Unnatural Selection

by Aaron Elkins

  And now that he’d had it in his hands and felt the roughened muscle insertion points and the general robusticity, he could take a reasonable stab at the sex too: male. His interest increasing as he became more “acquainted” with it, he glanced at the bag that it had come in, in hopes that there might be more data, but there was only the usual cryptic information: Beach below Halangy Point, just north of the Creeb, 20 January 2005.

  “Coffee,” Madeleine announced, placing two lidded sixteen-ounce cardboard containers on the table. “Inasmuch as you’re from Seattle, I went to enormous trouble and expense to get you a double-shot latte, so that you feel entirely at home.”

  “You’re wonderful.”

  “You see, we’re reasonably civilized here, at least in some ways.” She removed the lids from both cups.

  “Clearly, in the ways that count,” Gideon said appreciatively, inhaling the opulent aroma. A lot nicer than bone fat, he thought.

  “Anything new?” she asked, drawing up a stool of her own and delicately balancing her bulk on it.

  It was at the very moment that she asked, while he was placing the humerus back on the table, that his sensitive fingers “saw” what his eyes should have seen in the first place.

  “Damn,” he whispered.

  “What now?” she whispered, alarmed.

  When he peered hard at the bone, it took him only an instant to confirm what his fingers had told him. “Madeleine, this bone didn’t break. It was cut—cut, and sawed too.”

  “Yes? I don’t—”

  “I think we might be looking at a dismemberment. From not that long ago.”

  “A dis—” Her lips curled with disgust. She got off her stool and moved a couple of feet away, never taking her eyes off the bone, as if it might come after her. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

  “Oh, I’m serious, all right. Can you tell me anything about this, other than what it says on the bag?”

  Her glasses which hung on their lanyard around her neck, were raised to her eyes—indeed, like a lorgnette—so she could read the lettering. “Oh, yes, I remember. The little beach near Halangy Point. That’s at the north end of the island, about two miles from Hugh Town, at the very end of the road. It’s an out-of-the-way place; not many visitors find it.”

  “No, I mean how it happened to be found, who found it, was it buried—”

  “Yes, it was buried in the sand. A visitor brought it in when her dog dug it up. We didn’t keep her name, we usually don’t. If I recall correctly, she said it was about a foot down. That’s all I know. I… I didn’t think there was any reason… Gideon, are you certain}”

  “No, I’m not certain—we only have the one bone—but that’s what it looks like to me. You see, when fresh bone is sawed—”

  Hurriedly, she raised her hand, palm out, bangles jingling their way down to her elbow. “Stop. Desist. I’ve had all the forensic anthropology I want for one morning, thank you. I’m afraid it’s far too gruesome for me. What are you going to do?”

  “Go see the police. What else? Do you mind if I take this with me?”

  She turned her head to the side to avoid looking at it, like a baby resisting its mashed carrot. “Take it. Please.”

  As he was putting it back in the sack, she said, “Ask for Sergeant Clapper; he’s in charge. The police station is on Upper Garrison Lane, on the way back toward the castle. You can’t miss it.”

  SIX

  HE could and did, walking the two-block length of Upper Garrison Lane twice before he realized that the modest two-story house, tucked into the elbow of an uphill curve in the street and half-hidden behind lush shrubbery and a low stone wall, was what he was looking for. No sign out front, no parking area, not a police car in sight. But behind a rolling bank of pink and white narcissus, slightly below the level of the street and overhung by a shabby, glassed-in balcony, he finally spotted a nondescript storefront window that might have been the entrance to a dry cleaner’s or a hearing aid center. But a closer look showed police in stick-on letters on the window, and an inconspicuous gray plaque on the stuccoed wall beside it:

  Devon and Cornwall Constabulary

  Isles of Scilly Police Station

  This station is open between 0900 hours and 1000 hours daily where possible.

  He smiled. It must be nice to live someplace where reports of criminality could be dealt with in an hour a day (where possible). Once he opened the door and walked in, however, except for the absence of a reception area, he found himself in a small-town version of any big-city police station he’d ever been in: a short corridor lined with a couple of glassed-in cubicles, mismatched office furniture, too-bright neon ceiling lights, desks cluttered with papers and files, and walls cluttered with plastic-sheeted, grease-pencil calendars and charts, scrawled notes, and public information posters, including an unlikely one advertising “Substantial Rewards for Information Leading to the Prosecution of Terrorists.” On a bureau near the door were two old-fashioned bucket helmets and two of the newer checkered police hats that always made Gideon think of taxi drivers.

  The cubicle to the left, despite its desk and chair, seemed to be a storage space, copy center, and coffee room. In the one on the right a smiling, clean-cut, red-haired young man in dark blue uniform trousers and a short-sleeved, open-throated white shirt with blue epaulets sat working at a computer, apparently untroubled by an in-basket that was spilling over with forms and memos.

  “I’m Police Constable Robb,” he said cheerfully, swiveling his chair to face the newcomer. “How may I be of service?”

  “My name’s Gideon Oliver, Constable. I’m an anthropologist. I was just looking over some bones at the museum, and one of them in particular caught my attention. A tourist brought it into the museum in January. It was buried on the beach near Halangy Point. Her dog dug it up.”

  “And we’re speaking of a human bone here, sir?” Polite attention, but no real interest. As Madeleine had said, the odd human bone turning up now and then wasn’t that unusual.

  “Definitely, yes, but the main thing is that I think there’s a good chance that it came from someone who’s been dismembered. My guess is that it’s something that happened within the last ten years, probably in the last five, so I thought I’d better bring it in. I’m supposed to ask for Sergeant Clapper.”

  A stray bone might be nothing to get excited about, but violent crimes, let alone dismemberments, were not common fare on St. Mary’s. Robb’s mouth hung open for a moment before he replied. “I think Sergeant Clapper is very much the man for that, sir.”

  He picked up his telephone and explained. “Shall I send him in, sir?”

  Gideon heard the rumbled answer come through the door at the end of the corridor, delivered with a won’t-they-ever-leave-me-in-peace sigh. “No, I’ll come there.”

  Sergeant Clapper was a broad, heavy man of fifty-five or so in civilian clothes—black corduroy trousers and a white shirt folded back over thick, hairy wrists—with a sad, dull-brown slick of hair pulled across his scalp, a heavy red drinker’s face, and tired, seen-every thing, don’t - even - think - of - putting - anything - over - on - me eyes. He stuck out a blunt-fingered, big-knuckled hand that looked as hard as a shovel but turned out to be about as emphatic as something dragged out of a pond in late August.

  “I’m Sergeant Clapper.”

  “Gideon Oliver.”

  “What’s all this about a dismemberment?”

  “Well, I have it here.” He looked for someplace on Robb’s desk on which to put it, and with a sweep of both hands Robb cleared a space. File folders and their contents flopped to the floor.

  “Kyle, your desk is a damned disgrace,” Clapper muttered.

  Robb seemed undisturbed. “Sorry, Sarge.”

  Gideon opened the bag and put the tibial fragment on the old-fashioned blotter that was now visible on the desktop. When, he wondered, had he last seen a desk blotter, let alone one that was actually stained with ink? The three men stood looking down at th
e bone. Robb seemed eager to comment but waited for his chief.

  “That’s it?” Clapper said. “That’s your dismemberment?” He made a small dismissive gesture with his hand. Gideon noticed that the fingernails were chewed to scraps and the thick fingers were deeply tobacco-stained, down almost to the first joint.

  “Well, it’s an indication, a possible indication, of a dismemberment.”

  “Ah, so it’s a possible indication, is it?”

  Gideon was beginning to get irritated. “Sergeant—”

  “American, are you?”

  “That’s right, I’m here just for the week, for the consortium at Star Castle.”

  “Oh, yes? One of the participants?”

  “Well, no, my wife is a Fellow. I’m just here to… I’m just along.”

  Clapper’s lips parted to show a set of big brown teeth. “Are you now? Well, well.”

  Now Gideon was irritated. What the hell was that supposed to mean?

  “I’m also a professional anthropologist,” he said hotly. “I do quite a lot of forensic work. I assure you, I know what I’m talking about.”

  “No offense, Mr. Oliver.”

  “Doctor Oliver,” Gideon said. “Or professor, if you prefer.”

  Now he was not only annoyed with Clapper, but with himself for letting the guy get under his skin. And ashamed of himself as well for acting like a stuffed shirt. This was not going as planned.

  He summoned up what he hoped was convincingly friendly smile. “Well, let me show you what I have,” he said mildly, “and you can take it from there.”

  “Chairs, Kyle,” Clapper ordered from the side of his mouth.

  Robb was obviously used to being treated like this. Docilely, he cleared off a couple of fabric-seated metal chairs and set them in front of the desk. When the three men sat, Clapper put an ankle-booted foot against the desk front and shoved himself back a few feet. He was putting some space between himself and them to show that he wasn’t committing himself to anything yet. This was between his constable and his visitor; he was merely observing.

  So be it. Gideon addressed himself directly to Robb while Clapper, looking preoccupied, thumbed open the lid of a red-and-white pack of Gold Bond cigarettes and lit up.

  “What this is—” Gideon began.

  The telephone on Robb’s desk chirped. He picked it up, listened, and covered the mouthpiece. “It’s for you, Sarge: Exeter. Policy and Performance Unit, Chief Inspector Cory. What should I tell him?”

  “Tell him to sod off, the vile bugger,” Clapper growled.

  “Sarge, this is the third time in the last two—”

  “Tell him to sod off.”

  Robb removed his hand from the mouthpiece. “Chief Inspector? Sergeant Clapper is in conference with village officials at the moment.

  May I have him call you back? Yes, I know he did. No, I’ll see he does this time. Yes, of course he will. Thank you, Chief Inspector.“

  “You were saying?” Clapper said to Gideon.

  “I was saying that what this is, is a left tibia. The tibia is the—”

  “Shin bone,” Robb said with an eager smile. If he’d been American, Gideon thought, and this had been the 1940s, he might have made a Hollywood living portraying nice, young, small-town soda jerks. He reminded Gideon of all those bright-eyed, painfully alert young students trying to make a good impression on the first day of class. And as he generally liked them, he’d taken liking to the young cop.

  “Right. And what we have is the proximal three-quarters or so, that is, the—”

  “The end closer to the center of the body. In the case of the tibia, that would be the upper part, near the knee.” He pointed. “The patella would be attached right here, then?”

  “Kyle.” Robb wearily exhaled a lungful of blue smoke. “We know you’re a clever lad who’s been to university and you’re very intelligent. Now why don’t you just let the man tell his story without interrupting after every two words?”

  Robb’s face stiffened with its first dull show of resentment, quickly snuffed out. “Sorry about that, sir.”

  “It’s not as if I don’t know what a shin bone is, now is it?”

  “No, sir, I didn’t mean to imply—”

  Clapper turned away from him toward Gideon. “Do you suppose we can get on with it, Doctor Oliver?”

  Ah, was that what Clapper’s problem was? An ageing, old-guard policeman, ill-educated and burnt out, who’d never risen beyond the rank of constable sergeant, stuck away in a tiny, crimeless village, in the remotest place in all of Merrie Olde England, to run out his time until retirement? And burdened with a young, personable, college-educated youth who was clearly on his way up the ladder on which Clapper had climbed but a couple of dingy rungs at the bottom? Gideon felt his first flicker of sympathy for the older man.

  But not as much as he felt for Robb.

  “That’s right, Constable, the patella would be about there, but it doesn’t really attach to the tibia itself, or to any bone. It’s embedded in the terminal tendon of the quadriceps femoris—the big muscle in the front of the thigh—and actually sits in a little hollow at the distal end of the femur, just above the tibia.”

  This was said equally to gratify Robb and to irritate Clapper, and judging by their reactions, he’d succeeded. Robb looked at him gratefully, while Clapper heaved a huge sigh and looked at his watch.

  Better get on with it, all right, Gideon thought, before I lose him altogether.

  “This is the right tibia of an adult male who died sometime in the last ten years.” He paused, expecting a challenge from Clapper—how do you know it’s a male? how do you know he’s an adult? how do you know when he died?—but the sergeant merely blew smoke at the ceiling and continued to look fidgety and preoccupied.

  “The markings on it indicate a dismemberment, which in turn strongly suggests a homicide, at least to me.” He waited again for Clapper to object, and this time he did.

  “A homicide, is it now?” the sergeant said with elephantine joviality. “Kyle, lad, when was the last homicide we had here in these delightful islands?”

  “Don’t know, sir. Before my time, that’s for sure.”

  “You see, Professor,” Clapper said, “we don’t much go in for that sort of thing in this little corner of the world. Our usual run of problems, on those rare occasions when we have them, involves disorderly conduct, antisocial behavior, noise complaints—alcohol-related things, generally speaking. Although, if I’m going to be honest, I have to admit, there was the case of the purloined piglet from Farmer Follet’s van on Market Day last.”

  “We don’t much go in for murder and dismemberment in my little corner of the world either,” Gideon said curtly, “but that doesn’t mean they don’t happen.” Without waiting for Clapper to reply, he picked up where he’d left off. “The cut that severed the bone was made by a saw. So was this groove right next to the cut—it’s a hesitation cut, the kind of thing you get when you’re having a little trouble placing the saw at first. But these grooves here”—he pointed to two shallow cut-marks at a slight angle to the hesitation cut—“were made with a knife.”

  “A knife and a saw?” Clapper said with a skeptical lift of his eyebrows.

  “Yes, and that’s what makes me think this guy was almost certainly dismembered. An old bone with saw marks on it—or some knife scratchings—who knows, that might be nothing more than something that was found and then whittled or sawed for… well, for some innocent reason, not that anything comes to mind. But a knife and a saw, that’s different.”

  Robb shook his head, puzzled. “But why—”

  “You’d want a knife to cut down through the soft tissue, then a saw to get through the bone.”

  “Ah,” an engrossed Robb said, but Clapper looked as restless and dubious as ever.

  Gideon plowed ahead anyway. “You can see the difference between the two kinds of cuts by—”

  “The knife marks are narrower than the saw marks?” Robb
asked with a wary glance at Clapper, who continued to say nothing. “Is that the difference?”

  “More or less. The teeth on a saw are ‘set’; that is they’re at a slight outward angle to the blade on each side, so the groove that a saw leaves is going to be very slightly wider than the actual blade. On the other hand, a knife has no set, so its groove is going to be a better indication of its actual width. More than that, a knife blade is V-shaped in cross-section, so it leaves a V-shaped groove, whereas a saw—”

  “Leaves a square, flat-bottomed one,” Robb finished for him, peering at the various notches and nodding vigorously.

  “Well, U-shaped would probably be more accurate, if you look closely.”

  “Yes, I see.”

  “Besides that, a V-shaped groove in fresh bone is more likely to close up a little afterward, whereas a wider, U-shaped one won’t, which means that not only do saw cuts give an over-impression of blade width, but knife cuts tend to give a slight under-impression.”

  “What about a serrated knife?” Clapper put in. “That has teeth.”

  “Not set at an angle to the blade,” Gideon said. “It leaves a slightly different mark than a non-serrated one, but it’s still V-shaped.”

  “And why, if you don’t mind my asking, are you so sure the big cut, the one that cut it in two, is from a saw?” Clapper asked in the spirit of a defense attorney who found himself short of serious ammunition but had every intention of obstructing anyway. “Why not an ax? That’d be my choice. Speed things up a bit, wouldn’t it?”

  “No, this is a clean cut. There would have been some crushing, some splintering, with an ax, and probably more than one blow to get through the bone. And only a saw would have left these parallel striations in the cut end. They show the direction of the saw cut, by the way, which was from back to front. And—”