carefully examining them. The thumb of the right hand was slightly swollen and there were scrapes across the knuckles. Wink looked at Burgess. "Do the fingernails?"
"I would," Burgess said.
When Wink was done, they started undressing the body. First the heavy olive drab jacket with "Coates" over the pocket. The one that said "Libby" had long since disintegrated. Reggie had been wearing army jackets for thirty years. When one wore out, he picked up another at the Goodwill. Underneath, there was a quilted vest over a brown "Life is good" hooded sweatshirt, a gray waffle-weave thermal shirt, and a gray Gap tee shirt. A thick brown belt held up too-large khaki cargo pants.
As he bent to undo the belt, Burgess spotted a scraped patch on the leather and leaned in for a closer look. The belt was worn. It might just be a place where Reggie had fastened something to his belt and it had worn away the finish, but the wear in that spot was significantly greater than anywhere else on the belt, as though something had been tied to the belt heavy enough to rub the brown surface down to raw leather and wear a groove in the top of the belt.
"Take a look at this, Wink," he said.
Wink studied the belt and reached for his camera. He photographed the belt in place, then undid the buckle and loosened the belt so he could twist it to study the back side. Clinging to the rougher inside leather were some whitish threads. "Dollars to donuts these match the rope on that cinderblock Chaplin brought up," he said.
Burgess watched Wink collect the threads with tweezers. "What do you think it means?"
"You're the detective," Wink said, "but if they match, it could be this gentleman wanted to be sure he'd stay down once he went into the water."
"Or someone else wanted him to stay down."
"Or someone else did," Wink agreed. "But right there on the waterfront's a pretty dumb place to dump a body."
In cold water, a properly weighted body in an obscure location might not have surfaced for weeks. By the time it did, most indices which could have told them about the death might have been corrupted or eradicated. Did that mean Reggie had done this because he only cared about staying down long enough to keep from changing his mind? Or had some stupid or impatient criminal dumped him in the first convenient place, not thinking about how easily the body might be spotted?
"Here's something." Wink, who was putting the sodden jacket into a bag, held out his hand. In the palm was a business card. Nicholas Goodall. Sculptor.
"Something to look into," Burgess said, "assuming we're looking into any of this."
In the same pocket, Wink found a black envelope. Too wet to open or try to read, but it looked like the ones in Reggie's suitcase. Burgess remembered Maura's ramblings about an evil woman. The threatening letter he'd read. The return address had been Goodall.
There were no more surprises. Some things in Reggie's pockets, mostly paper, which would have to be spread out and dried, along with the clothes, back at the lab in Portland. Unless Cote's fallible instincts were right and the matter would be ended by this morning's autopsy. Then he'd be giving Reggie's things to Clay.
Dr. Lee flew in just as his assistant, Albert, and Wink had finished removing Reggie's clothes. Lee was capped, gowned, and ready to roll. He strode up to the table and stood looking down at Reggie, his eyes scanning the pale skin. Burgess watched the unreadable dark eyes moving over the body and wondered what Lee was seeing. When Lee was ready, he nodded, the body was turned, and he gave Reggie's back the same slow, careful scrutiny.
It was cold in the room, temperature cold, and the tile walls and floor and all the stainless steel and sharp instruments gave it a cold, hard edge as well. Burgess had the absurd impulse to cover his friend to keep the chill away and protect him from prying eyes. Instead, he forced himself closer to the table to watch what Lee was doing.
Lee was the
"I would," Burgess said.
When Wink was done, they started undressing the body. First the heavy olive drab jacket with "Coates" over the pocket. The one that said "Libby" had long since disintegrated. Reggie had been wearing army jackets for thirty years. When one wore out, he picked up another at the Goodwill. Underneath, there was a quilted vest over a brown "Life is good" hooded sweatshirt, a gray waffle-weave thermal shirt, and a gray Gap tee shirt. A thick brown belt held up too-large khaki cargo pants.
As he bent to undo the belt, Burgess spotted a scraped patch on the leather and leaned in for a closer look. The belt was worn. It might just be a place where Reggie had fastened something to his belt and it had worn away the finish, but the wear in that spot was significantly greater than anywhere else on the belt, as though something had been tied to the belt heavy enough to rub the brown surface down to raw leather and wear a groove in the top of the belt.
"Take a look at this, Wink," he said.
Wink studied the belt and reached for his camera. He photographed the belt in place, then undid the buckle and loosened the belt so he could twist it to study the back side. Clinging to the rougher inside leather were some whitish threads. "Dollars to donuts these match the rope on that cinderblock Chaplin brought up," he said.
Burgess watched Wink collect the threads with tweezers. "What do you think it means?"
"You're the detective," Wink said, "but if they match, it could be this gentleman wanted to be sure he'd stay down once he went into the water."
"Or someone else wanted him to stay down."
"Or someone else did," Wink agreed. "But right there on the waterfront's a pretty dumb place to dump a body."
In cold water, a properly weighted body in an obscure location might not have surfaced for weeks. By the time it did, most indices which could have told them about the death might have been corrupted or eradicated. Did that mean Reggie had done this because he only cared about staying down long enough to keep from changing his mind? Or had some stupid or impatient criminal dumped him in the first convenient place, not thinking about how easily the body might be spotted?
"Here's something." Wink, who was putting the sodden jacket into a bag, held out his hand. In the palm was a business card. Nicholas Goodall. Sculptor.
"Something to look into," Burgess said, "assuming we're looking into any of this."
In the same pocket, Wink found a black envelope. Too wet to open or try to read, but it looked like the ones in Reggie's suitcase. Burgess remembered Maura's ramblings about an evil woman. The threatening letter he'd read. The return address had been Goodall.
There were no more surprises. Some things in Reggie's pockets, mostly paper, which would have to be spread out and dried, along with the clothes, back at the lab in Portland. Unless Cote's fallible instincts were right and the matter would be ended by this morning's autopsy. Then he'd be giving Reggie's things to Clay.
Dr. Lee flew in just as his assistant, Albert, and Wink had finished removing Reggie's clothes. Lee was capped, gowned, and ready to roll. He strode up to the table and stood looking down at Reggie, his eyes scanning the pale skin. Burgess watched the unreadable dark eyes moving over the body and wondered what Lee was seeing. When Lee was ready, he nodded, the body was turned, and he gave Reggie's back the same slow, careful scrutiny.
It was cold in the room, temperature cold, and the tile walls and floor and all the stainless steel and sharp instruments gave it a cold, hard edge as well. Burgess had the absurd impulse to cover his friend to keep the chill away and protect him from prying eyes. Instead, he forced himself closer to the table to watch what Lee was doing.
Lee was the
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