"Anyway,” John said, stretching his legs out and getting his heels up on a carton on the floor, “I took off and told the little bugger where he could find me. Now, fill me in on what's been going on around here. What are these meetings Tremaine was having? Who're these people he was meeting with?"
"There's not too much I can tell.” Gideon pulled over an armchair and told John what he knew. He explained what Tibbett had told him and described his own meeting with the group with all the detail he could remember. John jotted down a few notes. It took no more than fifteen minutes. “Okay, Doc, that'll be helpful.” His notebook went into a breast pocket of his jacket. “Now tell me what's going on with the bones."
They got up and went to the counter. The fragments were neatly arranged on butcher paper. “Here they are,” Gideon said, “but there isn't anything new to tell. Owen's sending a couple of his rangers back out there today and tomorrow, and maybe they'll come up with some more, but right now, all-” His attention was caught by movement outside, glimpsed through the side window. “Looks like the little bugger's found you."
The diminutive figure of Burton Wu was striding rapidly down the path from the lodge, purposeful and splayfooted. Splay-kneed, really; every small step swung him off to one side or the other with a roller skater's waddle. A moment later he appeared around the corner of the building, walked in, and looked at the two men sourly. Then he went directly to the counter. It took him seven steps to cover the eight feet.
"Bones, huh?"
"Yes,” Gideon said, “they're from-"
"You got some more of that coffee around here, chief?"
"Sorry, no,” Gideon said.
John held out his cup. “Here, I haven't touched it."
"Thanks.” Wu took it, pulled the cover off, and sipped. He made a face. “Cold. And way too much sugar. You know what that stuff does to you?"
All the same he kept it, taking rapid, minuscule sips and continuing to make faces. He looked at the bone fragments without interest for eight or ten seconds, then spoke to John. “Well, that's no suicide in there. It's homicide, all right. No doubt about it."
"That's what I thought,” John said, looking distinctly self-complacent.
"You were lucky, chief,” Wu told him. “That false-teeth crap doesn't prove a thing. Save it for the shrinks.” The pathologist had a small man's way of making everything sound like a challenge. His speech was crisp and blunt, leavened only slightly by echoes of the quick, singing vowels of Canton. Parents from China, Gideon guessed, and himself raised in Los Angeles or San Francisco.
"Is that right?” John said crossly.
John's ancestry was Cantonese too. From an anthropologist's perspective they made an interesting contrast, a textbook demonstration of the difference made by a single generation's interbreeding with the vigorous native stock of Hawaii. At ten inches taller, eight inches broader, and almost a hundred muscular pounds heavier than Wu, John loomed over him.
Not that the waspish Dr. Wu was intimidated. “Yeah, that's right,” he said, narrow chin thrust up and out. “And the missing key doesn't prove a goddamn thing either. Fortunately, we've got some scientific things to go on.” He rubbed his hands briskly together. “Now, the first thing I noticed was indications of postmortem hypostasis superior and inferior to the ligature; diffused but mostly a dorsal distribution."
"No kidding.” John was an excellent cop, but like many excellent cops he had a block against scientific terminology. Or not a block so much as a self-erected barrier; the innate skepticism of the man of action for the man of words.
Wu looked at him. “Hypostasis,” he said. “Livor mortis. Lividity."
"Settling of the blood, you mean?"
"Right, right,” Wu said impatiently. “Blood and body fluids."
"Due to gravity after you die."
"Yeah, yeah, sure."
"And the ligature is the cord around his neck, is that right?"
"Of course, ligature. All of which means he couldn't have died in that position."
Gideon had no prejudice against scientific words, but until Wu spelled it out, he hadn't seen what he was driving at, either. “I see,” he said slowly. “You mean, the blood would have settled below the ligature if he'd been hanging there when he died. So if there was some lividity above it, on the dorsal aspect"-for John's benefit he patted the back of his own neck-” then Tremaine must have been lying on his back for a while after he died; long enough for some of the fluid to settle there."
"Not long; less than an hour,” Wu said. “The lab boys-” He turned abruptly to John. “Who is this guy?"
"Dr. Gideon Oliver. It's okay. He's working with the bureau."
Wu shrugged. “It's your case. Anyway, that's point one. Second, I did a little palpation of the throat area; not much, because I didn't want to screw anything up before the autopsy. But I think I could feel a fracture of the left-well, there are these sort of extensions of cartilage that tend to get broken when you strangle somebody with your hands, but not when you get hanged."
"The laryngeal cornua,” Gideon said.
Wu looked him over again. “Who'd you say this guy's supposed to be?"
"I'm Gideon Oliver, Dr. Wu. I'm a physical anthropologist."
"He's the Skeleton Detective,” John offered helpfully. Gideon managed not to wince.
"Never heard of him,” Wu said, “but it so happens he's right. The left superior cornu. Maybe the inferior too. And the third thing is, the rope's not right. Neither is the burlap on top of the partition."
"What do you mean, not right?” John asked.
"The fraying runs the wrong way. Say a guy wants to hang himself. He ties a rope to a hook on a partition, okay? He runs it over the top of the partition, then ties it around his neck, stands on an overnight case, and kicks the case out from under him. He drops a few inches and ghaagh! -the rope strangles him. Well, when that rope gets pulled over the top and down, the rope itself is going to fray in the opposite direction…” He peered up at John. “You got any idea what I'm talking about?"
"Yeah,” John said peevishly, “I think so. The scraping on the rope is gonna be in the direction of the knot around the hook. And the burlap on the partition is gonna get scraped in the opposite direction when the rope pulls over it."
"Give this guy a banana,” Wu said. “Well, in there, the fibers show signs of friction, all right, but in the wrong direction-which has got to mean someone tied the rope around his neck and then hoisted it up and over the partition. No doubt about it. Any questions?"
"Any idea where the rope came from?” John asked after a moment.
"Not a rope. Two thick bootlaces doubled and tied together. Looks like they came from a pair of hiking boots in the closet."
"What about time of death?"
"Well, rigor's just beginning to recede; small muscles are starting to unstiffen. So I'd say, oh, maybe-"
"Six to ten last night?"
"Right. How'd you know that?"
"Doc here looked at the body."
Wu glared at Gideon. “Skeleton Detective,” he muttered. “Jesus Christ."
Gideon shrugged apologetically.
"I figure it'd be closer to ten than six,” John said.
"You do, huh?” Wu said, unimpressed. “Why's that?"
"The false teeth. They were already in the glass for the night."
Wu's eyes rolled up. “Do you believe this?” he asked the ceiling. He finished the coffee, followed it with a final unappreciative grimace, and set the cup on a corner of a table which held a cautionary display of ruined cans, pots, and other food containers that had been savaged by bears. “I need to find someplace quiet and write up my report. The lab boys should be finished up with their tweezers inside of half an hour.” He opened the door and stepped out onto the porch. “You got a problem with our taking the stiff out with us, then? You get a full report in three days."
"No problem,” John said. “Well, I think I'll go on up to Tremaine's room and see how they're doing."