gloved hands and rotated the head, trying to match the wound edges. “Here, just hold it in this position. Pull on some gloves and come around to this end.”
Jane glanced at Frost.
Better you than me,
his eyes said. She moved to the head of the table. There she paused to snap on gloves, then reached down to cradle the head. Found herself gazing into the victim’s eyes, the corneas dull as wax. A day and a half in a refrigerator had chilled the flesh, and as she cupped the face, she thought of the butcher counter in her local supermarket, with its icy chickens wrapped in plastic. We are all, in the end, merely meat.
Maura bent over the wound, studying it through the magnifier. “There seems to be a single sweep across the anterior. Very sharp blade. The only notching I see is quite a ways back, under the ears. Minimal bread-knife repetition.”
“A bread knife’s not exactly sharp,” said Frost, his voice sounding very far away. Jane looked up and saw that he had retreated from the table and was standing halfway to the sink, his hand covering his mask.
“By bread-knifing, I’m not referring to the blade,” said Maura. “It’s a cutting pattern. Repeated slices going deeper, in the same plane. What we see here is one very deep initial slice, cutting right through the thyroid cartilage, down to the spinal column. Then a quick disarticulation, between the second and third cervical vertebrae. It could have taken less than a minute to complete this decapitation.”
Yoshima moved in with the digital camera, taking photos of the approximated wound. Frontal view, lateral. Horror from every angle.
“Okay, Jane,” said Maura. “Let’s take a look at the incision plane.” Maura grasped the head and turned it upside down. “Hold it there for me.”
Jane caught a glimpse of severed flesh and the open windpipe, and she abruptly averted her gaze, blindly holding the head in place.
Again, Maura moved in with the magnifier to examine the cut surface. “I see striations on the thyroid cartilage. I think the blade was serrated. Get some shots of this.”
Once again, the shutter clicked as Yoshima leaned in for more photos.
My hands will be in these shots,
thought Jane,
this moment preserved for the evidence files. Her head, my hands.
“You said…you said that was arterial spray on the wall,” said Frost.
Maura nodded. “In the bedroom.”
“She was alive.”
“Yes.”
“And this—decapitation—took only seconds?”
“With a sharp knife, a skillful hand, a killer could certainly do it in that time. Only the vertebral column might slow him down.”
“Then she knew, didn’t she? She must have felt it.”
“I highly doubt that.”
“If someone cuts off your head, you’d be conscious for at least a few seconds. That’s what I heard on
The Art Bell Show.
Some doctor was on the radio with him, talking about what it’s like to be guillotined. That you’re probably still conscious as your head drops into the bucket. You can actually feel yourself falling into it.”
“That may be true, but—”
“The doctor said that Mary, Queen of Scots was still trying to speak, even after they cut off her head. Her lips kept moving.”
“Jesus, Frost,” said Jane. “Like I need to be creeped out even more?”
“It’s possible, isn’t it? That this victim felt her head come off?”
“It’s highly unlikely,” said Maura. “And I’m not saying that just to ease your mind.” She turned the head sideways on the table. “Feel the cranium. Right here.”
Frost stared at her in horror. “No, that’s okay. I don’t need to.”
“Come on. Pull on a glove and run your fingers over the temporal bone. There’s a scalp laceration. I didn’t see it until we washed away the blood. Palpate the skull here and tell me what you feel.”
It was clearly the last thing Frost wanted to do, but he pulled on a glove and tentatively placed his fingers on the cranium. “There’s a, uh, dip in the bone.”
“A
Jane glanced at Frost.
Better you than me,
his eyes said. She moved to the head of the table. There she paused to snap on gloves, then reached down to cradle the head. Found herself gazing into the victim’s eyes, the corneas dull as wax. A day and a half in a refrigerator had chilled the flesh, and as she cupped the face, she thought of the butcher counter in her local supermarket, with its icy chickens wrapped in plastic. We are all, in the end, merely meat.
Maura bent over the wound, studying it through the magnifier. “There seems to be a single sweep across the anterior. Very sharp blade. The only notching I see is quite a ways back, under the ears. Minimal bread-knife repetition.”
“A bread knife’s not exactly sharp,” said Frost, his voice sounding very far away. Jane looked up and saw that he had retreated from the table and was standing halfway to the sink, his hand covering his mask.
“By bread-knifing, I’m not referring to the blade,” said Maura. “It’s a cutting pattern. Repeated slices going deeper, in the same plane. What we see here is one very deep initial slice, cutting right through the thyroid cartilage, down to the spinal column. Then a quick disarticulation, between the second and third cervical vertebrae. It could have taken less than a minute to complete this decapitation.”
Yoshima moved in with the digital camera, taking photos of the approximated wound. Frontal view, lateral. Horror from every angle.
“Okay, Jane,” said Maura. “Let’s take a look at the incision plane.” Maura grasped the head and turned it upside down. “Hold it there for me.”
Jane caught a glimpse of severed flesh and the open windpipe, and she abruptly averted her gaze, blindly holding the head in place.
Again, Maura moved in with the magnifier to examine the cut surface. “I see striations on the thyroid cartilage. I think the blade was serrated. Get some shots of this.”
Once again, the shutter clicked as Yoshima leaned in for more photos.
My hands will be in these shots,
thought Jane,
this moment preserved for the evidence files. Her head, my hands.
“You said…you said that was arterial spray on the wall,” said Frost.
Maura nodded. “In the bedroom.”
“She was alive.”
“Yes.”
“And this—decapitation—took only seconds?”
“With a sharp knife, a skillful hand, a killer could certainly do it in that time. Only the vertebral column might slow him down.”
“Then she knew, didn’t she? She must have felt it.”
“I highly doubt that.”
“If someone cuts off your head, you’d be conscious for at least a few seconds. That’s what I heard on
The Art Bell Show.
Some doctor was on the radio with him, talking about what it’s like to be guillotined. That you’re probably still conscious as your head drops into the bucket. You can actually feel yourself falling into it.”
“That may be true, but—”
“The doctor said that Mary, Queen of Scots was still trying to speak, even after they cut off her head. Her lips kept moving.”
“Jesus, Frost,” said Jane. “Like I need to be creeped out even more?”
“It’s possible, isn’t it? That this victim felt her head come off?”
“It’s highly unlikely,” said Maura. “And I’m not saying that just to ease your mind.” She turned the head sideways on the table. “Feel the cranium. Right here.”
Frost stared at her in horror. “No, that’s okay. I don’t need to.”
“Come on. Pull on a glove and run your fingers over the temporal bone. There’s a scalp laceration. I didn’t see it until we washed away the blood. Palpate the skull here and tell me what you feel.”
It was clearly the last thing Frost wanted to do, but he pulled on a glove and tentatively placed his fingers on the cranium. “There’s a, uh, dip in the bone.”
“A
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