“Damned dogs,” I muttered. The ends of the woman’s legs were covered with gnaw marks, which indicated that her feet had been chewed off by canids — wild dogs or, more likely, coyotes roaming the hills of Morgan County. Had they also gnawed at the woman’s neck? I studied the vertebrae again, this time looking for tooth marks rather than cut marks. There were none. Was it possible that some especially dexterous dog or coyote — seeking a particular delicacy — had managed to pluck the hyoid from the throat without doing damage to any of the adjacent bones? No way, I thought, then said again, “So where the hell is the hyoid?” Had I been so sloppy and careless, in my haste to get the corpse into the body bag, that I’d failed to notice a stray bone lying on the ground, right beside the exposed cervical vertebrae?
Frowning, I laid down the last of the vertebrae, shucked off my gloves, and opened the large envelope resting on the counter. I’d picked up the envelope at Thompson Photo on my way to campus. Inside, tucked snugly into slots in a sheet of clear plastic, were the thirty-six color slides I’d shot two days before, at the death scene in the mountains. As I’d spiraled in toward the corpse, I took half a dozen close-ups of the neck, including two from each side. Now, as I laid the slides on a light box and picked up a magnifying glass, I both hoped and feared what those close-ups might reveaclass="underline" the woman’s hyoid, and my carelessness.
In fact, the close-ups revealed nothing except what I remembered seeing: exposed cervical vertebrae, resting on a layer of dead, dry leaves. “Where the hell is the hyoid?” I was sounding like a broken record. I snapped off the light box, then, an instant later, I snapped it back on, realizing that something in one of the other slides seemed odd. It was the first photo I’d taken — the one with my zoom lens at its widest setting — and it was the last photo I’d have expected to reveal an important forensic detail. I stared at it, and as I realized what I was seeing, my understanding of the crime scene — and even the crime — was transformed.
In the upper corner of the photo, barely within the frame, was something I’d completely overlooked two days before: a dark, greasy-looking circle, a foot or so in diameter, located eight or ten feet up the slope from where the woman’s body lay splayed against the tree. I heard myself say once more, “Damned dogs!” This time I said it with a laugh.
The body, I now realized, had not been posed by the killer in a shocking sexual display; the body hadn’t been posed at all, in fact. The dark, circular stain marked the spot where the body had originally lain, the spot where it first began to decompose. The stain was a slick layer of volatile fatty acids, released as the body had begun to decay. The body’s final resting place, against the tree — although perhaps “resting” was the wrong word — marked the spot where the dogs or coyotes had dragged it, en route to their den or some other sheltered spot, before the legs parted around the tree and the trunk stopped her downward slide. Picturing the scene in my mind, I imagined the confusion and frustration of the two coyotes on either side of the sapling as the corpse yanked to a halt; I imagined their disappointment as they were forced to settle for only the feet, their meager consolation prizes. “Poor doggies,” I said, snatching up a small paper evidence bag and tucking it into my shirt pocket. Snapping off the light box again, I headed for the door of the Annex.
I stepped out into the cold, gray light of the late December morning, the sky swirling with low, ominous clouds. Then, on an impulse, I stepped back inside. As long as I was making the drive to Morgan County, I might as well get as much mileage from the trip as possible. No point showing up empty-handed.
7
Perimortem Revisited
The courthouse clock read 9:05 as I got out of my truck and headed for the door of the sheriff’s office. My wristwatch, on the other hand, read 11:45—the drive had taken an hour, and I’d made a thirty minute stop on my way into Wartburg. I smiled when I realized that the clock’s hands hadn’t moved since my prior visit. Come to Morgan County, I thought, composing an imaginary slogan for the Chamber of Commerce. A place where time stands still.
“He’s not here,” the sheriff’s dispatcher told me.
“How about Deputy Cotterell?”
“Him neither. Nobody’s here but me. They’re all out with the posse.”
“Posse?” Had the dispatcher actually said “posse”? “What posse?”
“They’re after an escaped convict. They was out all night. A whole big bunch of ’em — a hunnerd volunteers, come from all over the place. Somebody called yesterday, sayin’ they seen the guy down toward Coalfield. So the sheriff ’n’ ever’body’s down yonder.” She looked me up and down, sizing me up, then asked, “Was you wantin’ to join up with the posse?” Her tone was dubious; evidently I did not look like posse material.
“Heavens no,” I said. “I’ve been looking at the bones of the dead woman — the woman whose body was found in the park on Friday. I’ve just found another bone out at the scene, and I need to show it to the sheriff.”
She looked startled, then puzzled, then a glimmer of understanding dawned in her eyes. “Oh, you’re that bone detective from UT,” she said, and I nodded. “Was you needin’ something? Anything I can do for you?”
I shook my head, but then I thought of something. “Actually, yes, maybe you can help me. Who’s the best dentist in town?”
“Ha! That’s easy. Ain’t but one, anymore, now that Doc Peterson’s passed on. Dr. Hartley. He’s a lot smarter’n Doc Peterson was. Younger ’n’ better lookin’, too.” She pointed. “Two blocks thataway, down Main Street. Big old house on the left. If the door’s locked, try ringing the bell. He lives right upstairs.”
Closed until January 2, read a hand-lettered sign in the leaded-glass door of Dr. Hartley’s office, which occupied the ground floor of a two-story Victorian. Recrossing the wide front porch and descending the steps, I looked up at the second-story windows. The sky was surprisingly dark for midday; the swirling clouds seemed to be pressing down upon the house. Through wavy glass, I saw lights burning in two upstairs rooms, so I returned to the door and rang the bell. There was no response, and after a while I tried it again. Still no answer. Third time’s the charm, I hoped, and pressed the button once more, holding it down long enough to show I meant business.
This time I heard rapid footsteps on a staircase, and then a light flicked on and an unhappy face appeared, fractured into odd angles and planes of anger by the beveled glass. A dead bolt snicked back and the door opened, the face unfractured now, but unhappy still. “The clinic’s closed until next Wednesday.” He tapped the sign for emphasis, and the panes rattled slightly within their channels of lead.
“I know,” I said, “and I’m sorry to intrude, Dr. Hartley, but it’s important. I’m investigating a murder, and I’m hoping you might be able to help me identify the victim.”
The annoyance on his face gave way to a mixture of puzzlement and curiosity. “Are you with the sheriff’s office?”