by D Krauss
*
"Funny looking arrow," Kray said, peering at it with the aid of a glass and an overhead light. Mark had the surgical mask pressed hard against his face, mouth-breathing the Vaseline he had liberally spread across it. Never Vicks; only amateurs used Vicks. Opened up the passages, defeating the purpose. Vaseline was almost as useless; the horrible, overpowering odor of autopsied guts ramming through and battering Mark's nostrils. God, how he hated that smell—never got used to it.
"That's what I said," Greg replied, peeling a banana. Mark stared at him. Sometimes he hated his partner.
"Hm," Kray pursed his lips. "You know, I think this is homemade."
"Homemade?" Mark sucked in more Vaseline.
"Yes. It's pretty crude, not quite straight, has lots of marks like it was fashioned with a knife or something. Definitely not commercial."
"Do people make their own arrows?"
Kray shrugged. "I suppose. There's kits for it, I'd guess. You get some wood dowels or fiberglass shafts or something and you turn them and burn the feathers. But don't quote me; I'm no expert."
"So it came from a kit?"
"No," Kray squinted at the shaft. "Don't think so. This one's far too crude, like somebody picked up a stick in their backyard and fashioned it."
"Like a kid." Mark gave Greg a significant look.
"Kid, adult, who knows? Some back-to-nature person, perhaps."
"Or an Indian," Greg offered as he dug around in his lunch bag.
Mark raised an eyebrow. An Indian. Or someone who thought he was an Indian. Every once in awhile, Greg proved his worth. Even if he had the decorum of a rhinoceros. Mark looked at Greg's lunch bag and felt ill.
Kray frowned as he bent closer, "Well, tell ya, whoever made it did a good job. It's pretty strong." He flexed the arrow a bit, moving the shaft around in the wound and causing its tip, protruding out Mr. Smith's back, to rotate. They had opened the table to avoid damaging the arrow during the autopsy, using braces to keep Mr. Smith from sagging. Seemed pointless. He was deflated now, open and empty, deer dressed for the butcher.
Mark looked away from the empty eyes and empty body. "What makes you say that?"
"Well, it went right through the chest cavity and heart and out the back, almost three fourths of its length, without breaking. The stone arrowhead's still intact; should have shattered when it hit the chest. Remarkable."
"So a pretty strong shot."
"Very strong," Kray stepped back and rummaged around the table. "The bow must have been powerful."
Powerful. Mark bit at his lower lip and glanced at Greg, who frowned at him. They were both having the same thought. Not a kid.
"Something else—whoever shot it really knew what he was doing. Look here," Kray pointed his long scalpel at the feathered end of the shaft, all bloodied, "This angle. The bowman was standing well below the victim, at least 120, 130 degrees."
"You mean," Mark interrupted, "like on the road?"
"Maybe. At least where the trail started on the shoulder, or a little further out. He was shooting up. And he caught the victim right at the bottom of the rib cage and the arrow went smack through the middle of the heart. I mean, it was an instantaneous kill. Quite a marksman." Kray shook his head in admiration.
So much for the kid theory. So much for an accident. It looked, instead, like someone was rather peeved with Mr. Smith, someone versed enough in bows and arrows to fashion his own and murder quite expertly with it. Mark sighed. This was going to be a weird one. He hated the weird ones.
"So, you fellas want the arrow clean, or leave it embedded in some tissue?" Kray had the scalpel poised over Mr. Smith's bottom chest.
"We're more interested in the arrow as evidence," Mark said. "Clean, if you don't mind."
"No problem," Kray sliced into Mr. Smith below the shaft, "I'll leave some close tissue because I don't want to nick the wood. Never know, the guy may have signed his work," and he chortled a bit.
Mark looked away, queasy, seeking more Vaseline as the blade squished and screeched against bone. "Say," Kray said, gesturing at Greg's bag, "do you have another banana?"
Mark turned and lurched out the door.
