depressed skull fracture. You can see it on x-ray.” Maura crossed to the light box and pointed to the skull table. “On the lateral film, you see fractures fanning out from that impact point. They radiate like a spiderweb across the temporal bone. In fact, that’s exactly what we call this type of fracture. A mosaic or spiderweb pattern. It’s in a particularly critical location, because the middle meningeal artery runs right under here. If you rupture that, the patient bleeds into the cranial cavity. When we open the skull, we’ll see if that’s what happened.” She looked at Frost. “This was a significant blow to the head. I think the victim was unconscious when the cutting began.”
“But still alive.”
“Yes. She was definitely still alive.”
“You don’t
know
that she was unconscious.”
“There are no defense wounds on her limbs. No physical evidence that she fought back. You don’t just let someone cut your throat without a struggle. I think she was stunned by that blow. I don’t think she felt the blade.” Maura paused and added, quietly, “At least, I hope not.” She moved to the corpse’s right side, grasped the amputated arm, and lifted the incised end to the magnifier. “We have more tool markings here on the cartilage surface, where he disarticulated the elbow joint,” she said. “It looks like the same blade was used here. Very sharp, serrated edge.” She opposed the unattached arm to the elbow, as though assembling a mannequin, and eyed the match. There was no expression of horror on her face, only concentration. She might be studying widgets or ball bearings, not incised flesh. Not the limb of a woman who’d once lifted that arm to brush back her hair, to wave, to dance. How did Maura do it? How did she walk into this building every morning, knowing what waited for her? Day after day, picking up the scalpel, dissecting the tragedy of lives cut short?
I deal with those tragedies, too. But I don’t have to saw open skulls or thrust my hands into chests.
Maura circled to the corpse’s left side. Without hesitation, she picked up the severed hand. Chilled and drained of blood, it looked like wax, not flesh, like a movie propmaster’s idea of what a real hand would look like. Maura swung the magnifier over it and inspected the raw, cut surface. For a moment she said nothing, but a frown was now etched on her forehead.
She set down the hand and lifted the left arm to examine the wrist stump. Her frown deepened. Again she picked up the hand and opposed the two wounds, trying to match the incised surfaces, hand to wrist, waxy skin to waxy skin.
Abruptly she set down the body parts and looked at Yoshima. “Could you put up the wrist and hand films?”
“You’re done with all these skull x-rays?”
“I’ll get back to those later. Right now I want to see the left hand and wrist.”
Yoshima removed the first set of x-rays and mounted a fresh set. Against the backlight of the viewing box, hand and finger bones glowed, the columns of phalanges like slender stalks of bamboo. Maura stripped off her gloves and approached the light box, her gaze riveted on the images. She said nothing; it was her silence that told Jane that something was very wrong.
Maura turned and looked at her. “Have you searched the victim’s entire house?”
“Yes, of course.”
“The
whole
house? Every closet, every drawer?”
“There wasn’t a lot there. She’d moved in just a few months before.”
“And the refrigerator? The freezer?”
“CSU went through it. Why?”
“Come look at this x-ray.”
Jane pulled off her soiled gloves and crossed to the light box to scan the films. She saw nothing there to account for Maura’s sudden tone of urgency, nothing that did not correspond with what she saw lying on the table. “What am I supposed to look at?”
“You see this view of the hand? These little bones here are called the carpals. They make up the base of the hand, before the finger
“But still alive.”
“Yes. She was definitely still alive.”
“You don’t
know
that she was unconscious.”
“There are no defense wounds on her limbs. No physical evidence that she fought back. You don’t just let someone cut your throat without a struggle. I think she was stunned by that blow. I don’t think she felt the blade.” Maura paused and added, quietly, “At least, I hope not.” She moved to the corpse’s right side, grasped the amputated arm, and lifted the incised end to the magnifier. “We have more tool markings here on the cartilage surface, where he disarticulated the elbow joint,” she said. “It looks like the same blade was used here. Very sharp, serrated edge.” She opposed the unattached arm to the elbow, as though assembling a mannequin, and eyed the match. There was no expression of horror on her face, only concentration. She might be studying widgets or ball bearings, not incised flesh. Not the limb of a woman who’d once lifted that arm to brush back her hair, to wave, to dance. How did Maura do it? How did she walk into this building every morning, knowing what waited for her? Day after day, picking up the scalpel, dissecting the tragedy of lives cut short?
I deal with those tragedies, too. But I don’t have to saw open skulls or thrust my hands into chests.
Maura circled to the corpse’s left side. Without hesitation, she picked up the severed hand. Chilled and drained of blood, it looked like wax, not flesh, like a movie propmaster’s idea of what a real hand would look like. Maura swung the magnifier over it and inspected the raw, cut surface. For a moment she said nothing, but a frown was now etched on her forehead.
She set down the hand and lifted the left arm to examine the wrist stump. Her frown deepened. Again she picked up the hand and opposed the two wounds, trying to match the incised surfaces, hand to wrist, waxy skin to waxy skin.
Abruptly she set down the body parts and looked at Yoshima. “Could you put up the wrist and hand films?”
“You’re done with all these skull x-rays?”
“I’ll get back to those later. Right now I want to see the left hand and wrist.”
Yoshima removed the first set of x-rays and mounted a fresh set. Against the backlight of the viewing box, hand and finger bones glowed, the columns of phalanges like slender stalks of bamboo. Maura stripped off her gloves and approached the light box, her gaze riveted on the images. She said nothing; it was her silence that told Jane that something was very wrong.
Maura turned and looked at her. “Have you searched the victim’s entire house?”
“Yes, of course.”
“The
whole
house? Every closet, every drawer?”
“There wasn’t a lot there. She’d moved in just a few months before.”
“And the refrigerator? The freezer?”
“CSU went through it. Why?”
“Come look at this x-ray.”
Jane pulled off her soiled gloves and crossed to the light box to scan the films. She saw nothing there to account for Maura’s sudden tone of urgency, nothing that did not correspond with what she saw lying on the table. “What am I supposed to look at?”
“You see this view of the hand? These little bones here are called the carpals. They make up the base of the hand, before the finger
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