Bones on Ice: A Novella by Kathy Reichs

blow. Perhaps caused by a fall onto something hard and sharp. Perhaps resulting in a punctured vessel.
    Had I stumbled upon manner of death? Had Brighton Hallis fallen so hard that an object was forced deep into her neck? On falling, had her head whiplashed, striking both in front and in back?
    But something cold and dark was slithering across my brain. What?
    Warily, I prodded the source of my uneasiness. The prodding led to Ortiz.
    No paradoxical undressing
.
    It doesn’t happen every time, I chided myself.
    It happens often enough, my brain insisted. Rob Hall, Scott Fischer, almost all the dead atop Everest exhibited some form of paradoxical undressing.
    Still.
    This woman died gloveless, my mind insisted.
    Yet her outerwear was zipped to the chin.
    If Brighton Hallis had removed her gloves, her exposed hands would have quickly become frostbitten. I hurried to the platform and studied the victim’s remaining digits. Mummification was uniform. The fingertips weren’t misshapen, blistered, or blackened.
    In other words, I saw none of the typical signs of frostbite. Meaning blood hadn’t been diverted away from her fingers prior to death. No hypothermia. Translation: She died quickly.
    Over and over. Round and round. A fall? Tumbling rock? An equipment malfunction leading to hypoxia and disorientation?
    Hallelujah. I was still at first base.
    Then a thought. Hurrying to the computer, I pulled up the photos Ortiz had taken and entered into the ME215-15 case file.
    There was Brighton, curved on her side, the polar jacket in place and in remarkable condition. More keystrokes. More photos. Underneath layers showing rips and tears. Cheaper fabric? Note to self: Examine the clothing.
    Returning to the platform, I tucked the limbs and rolled the body onto its stomach. Under the harsh fluorescents, the back and buttocks looked dimpled and morgue white. Gashes in the pallid flesh bore witness to the woman’s last rough ride down the mountain. One large abrasion lined up with the damage I’d seen on X-ray at the level of the third and fourth cervical vertebrae.
    I found a handheld magnifier and brought the wound into focus. The abraded area was rough-edged, approximately two inches across, and shallow. Except at the centermost point. There it was deep. Very deep.
    I leaned in closer.
    My breath froze.

Chapter 7
    My statement got pretty much the reaction I expected.
    “Murder?” Larabee’s brows were smacking his hairline.
    We were three, cloistered in Larabee’s office. Homicide detective Erskine “Skinny” Slidell of the Charlotte-Mecklenburg Police Department (CMPD) was gracing us with his presence, but zero patience.
    “What the shit?”
    I turned to Slidell. His slouching posture and outstretched legs mooted all benefit intended by the ergonomic seat under his substantial polyester-clad buttocks. I explained. Again. Slowly.
    “I believe someone killed Brighton Hallis. Or incapacitated her and left her to die on the mountain.”
    “You called me over here ’cause some kid got whacked in China?” Even Slidell’s orange socks looked pissed.
    “Nepal.” I’d checked.
    “Whatever. It ain’t my jurisdiction.”
    “She was twenty-four. And from Charlotte.”
    “She was stupid to go up that mountain. And stupid killed her.”
    “That is not what the X-rays suggest.”
    “The images are…” Larabee struggled for a word. Settled on “…conclusive?”
    “The images are a mess,” I admitted. “But once the bones are cleaned, they will show that Brighton Hallis suffered intentional perimortem injury resulting in death.”
    Larabee looked dubious. “With causation?” Meaning, did violence kill her before something less deliberate, like falling. I think.
    “I believe the fracture patterning will show that the trauma inflicted on her either killed her directly, or unavoidably led to her death under the circumstances.”
    “According to that gobbledygook”—Skinny jabbed a thumb at the X-ray I’d just