of the elongated, low-slung motorcycles called "choppers."
It was the muscle strains brought on by the unnatural posture that did it; that, the bumping, and the increased buffeting by the wind that came from riding while leaning far back. This was Alexander’s body all right; coincidence was so improbable as to be out of the question. That "typical four-weeker" business was puzzling, but it would be up to Merrill to figure that out.
So Nate had been wrong after all. Randy was dead— murdered—and Gideon was more disturbed than he should have been. It was utterly irrational for him to feel any responsibility for the death, and he knew it, but there it was all the same. What if he hadn’t put Randy off? What if he’d listened to what he’d had to say, there on the hillside….
Abruptly, he stripped off the gloves and went to the sink to scrub his hands twice over with plenty of soap, and water as hot as he could stand it. Putting blame on himself made no sense at all, and he wouldn’t let himself do it. Besides, he’d just done a first-rate piece of skeletal detective work, and he had every right to be pleased with it. He sat down at an old steel desk against the wall, his back to the body, and began to write his report.
NINE
INSPECTOR Bagshawe’s reaction was extremely rewarding. "Get away!" he shouted so vehemently that the great, curving cherrywood pipe he was about to light slipped from between his teeth and clattered onto the glass-covered top of his desk, dispersing shreds of toast-brown tobacco through the litter of papers and folders.
"A left-handed baseball pitcher who rode a motorcycle?"
Merrill’s happy laugh rang out. "That’s wonderful, Professor! How on earth did you come up with that?"
When Gideon had explained, Bagshawe said, "So you’re reasonably certain it’s Alexander, are you?" His tone was distinctly more respectful than heretofore.
"I think so. I don’t imagine baseball pitchers are too common in England."
"No, but—"
"And a cricket bowler’s motion wouldn’t have done it. Not enough elbow snap."
Nodding his head, Bagshawe retrieved his pipe, shoveled some of the scattered tobacco back into it with a massive, cupped hand, and lit it, drawing deeply. "And it’s not only baseball players one doesn’t find here. These ‘choppers,’ as I believe you call them—not very popular here; not yet. And I say, thank the Lord for that. Well, Alexander’s background is easily enough verified, and I expect it will support your conclusions." He puffed contentedly and leaned back in his creaking wooden swivel chair. His eyes returned to the report. " ‘Radial and ulnar fractures,’ " he read aloud. "Those would be arm bones, would they?"
"Forearm, yes."
"Mm-hm, I see." His large hands rummaged awkwardly in a drawer and pulled out another sheet of paper. "Mm, I don’t seem to find…yes…no…I don’t believe you mentioned that in your report, Dr. Merrill."
Merrill appeared mildly taken aback, and Gideon intervened. "It was hardly noticeable, what with the swelling and distortion. Easy to miss."
Well, not really. He had noticed before how careless pathologists could be, even knowledgeable and enthusiastic ones like Merrill (not that he’d ever known one quite as enthusiastic as Merrill). It was lack of interest in the long bones, he’d concluded years ago. There were all sorts of things to engage pathologist’s interest in the head, the trunk, and the internal organs, and they were scrupulously examined. The outlying bones were duller stuff, it appeared, and so they often escaped attention.
"I see." Bagshawe nodded again, clearly not convinced. "Well, then, back to the good professor’s report." He puffed at his pipe and read aloud very slowly. " ‘Fresh radial and ulnar fractures’ "—Gideon almost expected him to begin pushing a bulky forefinger from word to word— " ‘which appear to be antemortem…’ " He put the report on the desk and
It was the muscle strains brought on by the unnatural posture that did it; that, the bumping, and the increased buffeting by the wind that came from riding while leaning far back. This was Alexander’s body all right; coincidence was so improbable as to be out of the question. That "typical four-weeker" business was puzzling, but it would be up to Merrill to figure that out.
So Nate had been wrong after all. Randy was dead— murdered—and Gideon was more disturbed than he should have been. It was utterly irrational for him to feel any responsibility for the death, and he knew it, but there it was all the same. What if he hadn’t put Randy off? What if he’d listened to what he’d had to say, there on the hillside….
Abruptly, he stripped off the gloves and went to the sink to scrub his hands twice over with plenty of soap, and water as hot as he could stand it. Putting blame on himself made no sense at all, and he wouldn’t let himself do it. Besides, he’d just done a first-rate piece of skeletal detective work, and he had every right to be pleased with it. He sat down at an old steel desk against the wall, his back to the body, and began to write his report.
NINE
INSPECTOR Bagshawe’s reaction was extremely rewarding. "Get away!" he shouted so vehemently that the great, curving cherrywood pipe he was about to light slipped from between his teeth and clattered onto the glass-covered top of his desk, dispersing shreds of toast-brown tobacco through the litter of papers and folders.
"A left-handed baseball pitcher who rode a motorcycle?"
Merrill’s happy laugh rang out. "That’s wonderful, Professor! How on earth did you come up with that?"
When Gideon had explained, Bagshawe said, "So you’re reasonably certain it’s Alexander, are you?" His tone was distinctly more respectful than heretofore.
"I think so. I don’t imagine baseball pitchers are too common in England."
"No, but—"
"And a cricket bowler’s motion wouldn’t have done it. Not enough elbow snap."
Nodding his head, Bagshawe retrieved his pipe, shoveled some of the scattered tobacco back into it with a massive, cupped hand, and lit it, drawing deeply. "And it’s not only baseball players one doesn’t find here. These ‘choppers,’ as I believe you call them—not very popular here; not yet. And I say, thank the Lord for that. Well, Alexander’s background is easily enough verified, and I expect it will support your conclusions." He puffed contentedly and leaned back in his creaking wooden swivel chair. His eyes returned to the report. " ‘Radial and ulnar fractures,’ " he read aloud. "Those would be arm bones, would they?"
"Forearm, yes."
"Mm-hm, I see." His large hands rummaged awkwardly in a drawer and pulled out another sheet of paper. "Mm, I don’t seem to find…yes…no…I don’t believe you mentioned that in your report, Dr. Merrill."
Merrill appeared mildly taken aback, and Gideon intervened. "It was hardly noticeable, what with the swelling and distortion. Easy to miss."
Well, not really. He had noticed before how careless pathologists could be, even knowledgeable and enthusiastic ones like Merrill (not that he’d ever known one quite as enthusiastic as Merrill). It was lack of interest in the long bones, he’d concluded years ago. There were all sorts of things to engage pathologist’s interest in the head, the trunk, and the internal organs, and they were scrupulously examined. The outlying bones were duller stuff, it appeared, and so they often escaped attention.
"I see." Bagshawe nodded again, clearly not convinced. "Well, then, back to the good professor’s report." He puffed at his pipe and read aloud very slowly. " ‘Fresh radial and ulnar fractures’ "—Gideon almost expected him to begin pushing a bulky forefinger from word to word— " ‘which appear to be antemortem…’ " He put the report on the desk and
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