so that every fishing scow on San Piedro Island seemed to have half a dozen or more. Horace Whaley peeled back one of these blankets and, fingering the birthmark on the left side of his forehead, peered in at Carl Heine. The jaw had set open, he saw, and the vast mouth was a stiffened maw down which the dead man’s tongue had disappeared. There were a large number of broken blood vessels in the whites of the deceased’s eyes.
Horace pulled the blanket over Carl Heine again and turned his attention to Art Moran, who stood immediately at his side.
‘Goddamn,’ he said. ‘Where’d you find him?’
‘White Sand Bay,’ Art replied.
Art told the coroner about the drifting boat, the silence and the lights on board the Susan Marie and about bringing the dead man up in his net. How Abel went to fetch his pickup truck and the canvas stretcher from the fire station and how together, while a small crowd of fishermen looked on and asked questions, they’d loaded Carl up and brought him in. ‘I’m going over to see his wife,’ Art added. ‘I don’t want word to reach her some other way. So I’ll be back, Horace. Real soon. But I’ve got to see Susan Marie first.’
Abel Martinson stood at the end of the examination tableexerting himself, Horace observed, to grow accustomed to this idea of conversing in the presence of a dead man. The toe of Carl Heine’s right boot poked out of the blankets just in front of him.
‘Abel,’ said Art Moran. ‘Maybe you better stay here with Horace. Give him a hand, if he needs it.’
The deputy nodded. He took the hat he held in his hand and placed it beside an instrument tray. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Okay.’
‘Fine,’ said the sheriff. ‘I’ll be back soon. Half an hour to an hour.’
When he was gone Horace peered in at Carl Heine’s face again – letting Art’s young deputy wait in silence – then washed his glasses at the sink. ‘Tell you what,’ he said at last and shut the water off. ‘You go on across the hall and sit in my office, all right? There’s some magazines in there and a radio and a thermos of coffee if you want it. And if it comes about I’ve got to shift this body around and I need your help, I’ll call for you. Sound fair enough, deputy?’
‘Okay,’ said Abel Martinson. ‘You call me.’
He picked up his hat and carried it out with him. Damn kid, Horace said to himself. Then he dried his steel-rimmed glasses on a towel and, because he was fastidious, got his surgical gown on. He pulled on his gloves, removed the shroud of blankets from Carl Heine, and then, methodically, using angled scissors, cut away the rubber bib overalls, dropping pieces of them in a canvas bin. When the overalls were gone he began on the T-shirt and cut away Carl Heine’s work pants and underwear and pulled off Carl’s boots and socks, out of which seawater ran. He put all the clothes in a sink.
There was a pack of matches, mostly used, in one pocket, and a small shuttle of cotton twine stuffed in another. A knife sheath had been knotted to a belt loop on his work pants, but no knife was in it. The sheath had been unsnapped and left open.
In Carl Heine’s left front pocket was a watch that had stopped at one forty-seven. Horace dropped it into a manila envelope.
The body – despite the two hours it had spent in transportfrom White Sand Bay to the dock east of the ferry terminal and from there in the back of Abel Martinson’s truck up First Hill and into the alley behind the courthouse (where the morgue and the coroner’s office could be found beyond a set of double doors that gave onto the courthouse basement) – had not thawed perceptibly, Horace noted. It was pink, the color of salmon flesh, and the eyes had turned back in the head. It was also blatantly and exceedingly powerful, stout and thick muscled, the chest broad, the quadriceps muscles of the thighs pronounced, and Horace Whaley could not help but observe that here was an extraordinary specimen of
Horace pulled the blanket over Carl Heine again and turned his attention to Art Moran, who stood immediately at his side.
‘Goddamn,’ he said. ‘Where’d you find him?’
‘White Sand Bay,’ Art replied.
Art told the coroner about the drifting boat, the silence and the lights on board the Susan Marie and about bringing the dead man up in his net. How Abel went to fetch his pickup truck and the canvas stretcher from the fire station and how together, while a small crowd of fishermen looked on and asked questions, they’d loaded Carl up and brought him in. ‘I’m going over to see his wife,’ Art added. ‘I don’t want word to reach her some other way. So I’ll be back, Horace. Real soon. But I’ve got to see Susan Marie first.’
Abel Martinson stood at the end of the examination tableexerting himself, Horace observed, to grow accustomed to this idea of conversing in the presence of a dead man. The toe of Carl Heine’s right boot poked out of the blankets just in front of him.
‘Abel,’ said Art Moran. ‘Maybe you better stay here with Horace. Give him a hand, if he needs it.’
The deputy nodded. He took the hat he held in his hand and placed it beside an instrument tray. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Okay.’
‘Fine,’ said the sheriff. ‘I’ll be back soon. Half an hour to an hour.’
When he was gone Horace peered in at Carl Heine’s face again – letting Art’s young deputy wait in silence – then washed his glasses at the sink. ‘Tell you what,’ he said at last and shut the water off. ‘You go on across the hall and sit in my office, all right? There’s some magazines in there and a radio and a thermos of coffee if you want it. And if it comes about I’ve got to shift this body around and I need your help, I’ll call for you. Sound fair enough, deputy?’
‘Okay,’ said Abel Martinson. ‘You call me.’
He picked up his hat and carried it out with him. Damn kid, Horace said to himself. Then he dried his steel-rimmed glasses on a towel and, because he was fastidious, got his surgical gown on. He pulled on his gloves, removed the shroud of blankets from Carl Heine, and then, methodically, using angled scissors, cut away the rubber bib overalls, dropping pieces of them in a canvas bin. When the overalls were gone he began on the T-shirt and cut away Carl Heine’s work pants and underwear and pulled off Carl’s boots and socks, out of which seawater ran. He put all the clothes in a sink.
There was a pack of matches, mostly used, in one pocket, and a small shuttle of cotton twine stuffed in another. A knife sheath had been knotted to a belt loop on his work pants, but no knife was in it. The sheath had been unsnapped and left open.
In Carl Heine’s left front pocket was a watch that had stopped at one forty-seven. Horace dropped it into a manila envelope.
The body – despite the two hours it had spent in transportfrom White Sand Bay to the dock east of the ferry terminal and from there in the back of Abel Martinson’s truck up First Hill and into the alley behind the courthouse (where the morgue and the coroner’s office could be found beyond a set of double doors that gave onto the courthouse basement) – had not thawed perceptibly, Horace noted. It was pink, the color of salmon flesh, and the eyes had turned back in the head. It was also blatantly and exceedingly powerful, stout and thick muscled, the chest broad, the quadriceps muscles of the thighs pronounced, and Horace Whaley could not help but observe that here was an extraordinary specimen of
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