Bone, ligament, and cartilage were all the same color: an ivory-brown, somewhat lighter than the surrounding soil, but with the same reddish tinge.
"Here's where we get the trowels out,” Gideon said. “We want to more or less scrape the dirt away layer by layer—carefully, a few millimeters at a time. You work up from the knee. I'll work down from the head region."
John studied the bone from several different angles. “Which way's up?"
"Behind you.” Gideon tossed him a few wooden tongue depressors from the sack. “When you're anywhere near the body, use these or your fingers. And we just want to uncover it; don't try to dig it out."
Gideon quickly troweled down to the level at which he thought the skull would be, then laid the metal tool aside and worked through the soil with his fingers. Within seconds he touched a hard, curving surface.
"Skull,” he said.
John troweled for a few seconds longer, then silently put down the tool and watched.
It took only another few minutes, working with fingers, tongue depressor, and a two-inch-wide paintbrush, to expose the area from the crown of the head to the throat.
"Jeez,” said John when he got a good look.
Jeez is right, thought Gideon. The head, not as skeletonized as the knee, was horror-movie stuff, with greasy rags and scraps of red-brown tissue clinging to the bone. A few clumps of hair, still blond in places but already fading to a dingy reddish brown, adhered to the sides of the skull. Where the nose and eyes had been were black holes with dried larval casings in them. The throat musculature had congealed into an unrecognizable, Iiver-colored mass, the mandible gaping and disarticulated from the skull.
John stared at it, obviously shaken. Below his eyes, under the natural bronze of his skin there was a muddy pallor that Gideon had never seen before. “God,” he murmured.
They had looked at more than one decomposing body together before, and if anybody was going to get queasy it could always be counted on to be Gideon; by now it was a running joke between them. But John had never before had to look at someone he'd known closely—one of the family—in this condition. Gideon had, and he remembered what it felt like.
"Listen,” he said gently, “why don't I just finish up here myself? The hard work's done anyway; you'll just get in the way from here on. Take a walk and come back, oh, in half an hour, and I'll tell you if—"
But John, still staring at the skeleton-face, was shaking his head. “It's my fault for getting us into this. I'll stick around. I owe you that much."
"Oh, hell,” Gideon said, “don't start making me feel guilty. If I didn't think it was the right thing to do, all I had to say was no."
"You did say no."
"Well, all I had to do was say it two or three times, then. And I didn't. Because it is the right thing to do."
"Thanks, Doc.” John smiled wanly.
"He was blond, wasn't he?” Gideon asked after a moment. John nodded.
"What about the diastema? Does that look right?"
"Diastema, what the hell is a diastema?"
Gideon gestured at the skull. “That space between his front teeth."
"Yeah, he did have a space between his—oh, I see what you mean. Look at that.” He rubbed his hand back and forth over his eyes. “Look, on second thought maybe I'll go sit under a tree and cool off for a couple of minutes. It's just so...I mean, to see him like this...you know, he was so..."
"Go, already,” Gideon said gruffly. “Here, take some water."
He went back to work. There had been no bonding; the cool soil came away easily in his fingers. And, thank God, there was little stench, no more than an earthy, tomblike odor with only a vague, intermittent edge of rankness. Just your basic, everyday grave smell.
In fifteen minutes John strode back looking his old steadfast self, picked up his tools without a word, and got to work on the lower half of the body. Twenty minutes after that the two of them sat back on their heels to catch their breath and use their wadded shirts to swab perspiration from neck, back, and forehead. The entire upper surface of the body was now exposed, and Gideon took his first long, considered look at it.
Brian was dressed in the T-shirt and shorts that Gideon remembered from the morgue photos. Either he'd been put back into the clothes he'd been wearing when he'd died or he had never been undressed at all. The shirt, stiff with dried blood to begin with, was now black with mold as well, the shorts speckled with blotches of gray-green fungus. Most of the body's soft tissue, as he'd expected, was gone. What was left was rotted to tatters in some places, gummy and shriveled in others. Still, getting down to clean bone for even a cursory examination wasn't the sort of thing that could be accomplished in a few minutes or even a few hours, especially under that roasting pan of a roof. Other things aside, they'd have heat prostration before they were halfway finished.
John heard his sigh. “Doc? What's the matter?"
Gideon jerked his head. “Nothing.” All he could do was what he could do. “Let's get down to business. I'm going to start checking him out.” He opened and laid out a worn leather packet of dissecting tools that they had stopped to pick up from his cottage: Gideon had had it ever since his student days at the University of Arizona. “May as well start with the right hand. If those really were defense wounds, there's a good chance there'll be some corresponding nicks in the bones. If not..."
"If something's there you'll find it,” John said with his appealing but slightly irritating confidence.
The hand lay in a natural position at the body's side, still largely articulated, palm uppermost. That is to say, where the palm had been was uppermost. Stuck to the metacarpals was a mass of tarry, unidentifiable tissue, which Gideon examined with care, hoping to find unambiguous signs of the wound, but without success. It would have to be cleaned off, and he used a tongue depressor to rub away at it, a slow, necessarily painstaking process. Both men kneeled over it, absorbed.
"ARRETEZ-VOUS, S'IL VOUS PLAIT!"
The thunk that followed immediately upon this was the sound of Gideon's and John's near-simultaneous cracking of their skulls against the underside of the metal roof. Clutching their heads, they spun around to see a large, bearded, patently displeased Tahitian policeman looming over them, blocking the sun, his hands on his hips.
It is no easy thing to look intimidating in short blue pants and sky-blue knee socks, but this particular cop, about the size and shape of a UPS delivery van, brought it off with no difficulty.
And standing beside him, not as physically impressive, but no less formidable and every bit as displeased, was the small, globular form of the commandant of the Gendarmerie Nationale de Polynesie-Francaise, Colonel Leopold Guillaume Bertaud.
"Now why is it,” wondered the colonel with his hands clasped behind him, “that I fail to be amazed?” He sounded cheerful, even happy.
"We can explain,” John said. His arms and hands were filthy, his face streaked with sweat and dirt.
Bertaud, crisp and dapper, looked down on him from what seemed to be a very great height.
"No doubt,” he said.
"Give us one more minute,” John said. “One lousy minute, that's all we ask."
"And what will happen in one more minute?"
"Doc'Il prove to you we're right."
Gideon winced. Thanks, John.
"By all means, then,” Bertaud said, “continue."
* * * *
It took five minutes, not one, of painstaking scraping and probing, but at the end of that time Gideon picked a last bit of tissue off with his fingernails and looked up from his knees with a sense of satisfaction.
"Now then,” he said, shifting instinctively into professorial gear. Bertaud moved in closer and leaned over Gideon and John, his hands on his knees. The big Tahitian cop, on the other hand, appeared to be happier keeping his distance.
"As you see, some of the smaller bones have come loose—” He gestured at four terminal phalanges, heaped together like miniature arrowheads. “�
��but the dirt and the ligaments have held the rest of the hand together pretty well. These, here, are the metacarpals, the bones that form the body of the hand; the fingers themselves start here."
"We are seeing the palm?” Bertaud asked.
"Yes, the palm. And can you see this little notch near the head of the second metacarpal—this one, the one that leads to the first finger—and then this notch a little more distal on the third metacarpal, and then this groove on the first phalanx of the fifth digit's—"
"No, I see nothing,” Bertaud snapped. “Bones have many natural grooves and notches. They all look very much the same. Make your point, please."
"In English,” added John.
"Does anybody have a knife?” Gideon asked.
At a nod from Bertaud, the Tahitian took a Swiss Army knife from his pocket and handed it to Gideon, who opened it to its largest blade, about four inches long, and gently laid it, edge down, across the skeletal palm. It fit so perfectly into the line of notches that when he let go of the knife it remained upright, lodged in the bones.
He looked up. “There are no such natural grooves, Colonel. These are defense wounds."
Bertaud peered intently at the knife, eyes keen, lips set. It didn't look as if he was taking this very well. Gideon carefully lifted the knife from the bone, laid it across his own palm in approximately the same position, and closed his fist around the blade. When he opened it fifteen seconds later for Bertaud's inspection there was an indentation in his skin, running from the webbing between his thumb and forefinger, diagonally across the palm, and onto the bottom portion of his little finger.
"Ho!” John exulted, and then, just in case Bertaud failed to comprehend: “That's just where those maggots were, remember?"
"That son of a bitch,” was Bertaud's surprising response. He walked a few paces off and stared fretfully into the jungle.
Gideon and John looked at each other and shrugged. It was nice to have the colonel ticked off at somebody else for a change.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter 21
* * * *
With the help of two more men from Bertaud's office, it took only an hour to get the remains up from the grave. At Gideon's request, Bertaud had gotten a thin, flexible panel of sheet metal from a shop in Papeete, and they used it to slide under the body and lift it all at once. This was done successfully, although it did disarticulate at the pelvis and skull, and a few additional bits and pieces came loose as well. Along with displaced odds and ends—the left patella, a few phalanges—that were located with the aid of a sieve, these were placed in paper bags, and by 4 P.M. all of the existing mortal remains of Brian Scott were lying on a table in the autopsy room located in the basement of the Centre Hospitalier Territorial on Papeete's avenue Georges Clemenceau. There Dr. Viennot, the police physician, had been waiting to perform the autopsy, but after one look at the body he took a thin, black, crooked cigar from his mouth and laughed.
I hereby certify that this man is dead and has been so for some considerable time,” he said in French. “Beyond that"— this to Gideon—"he's all yours, colleague, and welcome to him."
"When can you have a report ready?” Bertaud asked when the doctor had gone.
I haven't been invited to consult yet, was the answer that sprang to mind, but better to let well enough alone. Bertaud was irritated enough as it was. “What's left of the soft tissue will have to come off first,” he said.
"And that will take how long?"
That was the problem. Ordinarily, with chemical help, it took four or five days to deflesh and properly clean a skeleton, but Gideon intended to be on his way home by that time, not working in this bleak, sterile, windowless room. On the other hand, this particular corpse had made substantial headway on its own toward becoming a skeleton, and with a little extra attention the process might be speeded up considerably.
"We're going to have to cook him down some first,” he said. “Can I get a vat or something to do that in?"
A look of distaste flitted across Bertaud's features. “I'll see that the hospital makes available to you whatever you need. You need only speak with Mr. Boucher in the director's office."
"Good. Then maybe I'll have a report for you by tomorrow afternoon. The next day at the latest."
"Very good. And if you require additional...supplies, Mr. Boucher will—"
"It'll be easier to get what I need in a supermarket,” Gideon said.
Bertaud looked at him queerly, possibly to see if this was some curious American joke. “As you wish. There is a large one, English-speaking, nearby on rue des Remparts. If you will provide a written account of your expenses to Mr. Salvat when you submit your bill, I'll see that you're reimbursed at once."
"There won't be any bill,” Gideon said. “This is what we came here to do."
"Only you wouldn't let us,” John pointed out, ever helpful.
Bertaud's blue eyes flashed, but only for a moment. “No,” he said with something like a sigh. “So I did not.” He clasped his hands behind him in a gesture that was already becoming familiar. “Gentlemen, I owe you a great apology."
"Oh, hell,” John said good-naturedly, “forget it, you were doing your job."
"Not very well,” Bertaud said. “The truth is, Nick Druett is a very old friend...a trusted friend. After you first came to see me, I spoke to him, in confidence. He assured me, without qualification, that there was nothing to your claims.” He compressed his lips. “And I, I accepted this. Well, I was wrong."
Very formally, he offered his hand to each of them in turn. “I assure you, you will find me more cooperative in the future."
* * * *
Once Bertaud had left them, Gideon sat down at a counter that ran along the wall, his back to the body, and began to write in a pad he had found there.
"Ah, he's not such a bad guy,” John said. “What'd you have against him anyway?"
Gideon continued to write.
John was leaning against the wall, thinking, his arms folded. “Hey,” he said suddenly, “did I tell you Bertaud and Nick were tight, or did I tell you?"
"You sure did,” Gideon said.
"Sometimes, amazing as it may seem to you, I'm actually right"
"You sure are."
"And you're actually wrong."
"I'll admit it to you,” Gideon said, “but don't ever let Julie find out. Or my students."
"So what are you writing?” John asked.
"A list of what we need. If you drop around to the market and pick it up, I'll start getting things ready here. I'm going to get off all the tissue I can by hand."
"Sure.” John took the list. “'Three pairs rubber gloves...'” he read aloud, nodding, “'bleach...'” But, as Gideon thought it might, the next entry stood him up straight. "'Biz?’” he cried. "'Liquid-Plumr?’” He stared at Gideon. "'...ADOLPH'S MEAT TENDERIZER?' No, come on, Doc, you gotta be kidding me!"
"No, I'm not kidding you. Get plenty of each."
"You're telling me you use...you use meat tenderizer to...to..."
"Why not? That's what it's for, if you look at it the right way. It's the papain in it. And look, if you can't get Adolph's and Biz and Liquid-Plumr, just get whatever they use here instead, as long as the drain cleaner has sodium hydroxide and sodium hypochloride in it, and the—here, I'll write it down for you."
He jotted a few notes at the bottom of the list and gave it back to John. “But try for the Biz first. I like the way it macerates a partially defleshed body."
"Gee, did you ever think of doing endorsements? There's money to be made there, Doc.” He held an imaginary container up beside his face. “Have a partially defleshed body that needs macerating? Well, take it from me, the Skeleton Detective—"
"Just get the stuff, will you?” Gideon said, laughing. He unsnapped his dissecting kit. “Oh, and I'll need something to scrub the bones down as we go. A small scrub brush works fine—soft as you can get. Pick up a couple, will you? A couple of toothbrush
es too."
John nodded, pocketed the list, and made for the door. As he was closing it behind him he stuck his head back in.
"What brand toothbrush? Personally, I recommend Oral-B."
"Oral-B,” said Gideon, “will do just fine."
* * * *
True to Bertaud's promise, Mr. Boucher, the administrative director of the hospital, proved eager and able to help. At 5 P.M., when the laundry workers left for the day, a covered gurney was wheeled by two orderlies from the morgue to the hospital laundry. There, a huge, lidded, cast-iron vat, in which sheets had been boiled in the days before the hospital had gotten its new gas-powered washers, had been placed at Gideon's disposal, as had the two orderlies. By 5:30 the skeleton, now largely disarticulated, and with the smaller bones in several net bags, was soaking in meat tenderizer and water, its first of four warm baths. At 7:30 the vat was drained and the bones placed on the rimmed, metal-topped gurney, where Gideon gently scrubbed and teased away some more of the soft tissue and carefully snipped apart stubborn joints with scalpel and scissors.
In his mind he had already divided the work to be done on the skeleton into two mutually exclusive phases: first, the preparation of the bones for examination, which was tonight's job, a charnel-house business of bone-scraping, defleshing, simmering, and disjointing; and second, the examination itself, which would be tomorrow's. Phase one was dull, hard, nasty work, phase two was physically easy, mentally challenging, and engrossing; phase one was dirty, phase two was clean; phase one was unpleasant from start to finish, phase two was—well, pleasant might not be the right word, but satisfying in its own absorbing way, a return to order and meaning after the dissolution of the night before.
Over the years he had learned to get through the nasty phase without entirely focusing his attention, without being altogether “there.” He rubbed, scrubbed, and teased as needed, but everything was kept at a mental distance, as if seen through a veil. Observation and interpretation of the skeletal features were suspended until the examination itself. After all, it wasn't as if whatever it was wouldn't hold. Thus, it took something extraordinary to make him sit up and take notice.
Aaron Elkins - Gideon Oliver 09 - Twenty Blue Devils Page 15
