I went off to find Schwartz. He wasn’t happy when I did.
“Boyle, I’m not the local coroner, dammit,” Schwartz said as he led me into the damp basement morgue.
“If the Brits had one here, he skedaddled to Australia long ago,” I said. “Sorry, but I wanted to be sure a medical expert examined her for evidence.”
“In here,” he said, opening a thick wooden door, leading into a chamber dug out of the side of the hill the hospital stood on. It was cool, about as chilled as anywhere on Tulagi could be. He pulled a cord and a harsh light illuminated a shroud-covered body. Deanna Pendleton.
“You probably saw the marks,” Schwartz said, pulling the sheet and uncovering her head and shoulders. Her eyes were milky and skin pale, but her face was still beautiful. “A strong left hand, I’d say. In strangulation cases, you often see oval finger marks, with the thumb doing the most damage, like on Sam Chang’s neck. You can see here that the other fingers left fainter marks.” He traced a finger along the left side of her neck.
“Was she strangled?” I asked, working at not looking into those dead eyes.
“No, I don’t think so,” Schwartz said. “It was a very forceful grip, but I didn’t see any other swelling or evident damage to the larynx. I could open up the neck and check if you want.”
“No,” I said, my voice a clipped whisper. I wanted to say her neck, but I held back. He was just being clinical.
“It doesn’t really matter,” he said, covering her face before folding the sheet up on her right side, treating her with more modesty than a real coroner would have. “Not with this knife wound. Right between the fourth and fifth ribs into the heart.” The blood had been washed away, and all that was left was a narrow slit, a tear in the pearly white skin to the side of her left breast.
“That would have killed her, right?”
“Yes, and quickly, too,” Schwartz said. “Look at the incision left by the blade. See how it’s tapered at both ends? That means the blade was sharp on both sides. Fairly thin, too, based on the width of the opening.”
“Like a Marine Raider stiletto,” I said.
“I wouldn’t know,” Schwartz said. “I’ve never seen one of those. But on nearly any Saturday night in the County General ER, you’d see a wound like this. Usually made by an Italian switchblade, sharpened on both sides.” He covered her back up and sighed, shaking his head.
“Thanks, Doc,” I said. “What’ll happen now? With her body, I mean.”
“I contacted Graves Registration, but since she’s a civilian, they’re not sure what to do. You have any idea how to contact next of kin?”
“All I know is she worked with a Methodist missionary still hiding out on Vella Lavella.”
“Damn,” Schwartz muttered as he turned off the light and shut the heavy door behind us. “Any idea who did it?”
“Gwai lo,” I said. “The white ghost.”
I made my way back to my quarters, the air still thick with heat even as the sun set over the Slot. Kao was waiting on the verandah with a message from Captain Ritchie, who wanted to see me, in his quarters this time. He had the old district commissioner’s place, a short walk up the dusty lane. I took my time, trying to figure out a way to report on what I’d found that made any sense at all.
I came up empty.
“Lieutenant Boyle,” Ritchie greeted me from a chair on his verandah, beckoning in a casual manner.
“You asked to see me, Captain?” I said, snapping a salute and standing at attention, sweat dripping from my brow.
“At ease, Boyle,” Ritchie said. “Take a load off.” He gestured with his thumb toward the worn wicker chair next to him, clinking the remains of ice cubes in his glass. “Join me?”
“Wouldn’t mind it a bit,” I said. “You have ice?”
“Yep. Got an icebox inside and a refrigeration unit on base. They deliver a block of ice every day. Keeps the food cold and the bourbon the way I like it. Sali, more ice,” he hollered in the general direction of the house. In two shakes his houseboy, dressed in a lap-lap much like Kao’s, raced out with a glass and a bowl of chipped ice. Sali retreated inside and Ritchie poured the bourbon, leaving the ice to me. I took enough to chill the amber liquid, but not enough to look greedy. Out here, ice probably commanded a high price on the black market.
“Cheers,” I said, raising my glass. We touched glasses and drank. Ritchie took a long gulp, and I wondered how long cocktail hour had been going on.
“Sad business about Miss Pendleton,” he said, a sigh escaping his lips as he worked a piece of ice around in his mouth.
“Yes sir,” I said. “I think there’s a good chance all three killings are related. Tamana, Chang, and Deanna.”
“Sounds like you’re making progress,” Ritchie said, in an encouraging voice. I liked him a lot better with bourbon on the verandah than during office hours.
“Some,” I said. “I know Daniel Tamana went looking for Sam Chang in Chinatown. He’d heard Chang was on Tulagi, but didn’t know he was in the hospital. And Tamana and Deanna were observed having a hushed conversation the day Daniel was killed. I think whoever murdered Daniel is cleaning up loose ends.”
“Surely you don’t suspect Lieutenant Kennedy of killing all three people? Especially since he was involved with the Pendleton girl.” Ritchie took another drink and topped off our glasses.
“I don’t think he killed Deanna,” I said. “But a guy is always a suspect when his girlfriend is found dead, until he’s ruled out.”
“But in this case there’s no evidence against him?” Ritchie said.
“No, sir.”
“If the killings are related, and you don’t think Kennedy killed the girl, then you probably don’t suspect him in the other two deaths, right?” It was an undeniable piece of logic; I could see the bourbon wasn’t getting in the way of clear thinking for Ritchie.
“I can’t be certain about Daniel yet,” I said. “There’s something about Jack’s state of mind that makes him volatile. He can take offense easily, and I don’t know what may have passed between Daniel and him if they met on that beach.”
“What about the Chinaman? Chang. Do you suspect Kennedy of his death?”
“No, Captain, I don’t. Jack might have a sudden fit of temper, but he wouldn’t strangle a man in a hospital bed.”
“It sounds to me, Lieutenant,” Ritchie said, taking another sip and smacking his lips, “that you’re hanging onto the slightest pretext to suspect Kennedy of being involved in Tamana’s death. Should I suspect you’re prejudiced against him?”
“I know him pretty well, Captain,” I said. “Which means I know his faults as well as his strengths.”
“Fair enough,” Ritchie said. “I want you to think all this through very thoroughly. Then tomorrow, unless you come up with any evidence to the contrary, I want an official report by the end of the day, exonerating Kennedy of any suspicion in regard to these killings.” With that, he crunched ice between his teeth.
“Regardless of the facts, Captain?” Now it was my turn to drain the glass.
“You don’t have facts, Boyle. You have suspicion and maybe jealousy, I don’t know. And I don’t care. What I do know is that back in the States you wouldn’t have enough evidence to arrest Kennedy, would you?”
“No. But he’d still be a suspect in any decent investigation,” I said.
“That’s in a perfect world, Boyle. Perhaps you haven’t noticed, but we’re in the Solomon Islands and at war. Hardly perfect. Now listen and listen good,” Ritchie said, leaning forward, his elbows resting on his knees. “The navy has decided Jack Kennedy is a hero. Not too long ago, there was talk of a court-martial, but that’s changed. You can guess why.”
“He doesn’t consider himself a hero, Captain.”
“Do you imagine what that little runt thinks matters a whit? The navy needs a hero, so now that’s his job. He’s getting a new command and everyone is going to look sharp about it. No lingering suspicions. Understood?”
“Yeah, I get it, Captain. Joe Senior pulled the strings in Boston and I end up with iced bourbon on Tulagi for my troubles.” To my surprise, Ritchie laughed and poured me another. I’d half expected to be arrested for insubordination.