulges that encase the inner ears.
“The two ends of the fracture circle around to meet here, in the sella turcica.” I moved my finger to a saddle-shaped prominence rising from the cranial floor, forward from the foramen magnum, the large hole through which the spinal cord enters the brain.
“It’s a complete ring fracture. Ring fractures can be caused by jamming the head violently downward onto the spinal column—”
“As in a headlong fall,” Ryan cut in.
“Yes. But ring fractures can also be caused by pulling the head sharply upward away from the spinal column.”
“But now’s when you tell us Lassie took a header.” Ryan.
“Look closely at the fracture margins.” I handed each man a fragment.
“The edges angle inward,” Corcoran said.
“Exactly. The beveling is directed internally because the cranium was forced inferiorly against the spine. If the fracture had been caused by yanking the head upward, the beveling would be directed externally.”
“Can a fall explain such massive maxillary and mandibular damage?” Corcoran asked.
“Sudden deceleration impact can tear the face right off the vault.”
“So Lassie died as a result of a swan dive that forced his cranium down into his spine.”
“No.”
Both men did that male weight-shifting thing.
“I found rib fractures in addition to the cranial trauma. That’s understandable. Lassie probably hit an outcrop or a ledge on his way down. What’s odd is that his arm and leg bones are undamaged.”
“The kid made no attempt to stop his fall.” Ryan got it.
“A headlong plunge doesn’t necessarily mean the victim is dead,” Corcoran said. “Lassie could have dived. Or been unconscious.”
“Good point.” I selected two ribs and the right ulna. Crossing to the dissecting scope, I inserted one rib and adjusted focus.
“Check out this fracture.”
Ryan deferred to Corcoran.
“The break has jagged edges.” Corcoran spoke without raising his head. “Looks like a typical blunt force injury. As you said, he probably bounced off rock on his way down.”
“Agreed,” I said.
Corcoran yielded position at the scope. When Ryan had seen enough, I switched ribs, refocused, and stepped back. Corcoran moved back in.
“This break looks very straight. But that’s definitive of nothing. I’ve seen straight-edged rib fractures that I knew were caused by blunt trauma.”
“True enough. But did any look that clean? Kick up the magnification.”
Corcoran did as I’d suggested, then repositioned the light source.
“Striations. Now look at the fresh break on the ulna. Not the old healed fracture.”
Corcoran swapped bones and squinted into the eyepiece.
“Cut marks?” Ryan mouthed over Corcoran’s hunched back.
I nodded.
Fluorescent tubes hummed overhead. Muted footsteps clicked by in the hall.
Finally, Corcoran looked up.
“Chop to the ulna, stab to the rib. Ulna chop’s probably defensive.”
Corcoran referred to trauma caused when knifing victims throw up hands or arms to ward off attack.
“I found knife stab wounds on at least four ribs.”
I held the other rib so Corcoran and Ryan could see the anterior, or chest, portion. A four-inch crack ran longitudinally along its surface.
Ryan whistled softly. “That’s one hell of a weapon.”
“Don’t be fooled by appearances,” I said. “Since fractures propagate with the grain of the bone, the length of a crack doesn’t necessarily reflect the size of the blade that made it. But there is an indicator.”
I pointed to a two-inch stretch within the longer defect. “Under magnification this portion appears very clean-edged. There’s also a subtle squaring at one end. Together, those features suggest a two-inch-wide, single-edged blade.”
Ryan started to speak. I held up a hand.
“When the rib cage is rearticulated, no cut extends between adjacent ribs. However, a cut on R-seven aligns perfectly with a square-edged defect on R-six. That pattern, also, suggests a single-edged blade.”
“Striations mean serration,” Corcoran said.
I nodded. “I’d venture the weapon has a single-edged, serrated, two-inch blade.”
“Like a large steak knife,” Ryan said.
“You think Lassie was dead when he went into the quarry,” Corcoran said.
“In my opinion, the most likely scenario is that he was stabbed to death, then his body was dumped.”
Murdered.
The word rolled in my head like thunder at the beach.
How to tell Cukura Kundze?
11
TICK. TICK. TICK. TICK. TICK.
I awoke disoriented. In my dream I was having sex. The sound was a fan spinning overhead. Too fast.
The man’s face was a blur. Who was he? Was that why I was here?
But the sound wasn’t whirling blades.
I was lying on my side, arms and legs flexed, palms pressed together under my cheek. The ticking was right at my ear.
I lifted my chin and felt something hard scrape my lobe.
A wristwatch?
But my Cyma was soundless. Whose watch was I wearing? Why?
I twisted my left wrist in front of my eyes. Hour and minute hands glowed faintly in the pitch black.
1:40? 8:05? A.m.? P.m.? I had no idea. No sense how long I’d been out.
Trembling, I tucked my hands between my thighs for warmth. My fingers were ice through the denim.
With the watch repositioned, I was again enveloped in complete and utter stillness.
As I lay seeing nothing, hearing nothing, the same questions arose. Where? How long? Who? Why?
I pictured myself as from a skycam, body curled, imprisoned in a very small space.
Google Earth.
Google Tomb.
Oh God.
The unseeable walls and ceiling seemed to shrink inward, to press down from above. My breathing grew ragged.
To block the claustrophobia, I focused inward.
Head: pounding.
Throat: parched.
Digits: numb.
Leg: throbbing.
Bladder: full.
Stomach: empty.
The awareness of hunger triggered thoughts of food. Seared ahi tuna, thick-sliced bacon, Thai soup with lemongrass and coconut milk.
I tried to inventory what I knew of my surroundings. My brain posted no list. Just more chow.
Mussels with garlic, tomatoes, peppers, and wine. Belgian fries dipped in thick mayonnaise. Ryan drinking a Bavik pilsner.
How long since he and I had shared that meal? Hours? Days? Was it the last time I’d eaten? Or had that supper been months ago? Years?
Was Ryan the lover in my dream? If not, was he real, or a construct of my subconscious?
My body was shaking, my teeth clacking in my mouth.
How was I dressed?
By wiggling against the ground I found the answer. Sneakers. Short-sleeved shirt. Jeans.
Sudden thought. If not in my purse, my BlackBerry would be in a pants pocket or clipped to my waistband. Had I checked for it? Of course I had. I wasn’t an idiot.
But my thinking had been muddled. I’d been in pain. Yes? No? I couldn’t remember.
Please!
By pressing my knees to the ground and angling my arms sideways, I was able to run the back of my left hand over my right front pocket. No BlackBerry.
Ignoring the pain in my leg, I reversed and checked the left. Nothing there either.
I went semi-supine, with legs up and knees flexed, and rocked from side to side. No bulge on my waistband or in either back pocket.
Tears of frustration sprang to my eyes.
No!
I rolled back onto my side. The ground felt frigid against my bare skin.
I had to do something to keep warm. To stay sane.
I needed a goal. A series of goals.
“First.” I spoke aloud. “Free yourself.”
My voice sounded leaden. Muffled by yards of brick and cement? Tons of earth? Acres of overlying forest or farmland?
Panic shot fresh tentacles into my chest.
“Second.” Louder. “Find an exit.”
“Third.” Drill instructor bark. “Flee.”
There. I had a three-part plan. A chart for organized action. Free. Find. Flee.
I began rubbing the backs of my hands fast up and down between the inseams of my jeans, mentally intoning the mantra.
Free. Find. Flee.
Free. Find. Flee.
Free. Find. Flee.
The frenzied movement ground the side of one elbow, but the friction kindled warmth in my fingers. Slowly, painfully, sensation crept back.
Nerves tingling, I scooched forward and ran my tethered hands over the wall, checking for a nail, a broken pipe, anything that might saw the ropes from my wrists.
Nada.
Methodically, I inched along, searching low, then rising as high as my bindings allowed. My prison was longer than I’d visualized. Small comfort.
Of less comfort was the fact that the masonry was frustratingly even.
I’d gone perhaps eight feet when my fingers picked out a malaligned brick protruding at a height of approximately eighteen inches. The brick’s outer edge felt promisingly sharp.
I maneuvered into a hunched semi-sit and pushed down on the brick’s upper surface. The mortar held firm.
“As you were, soldier!”
God Almighty. I was talking to stonework.
By flopping to my side and drawing my knees to my chest, I was able to create enough play in my bindings to get my wrists to the edge of the brick. I began rubbing feverishly.
Before long I lay back, arms screaming, head floating.
At this rate I’d exhaust myself while accomplishing little. New strategy. Two hundred rubs. Rest. Repeat.
And that’s what I did, again mentally repeating the mantra.
Rub. Rest. Repeat.
Rub. Rest. Repeat.
Rub. Rest. Repeat.
During R&R, my neocortex would process data coming its way. The input was sparse. Cold. Dark. Newly raw flesh on my knuckles and hands. Faint yet oddly familiar smell.
Alone and terrified, I’d lie listening for the sound of a voice, a footstep, a turning key. I’d hear only my own labored heart and breath.
Exhausted, I’d drift into sleep.
Waking, I’d check the position of
the glowing hands. Wonder. Had hours passed? Minutes? I had no concept of time.
I’d begin sawing again, arms stiff and shaky, every movement an agony.
Rub. Rest. Repeat.
Rub. Rest. Repeat.
Rub. Rest. Repeat.
Two hundred times. Four. Six. Ten thousand.
Following each cycle, I’d pull hard on my bindings, testing.
Finally, I felt, or sensed, a subtle yielding.
I yanked my wrists outward with as much force as my battered muscles could muster.
Again.
Again.
With the sixth heave I felt a hitch, then my left palm slipped relative to my right. Or had I imagined it?
“Break!” I screamed into the darkness.
I yanked and twisted, yanked and twisted.
“Break, you bastards!”
Tears streamed down my cheeks as my hands pistoned wildly.
“Break!” I tasted salt on my trembling lips.
“Break!” I wrenched my arms outward again and again.
At long last, some frayed strands yielded.
The ropes loosened. I managed to extract my left hand.
I fumbled free. Sat upright. Shook both hands. Blood rushed like fire into the deprived vessels.
I ran my fingers over my ankles, exploring the arrangement of the bindings. Finding the knots, I began clawing, desperate for freedom.
It was futile. My fingers were barely functioning and the knots were like rocks.
Again tears threatened.
Again, I banished them.
“Move!” my drill sergeant voice boomed.
Rolling to my stomach, I began inching through the darkness by dragging with my elbows and pushing with my legs. When that grew too painful, I rolled onto my bum and hitched forward with my feet and the palms of my hands.
I followed a zigzag pattern, determined to find a route to freedom. Or, that failing, an implement to free my feet.
My prison was long and narrow, perhaps a tunnel or passageway. As I proceeded through it, the musty odor grew stronger.
Now and then I’d stop for a time check. The glowing hands formed a horizontal bar. An L. Overlapped to the right.
Inevitably the periods of movement shortened. More and more often I dropped and went fetal. My elbows were bloody, my hands and feet numb from contact with the frozen ground. Despite my resolve, my efforts were waning.
Then, in a belly phase, my elbows pulled me forward and my shoulder brushed something. It wobbled. Settled back.
