Icy Clutches (16 page)

Well, at least he could do something about preserving the fragments, now that they were dry. He was looking for a container to mix the acetone and Duco that Owen had gotten for him, when John appeared on the wooden porch of the building, a giant Styrofoam cup in either hand. Gideon pulled open the door for him.

"Hiya, Doc. Figured you could use some coffee."

"I sure can, thanks.” He lifted off the plastic lid and took a grateful swig. “Where'd you find coffee this time of the morning?"

"Restaurant kitchen. They keep a pot going in there."

Gideon laughed. When there was a kitchen around, John usually didn't take long to make a friend in it. He took another swallow. “How's Dr. Wu coming?"

John growled. “He booted me out. Dr. Burton W. Wu. Kind of a touchy little bastard. Like you."

"Me?” Gideon said, surprised. “Touchy?"

"Yeah, like when you come in to look at some bones and you don't let anybody tell you anything about anything. You have to figure it all out yourself."

"That's not being touchy. That's trying to keep myself honest. You know that."

"Yeah, I know, but I'm not used to it from a medical examiner. I was in there examining the scene, you know? Being really careful not to disturb evidence, not getting in anybody's way. But finally this guy turns around and grins with these sharp little teeth and tells me to get the hell out of the room because he's trying to work and I'm bugging him. Jesus Christ,” he muttered, “prima donnas all over the place. Everybody's gotta have everything just the way they want it or they have a temper tantrum."

He put his unopened coffee on the counter and dropped into a chair. “What the hell,” he said with a sigh, never one to sulk very long. “How's the coffee?"

Gideon took another taste, rolling it judiciously on his tongue. “Well, now that you mention it, it's a little heavy on the cream. And I prefer half-and-half to the nondairy stuff. And in the future it'd be nice to get something to stir it with. Also—"

John looked sharply at him, began to speak, and then burst out laughing, a sunny peal that folded the skin around his eyes into a network of happy crinkles. As usual, Gideon couldn't help laughing along.

"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."

Wu looked disapprovingly up at him. “Try not to bother them, will you?” He rammed the door closed and headed decisively up the hill toward the lodge.

John looked at Gideon. “Friendly little guy, isn't he?"

Gideon smiled. “A little testy, but he seems to know what he's doing. I guess we really do have ourselves a murder here."

"I guess we do. You want to come up with me and see what's happening?"

"No, thanks,” Gideon said. Not if Tremaine's unstiffening body was still there, he didn't.

"Okay. What do they do for lunch here?"

"They put out a buffet in the dining room from twelve to one-thirty."

"I want to get in a couple of interviews before then. How about meeting me there at one?"

"You're on,” Gideon said.

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For fifteen minutes, comfortably occupying the largest armchair in the upstairs lounge, Walter Judd had snuffled, chortled, and suspender-snapped his way through John's questions. No, he hadn't seen Audley after the cocktail hour last night. Yes, he himself had gone directly to his room after dinner and remained there all night. No, there wasn't anyone who could confirm that; just what was Mr. Lau insinuating? (Chuckle, rumble, snap, snap.) Yes, his room was next to Tremaine's, but no, he hadn't heard anything unusual, or anything at all for that matter.

Now, at John's latest question he stopped with his thumb hooked in a suspender strap. “Would you mind repeating that?"

"Sure. Who do you think killed Tremaine?"

"Now
there's
a question. My, my. Must I really answer that?"

"No, sir,” John said affably, “but I thought you'd want to help."

Judd slowly eased the band back. “Well, I just might. May I assume anything I tell you is confidential?"

"No,” John said, “you can't.” He had learned a long time ago that nine times out of ten, once someone got as far as asking him that question—paid informers excepted—the information was already as good as given, regardless of his answer. Refusing confidentiality at the outset made life simpler and saved grief all around.

Judd chuckled softly. “You certainly don't give a man a lot of room. Well, I don't imagine I'm telling you anything you don't already know if I say that the Illustrious Deceased had a somewhat, ah, shall we say, tarnished reputation when it came to using other people's ideas. Without attribution, I need hardly add."

"You don't sound as if you liked him very much."

"And who do you know who did?” Judd smiled. “Anyone of normal intelligence, I mean. And not counting his legion of adoring television fans.” The smile broadened. “Two mutually exclusive categories, I should think."

"Go ahead and tell me about his using other people's ideas."

"For example: A few years after the expedition, he published a very well received monograph on postglacial Rosacea dryas colonization. Anna Henckel claimed, quite probably with cause, that most of the ideas were stolen from her own unpublished work."

"And Dr. Henckel resented this?"

Judd gave him an amused look. “A bit,” he said drily. “To be frank, Anna still resents him quite bitterly. The other night in the bar, she was beating us about the head and shoulders with Audley's mismanagement of the Tirku survey.” He shook his bearish head wonderingly. “I mean to say, it's been
thirty
years."

"Us?"

"Gerald Pratt and me, though I don't think she ever quite got through to poor Gerald. One often doesn't."

"What was she saying?"

Judd blew out his lips and fluttered them like a horse. “God knows. She had some ancient memo, some self-serving document written by an obscure federal minion and mercifully lost in the files all these years, I suspect. Frankly, I wasn't paying much attention. Audley
did
botch things, of course, but after all this time, who cares? Unless, of course, he was going to gloss them over in his precious book and blame the problems on certain other people—which I wouldn't have put past him—in which case I, too, was prepared to set him straight. Oh, yes."