Perhaps that was nothing to be surprised by, Munster
thought. Merely a natural development?
“It is difficult to be specific about the time,” said Meusse, lighting a cigarillo. “I would guess about eight months, but I could easily be wrong by a month or two in either direction.
We’ll have the lab report in a week or so. Cause of death will be just as hard to pin down, I fear. The only thing that’s obvious, of course, is that he died some considerable time earlier. . Before he was dumped in the ditch, that is. At least twelve hours, no doubt about that. Maybe as much as twenty-four hours. There is no blood on the carpet, and not much in the body either, come to that. The decapitation and mutilation took place at an earlier stage. The blood had drained away, to put it in simple terms.”
“How did the butchery take place?” Munster asked.
“In an amateurish way,” said Meusse. “An axe, presumably.
It doesn’t seem to have been all that sharp, so it probably took quite a while.”
He emptied his glass. Rooth went to get him a refill.
“What I can say about the cause of death is that it was in his head.”
“In his head?” said Rooth.
“In his head, yes,” said Meusse, pointing at his own bald pate to make his meaning clearer. “He might have been shot through the head or killed by that axe, or something else. But the cause of death was a blow to the head. Apart from the mutilations and natural decay, the body is uninjured. Well, I’m ignoring certain secondary effects caused by hungry foxes and crows who managed to get at it in a few places, but even they haven’t caused all that much damage. The carpet and the water in the ditch have had a certain amount of embalming effect. Or delayed the onset of decay at least.”
Munster had picked up his beer glass, but put it back down on the scratched table.
“As for age and distinctive features,” said Meusse, who was unstoppable once he was in his stride, “we can assume he was between fifty-five and sixty, or thereabouts. He would have been five foot nine or five foot ten, slimly built. Well proportioned, I think I can say. No broken arms or legs, no surgical scars. There might have been some other superficial scars, but they have either rotted away or stuck to the carpet.
Things were made a bit more difficult by what you might call a symbiosis of death between the body and the carpet. They have sort of fused together here and there, or do you say fused into each other?”
“Holy shit!” said Rooth.
“Precisely,” said Meusse. “Any questions?”
“Are there any distinctive features at all?” Munster asked.
Meusse smiled. His thin lips parted and revealed two rows of unexpectedly white and healthy teeth.
“There is one,” he said, and it was obvious that he was enjoying this. The pleasure of being able to keep them on tenterhooks at least for a second or two. Satisfying his professional honor, Munster thought.
“If the murderer was in fact trying to remove things that would make identification possible,” said Meusse, “he missed one.”
“What was that, then?” wondered Rooth.
“A testicle.”
“Eh?” said Munster.
“He had only one testicle,” explained Meusse.
“Einstein?” said Rooth, looking foolish.
“Hmm,” said Munster. “That will need following up, of course.”
He realized immediately that he had offended the little pathologist by his irony. He coughed and raised his glass, but it was too late.
“As far as the carpet is concerned,” said Meusse curtly, “you’ll have to speak to Van Impe tomorrow. I think I’ll have to go now. Obviously, you will have a written report on your well-polished desks tomorrow morning.”
He emptied his glass and stood up.
“Thank you,” said Rooth.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” said Meusse. “It would be
appreciated if you didn’t call in with another old torso during the next few days.”
He paused in the doorway.
“But if you come across the remaining parts of the one we already have, we shall naturally help you to match them up.
We’re always pleased to be of assistance.”
Munster and Rooth stayed put for a few more minutes and finished their beer.
“Why has he only one testicle?” asked Rooth.
“No idea,” said Munster. “Mind you, one’s enough when all’s said and done. I suppose he must have injured the other one. An operation, maybe?”
“Could some animal or other have eaten it? While the
body was in the ditch, I mean.”
Munster shrugged.
“Search me. But if Meusse maintains it was missing from the start, no doubt it was.”
Rooth nodded.
“A damned good clue,” he said.
“Yes,” said Munster. “It’s the kind of thing that’s bound to be in all the databases. NB, only has one ball! Do you still think we’ll clear this up inside a week?”
“No,” said Rooth. “Inside a year maybe. Let’s be off.”
They didn’t speak much during the drive back to the police station. One thing was obvious, however: The third man on the 3 5
list of possible candidates, Piit Choulenz from Hagmerlaan, was presumably on the young side. According to the information they had, he had not yet reached fifty, and even if Meusse was careful to say that he was only guessing, Rooth and Munster both knew that he was rarely wrong. Not even when he was only speculating.
But both Claus Menhevern and Pierre Kohler were possibilities, it seemed. And naturally, they would take one each.
They didn’t even need to discuss that.
“Which one would you like?” asked Rooth.
Munster looked at the names.
“Pierre Kohler,” he said. “I suppose we might as well get that sorted out this evening?”
Rooth looked at his watch.
“Absolutely,” he said. “It’s only just turning seven. No self-respecting cop should turn up at home before nine.”
6
When he got there, they were busy packing stuff into the patrol wagons.
“Good evening, Chief Inspector,” said Inspector le Houde.
“Is there anything special you want?”
Van Veeteren shook his head.
“I just thought I’d take a look. Have you abandoned the fingertip search now?”
“Yes,” said le Houde. “We had orders to that effect. Seems fair enough. Not much hope of anything turning up, I don’t suppose.”
“Have you found anything?”
Le Houde gave a laugh. Took out a handkerchief and
wiped his brow.
“Quite a lot,” he said, pointing at a collection of black plastic sacks in the patrol wagon with the back doors open. “Six of those. We’ve collected everything that didn’t ought to be in a forest. . from an area equal to about twenty soccer fields. It’ll be fun going through it all.”
“Hmm,” said Van Veeteren.
“We’ll be sending a bill to Behren’s Public Cleansing Department. It’s their job after all.”
“Do that,” said Van Veeteren. “Anyway, I’ll have a scout come around.”
“Good luck,” said le Houde, closing the doors. “We’ll be in touch.”
He followed the path. That was where the group from the day nursery had walked, if he understood it rightly. It wasn’t much of a path, mind you, not more than a couple of feet wide, full of roots and sharp stones and all kinds of bumps and pot-holes. The local police were doubtless right: The murderer had come from a different direction. The probability was that he’d parked on the bridle path on the other side of the little ridge that ran right through the woods-then he must have carried, or dragged, his load fifty or sixty yards through the undergrowth, uphill. The woods were not very well maintained, it was fair to say-so it was quite a task. Unless there had been more than one person involved, the murderer must have been pretty big and strong. Hardly a woman, nor an elderly man: Surely that was a reasonable conclusion to draw?
He reached the spot. The red and white tape still cordoned off the relevant stretch of ditch, but there were no longer any guards on duty. He stopped three or four yards short of the tape and spent half a minute studying the grim plot, wishing he had a cigarette.