by Kathy Reichs
A lot of whirring. A few clicks. Then showtime. The arm hooking over the body began its slow journey from the head to the toes, firing images as it progressed. A constantly changing panorama in grays, blacks, and whites lit up the screen.
Watching the inside of Brighton Hallis pass by, my heart sank. The skeletal trauma was beyond my worst fears. Clean breaks and jagged edges suggested that a lot of fracturing had occurred postmortem. I wondered what the hell had happened in the course of the dislodging, ride down the mountain, airlift, and overseas flight. I repeated the scan twice to take it all in, knowing that separating antemortem from perimortem from postmortem injury would be a bitch.
Irritation flared. Piece of cake, Larabee had said. Right. Mummified and distorted face. Shriveled hands. No teeth. Shattered bones. I felt a stab of a headache behind my left eyeball. A stab of guilt. The girl in that X-ray unit hadn’t asked for this, either. Focus on the job.
Basics first. ID. Having a full body, I’d been able to take a proper height measurement. Sixty-eight inches, subtracting for the boots. Muscle development suggested small male or large female.
The pelvis, though in several more pieces than it should have been, remained articulated by flesh. I noted a broad sciatic notch, wide pubic bones, and a U-shaped subpubic angle where the two pelvic halves met in front. Good female traits.
That and the gray smudges that were her uterus and ovaries. And the vagina I’d noted when the body was undressed. What we in the business call anatomical “clues.”
The proximal and distal ends of the long bones showed no gaps or indications of recent epiphyseal fusion, the medial clavicle maybe a trace. Given the stage of skeletal development, I jotted an age range of seventeen to twenty-five. Consistent with Brighton Hallis’s known age at death.
Race. Always the puzzler. Pale skin and fair hair straight down to the roots suggested Caucasoid. But death can play strange games with pigmentation. Narrow zygomatics and a nonglobular cranial shape supported a conclusion of European ancestry. The rest of the facial architecture told me little.
Why? The facial distortion hadn’t been due to freezing alone. Along with the dental trauma, both maxillary bones and the lower nasal cavity exhibited breakage in a fairly circumscribed pattern. My first guess was a deadly face-plant on an unyielding surface, probably a conical rock or gorilla hunk of ice. Interpretation was complicated by the fact that the facial damage was superimposed over an area of fracture at the back of the skull.
After forty minutes at the monitor, my notes read: Female, probably white, age 17 to 25, hair blond, height 5′8″. The bio profile was consistent with Brighton Hallis, but not enough for a positive ID.
Confident that would come via the medical file, I popped Brighton Hallis’s antemortem X-rays onto a row of wall-mounted lightboxes and thumbed the switches. Slowly, I walked from plate to plate, taking in detail. In addition to the broken ulna, I spotted a healed stable fracture of the left calcaneus. Not much else of interest.
Back to the monitor. Within minutes, I found an opacity suggesting the old healed ulnar break. Or thought I did. There were now multiple fractures of that forearm, impacting both the ulna and radius. And overlying bones and tissue prevented an unobstructed view. Pressing a button to make hard copy, I moved on.
Not a chance of getting a peek at the feet. Millet Everest Summit GTX mountaineering boots had enough metal in their components, fasteners, and lining to make X-ray impossible.
Frustrated, I arched my back and rolled my shoulders to ease the tension. Maybe antemortem ulnar fracture. Maybe Caucasoid traits. It seemed this body was determined to vex ID at every turn. I was going to have to do it the old-fashioned way. Boil and deflesh, then eyeball the bones. Piece of cake my ass.
I snagged a cuff of my glove and checked my watch. Almost noon. A quick Diet Coke and egg salad sandwich, then I returned, rolled a stool to the monitor, and began cataloguing and diagraming ME215-15’s cornucopia of injuries.
The images on the screen showed superimposed road maps of diverging, converging, paralleling, and crisscrossing bones and fracture lines. Read: a Wyeth-painted haystack jumble of skeletal trauma. My task was to sort through the damage and pull out the relevant.
The cranial trauma seemed to suggest two direct impacts, one anterior, one posterior. Okay. That worked with the theory of a fall. Maybe the head whipped on the neck, smacking both the face and back of the skull. Or maybe the blows were sustained while jouncing down the world’s tallest rock on a canvas toboggan. As I watched the body cross the screen yet another time, my attention was snagged by damage near the neck, at the level of the third and fourth cervical vertebrae. I leaned in, staring, mind running a zillion explanations.
The wound appeared similar to a type often seen at the MCME. To injuries incurred in a form of violent death more native to urban contexts.
I took in more detail. Made notes. The right transverse process of each vertebra was displaced sharply downward. I saw no brittle edges or sharp, dry-stick splintering. No signs of healing. The fracturing definitely looked perimortem. But that wasn’t what had my heart beating faster.
The damage was limited to one side, clustered tightly, and flowed with similar directionality. That suggested a single, penetrating blow. Perhaps caused by a fall onto something hard and sharp. Perhaps resulting in a punctured vessel.
Had I stumbled upon manner of death? Had Brighton Hallis fallen so hard that an object was forced deep into her neck? On falling, had her head whiplashed, striking both in front and in back?
But something cold and dark was slithering across my brain. What?
Warily, I prodded the source of my uneasiness. The prodding led to Ortiz.
No paradoxical undressing.
It doesn’t happen every time, I chided myself.
It happens often enough, my brain insisted. Rob Hall, Scott Fischer, almost all the dead atop Everest exhibited some form of paradoxical undressing.
Still.
This woman died gloveless, my mind insisted.
Yet her outerwear was zipped to the chin.
If Brighton Hallis had removed her gloves, her exposed hands would have quickly become frostbitten. I hurried to the platform and studied the victim’s remaining digits. Mummification was uniform. The fingertips weren’t misshapen, blistered, or blackened.
In other words, I saw none of the typical signs of frostbite. Meaning blood hadn’t been diverted away from her fingers prior to death. No hypothermia. Translation: She died quickly.
Over and over. Round and round. A fall? Tumbling rock? An equipment malfunction leading to hypoxia and disorientation?
Hallelujah. I was still at first base.
Then a thought. Hurrying to the computer, I pulled up the photos Ortiz had taken and entered into the ME215-15 case file.
There was Brighton, curved on her side, the polar jacket in place and in remarkable condition. More keystrokes. More photos. Underneath layers showing rips and tears. Cheaper fabric? Note to self: Examine the clothing.
Returning to the platform, I tucked the limbs and rolled the body onto its stomach. Under the harsh fluorescents, the back and buttocks looked dimpled and morgue white. Gashes in the pallid flesh bore witness to the woman’s last rough ride down the mountain. One large abrasion lined up with the damage I’d seen on X-ray at the level of the third and fourth cervical vertebrae.
I found a handheld magnifier and brought the wound into focus. The abraded area was rough-edged, approximately two inches across, and shallow. Except at the centermost point. There it was deep. Very deep.
I leaned in closer.
My breath froze.
Chapter 7
My statement got pretty much the reaction I expected.
“Murder?” Larabee’s brows were smacking his hairline.
We were three, cloistered in Larabee’s office. Homicide detective Erskine “Skinny” Slidell of the Charlotte-Mecklenburg Police Department (CMPD) was gracing us with his presence, but zero patience.
“What the shit?”
I turned to Slidell. His slouching posture and outstretched legs mooted all benefit intended by the ergonomic seat under his substantial polyester-clad buttocks. I explained. Again. Slowly.
“I believe someone killed Brighton Hallis. Or incapacitated her and left her to die on the mountain.”
“You called me over here ’cause some kid got whacked in China?” Even Slidell’s orange socks looked pissed.
“Nepal.” I’d checked.
“Whatever. It ain’t my jurisdiction.”
“She was twenty-four. And from Charlotte.”
“She was stupid to go up that mountain. And stupid killed her.”
“That is not what the X-rays suggest.”
“The images are…” Larabee struggled for a word. Settled on “…conclusive?”
“The images are a mess,” I admitted. “But once the bones are cleaned, they will show that Brighton Hallis suffered intentional perimortem injury resulting in death.”
Larabee looked dubious. “With causation?” Meaning, did violence kill her before something less deliberate, like falling. I think.
“I believe the fracture patterning will show that the trauma inflicted on her either killed her directly, or unavoidably led to her death under the circumstances.”
“According to that gobbledygook”—Skinny jabbed a thumb at the X-ray I’d just displayed—“the mountain or the Sherpas got in a few good whacks. My money’s on a jury blaming Everest, not some moron crawling up its side.”
“She didn’t accidentally impale her neck on an ice pick or a tent stake or whatever.” Terse. I’d been thinking about whatever. Come up with no good candidates.
“Ever heard of the perfect weapon?” Skinny’s mouth mashed up at one corner.
I cocked a brow.
“Icicle. Perp stabs his vic, weapon melts.” Slidell was dragging up an age-old crime scene riddle. “Poof. No evidence.”
“An icicle would not have cut into the vertebrae.”
“The detective has a point.” In a rare move, Larabee sided with Slidell.
“Seriously? An icicle?”
“No, no. But it’s quite a leap to homicide. A blow from falling rock or ice might easily mimic intentional blunt or sharp force impact.”
“I understand the biomechanics of fracture.” A bit sharper than I intended. “And I appreciate that the death zone provides the perfect setting for concealing foul play. That’s my point. The killer used knowledge of the mountain to his or her advantage.”
“Say you’re right. It don’t matter.” Slidell spread beefy palms. “Whatever went down, it went down in China.”
“Nepal.” Curt.
“I don’t care if it was in freaking Neverland. It wasn’t here. Not my turf. Not my problem.”
“The perp is,” I snapped.
Now the hand flapped, dismissive. Wait. Had Skinny gone for a manicure? “You ain’t got shit.”
Dial it back, Brennan. Calming breath. “Five went up, four came down.”
“And a Sherpa or two and five hundred other yahoos who think freezing their nuts off makes for a good time.”
Larabee jumped in, partly to keep the peace, partly motivated by the tower of files on his desk. “It’s a bit of a stretch, Tempe.”
“Agreed, but the X-rays show physical evidence of stabbing and blunt force trauma. There is soft-tissue evidence to contradict hypothermia as cause of death. And the perp may be right here in Charlotte.” Blank looks. “It’s a closed universe of suspects. Except for Elon Gass, who is expected back soon, Brighton Hallis’s climbing buddies are all right here. I talked to three of them. You need motive? This trio is lousy with motive.” I looked from Larabee to Slidell. “What’s the harm in digging a little?”
“And we’re done here.” Slidell slapped the arms of his chair and heaved himself up. With less effort and grunting than usually required? Had he lost weight?
“Detective. I can demonstrate that a Charlotte girl was killed.”
“Call me when you can prove she was killed here.” Tossed over one shoulder, heading for the door.
Images flashed in my mind. Brighton Hallis, radiant and youthful before a snowy peak. Alone and frightened as life drained from her in a bitter mountaintop wind.
Play the card? Cheap trick, but I went for it.
“I’m sure Blythe Hallis won’t be too disappointed when I explain that the CMPD can’t investigate her daughter’s murder. Did you know she’s besties with the chief? He’ll explain all about jurisdiction while she’s keeping her checkbook safely in her purse at the next police fundraiser.”
Slidell froze. Larabee’s face swung to me, expression saying exactly how he felt about being caught in the middle.
“This is horseshit.” Slidell’s shoulders slumped. He held a moment, then turned, crossed to us, and dropped back into the chair. Which protested loudly.
“So what’s your next step?” Larabee, resigned.
“The bones.” I was going for the gold.
Larabee pinched the bridge of his nose with thumb and forefinger. “You want to deflesh the body.”
Put that way, it didn’t sound like I was on Brighton’s side. “Just the parts that show trauma.”
“How long will that take?”
“A while. But the end result will be worth the effort.”
“Uh-huh. When you speak to Mrs. Hallis, spare her the details.”
“Of course.” I turned to Slidell. “What do you need from me?”
“All the dirt you have on your new pals.”
“In my office?”
“Over lunch.” Slidell again lumbered to his feet. “You’re buying.”
—
Slidell’s choice of eatery didn’t surprise me. The King’s Kitchen is one of his favorites, topping Wendy’s and Burger King by a hair. What did surprise me was his selection of salmon over the “Southern meat and three,” his usual. I didn’t ask. But something was up.
I went for a chicken salad sandwich. Filled him in between bites. To his credit, Slidell listened with little interruption. Then, “So this kid, Brighton Hallis, whistles her merry crew up Everest to make dead Daddy proud. They come down, she doesn’t. Turns out she’s stuck to the mountain like a tongue to a flagpole.”
“At that altitude, a person freezes in place within an hour.” Ignoring Slidell’s unsettling simile. “One climber, David Sharp, stopped to rest in a place called Green Boots Cave, so named because of the other dead climber inside.”
Slidell’s fork paused, butter beans halfway to his lips.
“More than thirty climbers passed by as Sharp sat immobile and hypothermic. By the time someone realized he was still breathing, it was too late to pry him loose. Had to leave him to die. Now he’s a guidepost along the route.”
The beans made it into Slidell’s mouth. Didn’t slow his speech. “You say your vic was dead before she hit the snow.”
I nodded. “One way or another. With her injuries, she wouldn’t have survived a descent down the mountain, even if she wasn’t dead when her killer left her.”
“That don’t equal murder.” Still resistant? Or playing devil’s advocate?
“You need to talk to Hallis’s climbing team. They’re like a motive vending machine. Pick your flavor.” I spoke around a mouthful of cornbread. Complimentary upon request. Mind-blowing upon ingestion. “Maybe I’m misreading them, but no one seems to be mourning Brighton’s passing.”
Slidell summarized what I’d told him. “So the boyfriend maybe wants to move on. The girlfriend wants the boyfriend. The college pal owes a chunk of change. Everyone’s dying to be star. And the business partner looks like a creep.”
“Okay. Maybe Damon James doesn’t have motive,” I conceded. “But he has a name like a bank robber.”
Skinny ignored my joke. “All sucking the Brighton Hallis teat.”
“As far as I know, she underwrote only Gass’s trip. But I’ll bet my grandma’s china ever
yone benefited from her trust fund.”
“Coin is what gets most folks clocked,” Slidell agreed. “Not to devalue sex and drugs.”
“And you’re right. Everyone wanted a piece of the reality show action.”
“I’ll run down this Gass character.” Skinny wiped his mouth and inspected the napkin. “What kind of assclown calls a kid Eee-lon?”
“He’s on some sort of expedition in Russia. Supposedly back soon.”
“I’ll put the screws to the three stooges first, see if something shakes loose.” Pushing back from the table, he tossed a “Thanks for the grub” over his shoulder and left.
I paid the bill, leaving extra for the soup kitchen supported by the restaurant, then headed back to the lab. En route, I phoned Blythe Hallis. Hands free. Gotta love Bluetooth.
Raleigh answered, as before asked me to wait.
“Ms. Brennan, you have news?” Blythe Hallis’s overly long vowels glided like silk across the line.
“We’ve completed a full-body X-ray on your daughter. As I feared, the damage caused by recovery was extensive.”
“I’m confident you’ll overcome.”
“I did notice some anomalies.” I paused to gather just the right words. “Based on certain injury patterns, we believe your daughter may have been the victim of foul play.” Not quite fair to use the plural pronoun, but I did.
Nothing but a sharp intake of breath.
I made a left, then a right. Pulled into the MCME lot. Finally, Hallis spoke, voice modulated as always. “Are you suggesting someone intentionally harmed my daughter?”
“It’s a theory I will have to verify with more detailed analysis of the bones.”
More silence. Then, “And how may I be of help?”
“To study the skeletal trauma more closely I must—”
“Do what you need to do. An open casket was never an option. But please. No more defacement than necessary. Is there more?”
“You mentioned that a Taiwanese climbing team collected Brighton’s personal effects and returned them to you.” Perhaps a clue lurked among the tools of her trade. Right. And what were the chances she’d kept them all this time?
