swollen face, then back at her hands.
“Couldn’t have been more than a foot of water,” he said. “The bank drops off pretty sharply here. When the witness found her only her head and shoulders were submerged. Her hands were on the shore, above the water level.”
I gasped, turned away, and clasped my mouth to keep from retching. I squeezed my eyes shut against the thought of Liz, but the image behind the lids was that green-walled staircase leading to the bedroom of my father’s cousin, who would be lying mashed under a pile of stiff gray blankets … waiting for us. By my feet, the water from the inlet lapped against the shore. I tightened my throat and stood staring across the dirt, which was alternating brown and pink, to the black of the inlet, picturing Liz as her body slapped down into the water, knocking the air out of her lungs. I could see her scrambling to pull herself up with arms that wouldn’t work. I could see her gasping, feel her terror as her nose and mouth filled with water.
Anyone but Liz could have pulled herself out of the water without so much as swallowing a mouthful.
“What makes you think it’s homicide?” I asked Murakawa.
The glare of the headlights sharpened his cheekbones to raw edges under his eyes. As he looked down at Liz’s body, he was as pale as she. And when he spoke, his voice was almost a whisper. “The belt. She wore a seat belt to hold her in. They have those on wheelchairs. If you lack tone in your gluteals, your hamstrings, and your erector spinae muscles in the back there’s nothing to keep you from falling forward. The degree and effects of paralysis vary a great deal depending on where the injury occurred and how it affected the spine. There are cases …” He stopped abruptly.
I put a hand on his arm. “Is this your first homicide?”
“Does it show that much?”
“Of course it shows. What kind of person wouldn’t be churned up seeing her like this?” I looked back down at Liz. The bay wind plucked at the dark curls that were still stuck to her face. The thick blue wool sweater that had protected her from the afternoon chill lay heavy against her breasts. It had dried just enough to give off the stench of wet wool and brackish water.
I took Murakawa’s flashlight and bent down to check her face for marks, her hair and clothes for alien fibers. I pointed to a twig caught in her left sleeve. Murakawa nodded.
“The belt,” he said when I stood up. “It was cut. The edges are still sharp.”
I didn’t need to be told that, had the belt been buckled, Liz would have fallen well short of the water. “It’s not just that she’s dead,” I said as much to myself as to Murakawa. “Liz Goldenstern must have been some woman before the accident put her in that chair. Later, she made herself some woman, in spite of not having legs, arms, or even fingers she could use well. She was ready to take on any comer.” I shook my head. “This way of killing her—it’s such an insult.”
“I guess that’s what murder is,” he said.
I shrugged.
“You want shots of the chair?” It was the I. D. Tech. He would do the photography, dust for prints, take the molds, and preserve the samples. Behind him, by the Marina Vista construction shack, the press officer conferred with Lieutenant Collins, the Night Watch Commander. Three reporters stood a few feet away, one checking a camera, the others sidling in toward the press officer.
I turned away from Liz, from “the body.” To the I.D. Tech, I said, “Take the chair, the body, and the shore twenty feet in either direction. Get what prints you can from the chair and molds of all the footprints within five feet of it. And make sure you label that twig that’s caught on her sleeve.”
“Smith,” Murakawa said, “I checked the twig. It looks like it’s from the hedge up on the ridge.”
“Get a sample up there,” I said to the I.D. Tech.
“Right,” the tech muttered.
I asked Murakawa, “Have you
“Couldn’t have been more than a foot of water,” he said. “The bank drops off pretty sharply here. When the witness found her only her head and shoulders were submerged. Her hands were on the shore, above the water level.”
I gasped, turned away, and clasped my mouth to keep from retching. I squeezed my eyes shut against the thought of Liz, but the image behind the lids was that green-walled staircase leading to the bedroom of my father’s cousin, who would be lying mashed under a pile of stiff gray blankets … waiting for us. By my feet, the water from the inlet lapped against the shore. I tightened my throat and stood staring across the dirt, which was alternating brown and pink, to the black of the inlet, picturing Liz as her body slapped down into the water, knocking the air out of her lungs. I could see her scrambling to pull herself up with arms that wouldn’t work. I could see her gasping, feel her terror as her nose and mouth filled with water.
Anyone but Liz could have pulled herself out of the water without so much as swallowing a mouthful.
“What makes you think it’s homicide?” I asked Murakawa.
The glare of the headlights sharpened his cheekbones to raw edges under his eyes. As he looked down at Liz’s body, he was as pale as she. And when he spoke, his voice was almost a whisper. “The belt. She wore a seat belt to hold her in. They have those on wheelchairs. If you lack tone in your gluteals, your hamstrings, and your erector spinae muscles in the back there’s nothing to keep you from falling forward. The degree and effects of paralysis vary a great deal depending on where the injury occurred and how it affected the spine. There are cases …” He stopped abruptly.
I put a hand on his arm. “Is this your first homicide?”
“Does it show that much?”
“Of course it shows. What kind of person wouldn’t be churned up seeing her like this?” I looked back down at Liz. The bay wind plucked at the dark curls that were still stuck to her face. The thick blue wool sweater that had protected her from the afternoon chill lay heavy against her breasts. It had dried just enough to give off the stench of wet wool and brackish water.
I took Murakawa’s flashlight and bent down to check her face for marks, her hair and clothes for alien fibers. I pointed to a twig caught in her left sleeve. Murakawa nodded.
“The belt,” he said when I stood up. “It was cut. The edges are still sharp.”
I didn’t need to be told that, had the belt been buckled, Liz would have fallen well short of the water. “It’s not just that she’s dead,” I said as much to myself as to Murakawa. “Liz Goldenstern must have been some woman before the accident put her in that chair. Later, she made herself some woman, in spite of not having legs, arms, or even fingers she could use well. She was ready to take on any comer.” I shook my head. “This way of killing her—it’s such an insult.”
“I guess that’s what murder is,” he said.
I shrugged.
“You want shots of the chair?” It was the I. D. Tech. He would do the photography, dust for prints, take the molds, and preserve the samples. Behind him, by the Marina Vista construction shack, the press officer conferred with Lieutenant Collins, the Night Watch Commander. Three reporters stood a few feet away, one checking a camera, the others sidling in toward the press officer.
I turned away from Liz, from “the body.” To the I.D. Tech, I said, “Take the chair, the body, and the shore twenty feet in either direction. Get what prints you can from the chair and molds of all the footprints within five feet of it. And make sure you label that twig that’s caught on her sleeve.”
“Smith,” Murakawa said, “I checked the twig. It looks like it’s from the hedge up on the ridge.”
“Get a sample up there,” I said to the I.D. Tech.
“Right,” the tech muttered.
I asked Murakawa, “Have you
Similar Books
