of the skull, which came away with a sloppy pop.
“Beautiful!” cried the district surgeon, delving about. “A classic of its kind! Look how the bullet passed through here like a rock through a trifle, toppling as it went so it hit the occiput sideways on, smashing a big hole in the back. And this fracture’s quite a size, too, hey?” He drew up the flap of scalp and looked into the hair. “Good God.…”
“What?” asked Kramer.
But Strydom remained silent until he had quickly shaved the area with a scalpel, revealing three round bruises in a row, followed by a fourth, much fainter contusion.
“I can’t believe it,” he mumbled. “The skull is normal thickness, the bone isn’t soft.…”
“Could he have fallen backwards on an exposed tree root?” suggested Prinsloo.
“Part of the car’s bumper maybe?” suggested Van Rensburg.
“Or on some stones?” suggested Strydom.
Kramer said nothing. He could see the awe in their faces, and knew what none of them was willing to admit to himself. Those bruises on the scalp looked exactly like the knuckle marks left by a single blow with the fist. A fist so powerful it had shattered the skull beneath it. The fist of a Goliath.
“You know, I think we’d better make an experiment,” Strydom remarked quietly, moving over to take another look at the fractures above the dead man’s wrists. “The difficulty is, just how do we.…” And he fell into a brown study.
“By the way,” Kramer said to Van Rensburg, “Nxumalo wants you to get rid of a body for him.”
“And while you’re out there,” added Strydom, “see if you can’t find a piece of cord like the one that was tied round here. Okay?”
Van Rensburg left with a grunt, and Prinsloo made some close-ups of the bruise marks. Strydom wandered round the room.
“Ah, this should do it,” he said, taking the spring-balance from its peg above the sink and discarding the metal dish for weighing organs. “If we tie one end of the cord to this hook, and watch where the needle gets to along this scale, then we’ll get a reading of the required pull in kilos!”
“Very clever, Doc,” said Kramer. “Only what is that going to prove?”
“Hmmmm? The
real problem
is, of course, finding something to conduct this experiment on. It’s a pity both arms have been fractured, or we’d be able to.…”
“Have you any wog paupers in the fridge?” asked Prinsloo, eager to build on his reputation as an ideas man.
“No such luck, I’m afraid. Still, as Ma always used to say, where there’s a will there’s a way!”
Kramer had suddenly had enough. Whatever the reading in kilos, it wasn’t the sort of data kept on file at the CID—or anywhere else for that matter—so this fooling around wasn’t going to contribute a damned thing to the investigation. On top of which, he was sure he’d just heard his car drawing up outside the frosted windows, and that was a phenomenon that required an immediate explanation.
“Hey, hang on a sec, Tromp!” Strydom called out. “I’ve just had this inspiration, and it won’t take Van two minutes to—”
But Kramer had gone.
There was a decided air of the morning-after in Ballistics when Mitchell, who never suffered hangovers himself, popped in for a quick word shortly before noon. Like in the other offices he had visited on his round of thanks, everyone there looked ready to leap out of their seats at the slightest sound, even that of a pencil dropping, as though it were a pistol shot. In fact, when directly compared, this lot seemed twice as twitchy, tense and sickly pale. A pistol shot rang out from the test-firing bench in the corner.
“Life,” grumbled Johan Botha, shuddering, “can be very unfair.” Then he bent once again over the comparison microscope. “What can we do you for, Mitch?”
“I just came to say thanks for a great party!”
“Oh ja? I don’t suppose you know who took this thing and hid it in the darkroom, hey?”
“As a
“Beautiful!” cried the district surgeon, delving about. “A classic of its kind! Look how the bullet passed through here like a rock through a trifle, toppling as it went so it hit the occiput sideways on, smashing a big hole in the back. And this fracture’s quite a size, too, hey?” He drew up the flap of scalp and looked into the hair. “Good God.…”
“What?” asked Kramer.
But Strydom remained silent until he had quickly shaved the area with a scalpel, revealing three round bruises in a row, followed by a fourth, much fainter contusion.
“I can’t believe it,” he mumbled. “The skull is normal thickness, the bone isn’t soft.…”
“Could he have fallen backwards on an exposed tree root?” suggested Prinsloo.
“Part of the car’s bumper maybe?” suggested Van Rensburg.
“Or on some stones?” suggested Strydom.
Kramer said nothing. He could see the awe in their faces, and knew what none of them was willing to admit to himself. Those bruises on the scalp looked exactly like the knuckle marks left by a single blow with the fist. A fist so powerful it had shattered the skull beneath it. The fist of a Goliath.
“You know, I think we’d better make an experiment,” Strydom remarked quietly, moving over to take another look at the fractures above the dead man’s wrists. “The difficulty is, just how do we.…” And he fell into a brown study.
“By the way,” Kramer said to Van Rensburg, “Nxumalo wants you to get rid of a body for him.”
“And while you’re out there,” added Strydom, “see if you can’t find a piece of cord like the one that was tied round here. Okay?”
Van Rensburg left with a grunt, and Prinsloo made some close-ups of the bruise marks. Strydom wandered round the room.
“Ah, this should do it,” he said, taking the spring-balance from its peg above the sink and discarding the metal dish for weighing organs. “If we tie one end of the cord to this hook, and watch where the needle gets to along this scale, then we’ll get a reading of the required pull in kilos!”
“Very clever, Doc,” said Kramer. “Only what is that going to prove?”
“Hmmmm? The
real problem
is, of course, finding something to conduct this experiment on. It’s a pity both arms have been fractured, or we’d be able to.…”
“Have you any wog paupers in the fridge?” asked Prinsloo, eager to build on his reputation as an ideas man.
“No such luck, I’m afraid. Still, as Ma always used to say, where there’s a will there’s a way!”
Kramer had suddenly had enough. Whatever the reading in kilos, it wasn’t the sort of data kept on file at the CID—or anywhere else for that matter—so this fooling around wasn’t going to contribute a damned thing to the investigation. On top of which, he was sure he’d just heard his car drawing up outside the frosted windows, and that was a phenomenon that required an immediate explanation.
“Hey, hang on a sec, Tromp!” Strydom called out. “I’ve just had this inspiration, and it won’t take Van two minutes to—”
But Kramer had gone.
There was a decided air of the morning-after in Ballistics when Mitchell, who never suffered hangovers himself, popped in for a quick word shortly before noon. Like in the other offices he had visited on his round of thanks, everyone there looked ready to leap out of their seats at the slightest sound, even that of a pencil dropping, as though it were a pistol shot. In fact, when directly compared, this lot seemed twice as twitchy, tense and sickly pale. A pistol shot rang out from the test-firing bench in the corner.
“Life,” grumbled Johan Botha, shuddering, “can be very unfair.” Then he bent once again over the comparison microscope. “What can we do you for, Mitch?”
“I just came to say thanks for a great party!”
“Oh ja? I don’t suppose you know who took this thing and hid it in the darkroom, hey?”
“As a
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