The Blood Tree by Paul Johnston Page B

after death. Then Sophia and I went back inside the tent.
    â€œWhat do you reckon?” I asked after she’d inspected the dead man’s face.
    She sat back, her midriff bulging under the protective tunic. “Very curious. I won’t be able to tell for sure until the postmortem—”
    â€œOf course.”
    She gave me a disparaging look. “But it would appear that what you described as a third eye is in fact the dead man’s own left eye. There’s a lot of blood about but if you look carefully you can see that the left eye’s been torn out and forced into the cavity that was opened in the frontal bone.”
    I felt my stomach churn. “You’re kidding. Why would anyone want to do that?”
    â€œI’m a doctor, not a psychologist,” Sophia said distractedly. “At first I wondered if the wound came from a bullet.”
    â€œNot many of those in Enlightenment Edinburgh,” I said. “Only the city line and border guards have guns.”
    She glanced up at me. “Always quick to assume that auxiliaries are the criminals, aren’t you, Quint?” She shook her head. “This is no bullet wound. Look at the ragged edges. This was done by a sharp instrument.” She pursed her lips. “Wielded by someone with considerable strength. The bone is thick there.”
    â€œJesus,” I gasped, “this gets worse by the minute. What kind of sharp instrument? Don’t tell me – wait for the p-m.”
    She nodded. “Exactly. But it would have been something at least six inches long to allow for the leverage required to gouge out the hole. The rough edges suggest it didn’t have honed edges and I don’t think it would have been pointed – the leading edge would have been at least half-an-inch wide to make that hole.”
    â€œA chisel?”
    â€œMm, possible.”
    I looked at her. “Not much doubt that this was murder.”
    â€œNone at all, Quint. He could hardly have committed suicide like this. Or got that hole in his forehead and had his eye moved by accident.”
    â€œWhat about the time of death?”
    Sophia put her hands on the head and neck, then ran them down the arms and legs. “Rigor’s almost complete. That and the temperature reading makes me say around twelve hours ago. To be confirmed.”
    â€œSo an hour or two after midnight?” I asked.
    Sophia stood up. “Something like that.” She stepped over the markers to the tent flap. “I’ll be waiting for the body,” she said over her shoulder. “The Council will want the p-m to be done as soon as possible.”
    â€œI know.” I moved over to the body and tried to make out the barracks number on the left side of the suit jacket. It was pressing into the ground. “Davie! I need a hand.”
    He appeared, Katharine not far behind him.
    â€œLift him up from the other side.”
    Davie did so.
    â€œThat’s interesting,” I said, touching a tear in the jacket fabric. “The barracks number’s been torn off.”
    â€œWhy would the killer do that?” Davie asked.
    â€œMaybe he wanted to keep a trophy,” Katharine said, her eyes locked on the mutilated face.
    â€œOr maybe it just got lost in the struggle,” I said. “There are some ritualistic elements here – the branch over the face, the third eye. Jesus, look at the side of his head.”
    I leaned forward again. There was a mass of pulped bone and blood above the ear he’d been lying on.
    â€œLooks like someone smashed his head in,” Davie said.
    â€œBefore or after the eye was taken out?”
    I shrugged, briefly wondering about Sophia’s failure to spot that injury.
    â€œMeanwhile we have the problem of identifying this guy. I don’t fancy getting everyone of auxiliary rank to look at these features and see if they recognise him.” I slid my hand into the inside jacket pocket.