Tess Gerritsen - The Bone Garden - A Novel

— It— it's Miss Connolly, is it not? — said Norris Marshall.

She gave a sob. Her legs suddenly went out from under her and she slid down the wall, to land on her rump against the cobblestones.

THOUGH NORRIS had never before met Mr. Pratt of Boston's Night Watch, he had known other men just like him, men too puffed up on authority to ever acknowledge the undeniable fact, recognized by everyone else, that they are stupid. It was Pratt's arrogance that Norris found most annoying, right down to the man's walk, his chest thrust out, arms swinging in a martial beat as he strutted into the hospital dissection room. Though not a large man, Mr. Pratt gave the impression that he thought he was. His only impressive feature was his mustache, the bushiest Norris had ever seen. It looked like a brown squirrel that had sunk its claws into his upper lip and refused to let go. As Norris watched the man taking notes with a pencil, he could not help staring at that mustache, picturing that imaginary squirrel suddenly leaping away and Mr. Pratt giving chase after his fugitive facial hair.

Pratt finally looked up from his pad of paper and regarded Norris and Wendell, who stood beside the draped body. Pratt's gaze moved on to Dr. Crouch, who was clearly the medical authority in the room.

— You say you have examined the body, Dr. Crouch? — asked Pratt.

— Only superficially. We took the liberty of bringing her into the building. It did not seem right to leave her lying there on the cold steps, where anyone might trip over her. Even if she were a stranger, which she is not, we owe her at least that small modicum of respect. —

— Then you are all acquainted with the deceased? —

— Yes, sir. Only when we brought out the lantern did we recognize her. The victim, Miss Agnes Poole, is the head nurse of this institution. —

Wendell interjected: — Miss Connolly must have told you this. Didn't you already question her? —

— Yes, but I find it necessary to confirm everything she's told me. You know how it is with these flighty girls. Irish girls in particular. They're likely to change their story depending on which way the wind blows. —

Norris said, — I'd hardly call Miss Connolly a flighty girl. —

Watchman Pratt fixed his narrowed gaze on Norris. — You know her? —

— Her sister is a patient here, in the lying-in ward. —

— But do you know her, Mr. Marshall? —

He didn't like the way Pratt was studying him. — We've spoken. In regard to her sister's care. —

Pratt's pencil was scribbling on the pad again. — You are studying medicine, is that correct? —

— Yes. —

Pratt eyed Norris's clothing. — You have blood on your shirt. Are you aware of that? —

— I helped move the body from the steps. And I assisted Dr. Crouch earlier in the evening. —

Pratt glanced at Crouch. — Is this true, Doctor? —

Norris felt his face redden. — You think I would lie about it? In Dr. Crouch's presence? —

— My only duty is to uncover the truth. —

You're too stupid to recognize the truth when you hear it .

Dr. Crouch said, — Mr. Holmes and Mr. Marshall are my apprentices. They assisted me earlier this evening on Broad Street, at a difficult delivery. —

— What were you delivering? —

Dr. Crouch stared at Pratt, clearly thunderstruck by the man's question. — What do you think we were delivering? A cart of bricks? —

Pratt slapped his pencil down on the pad. — There is no need for sarcasm. I simply wish to know everyone's whereabouts tonight. —

— I find this outrageous. I am a physician, sir, and I have no need to account for my activities. —

— And your two apprentices here? Were you with them the entire evening? —

— No, we were not, — said Wendell, rather too casually.

Norris looked at his fellow student in surprise. Why offer this man any unnecessary information? It would only feed his suspicions. Indeed, Watchman Pratt now looked like a mustachioed cat at the mouse hole, ready to pounce.

— When were you not in each other's company? — asked Pratt.

— Would you like an account of my visits to the pisspot? Oh, and I do believe I took a crap as well. How about you, Norris? —

— Mr. Holmes, I do not appreciate your foul brand of humor. —

— Humor is the only way to deal with questions as absurd as these. We're the ones who summoned the Night Watch, for God's sake. —

The mustache twitched. The squirrel was now getting agitated. — I see no need for blasphemy, — he said coldly, and slipped his pencil into his pocket. — Now then. Show me the body. —

Dr. Crouch said, — Shouldn't Constable Lyons be present? —

Pratt shot him an irritated look. — He will get my report in the morning. —

— But he should be here. This is serious business. —

— At this moment, I am in authority. Constable Lyons will be advised of the facts at a more reasonable hour. I see no reason to rouse him from his bed. — Pratt pointed to the draped body. — Uncover her, — he ordered.

Pratt had assumed a nonchalant pose, jaw thrust out in the attitude of a man too cocky to be rattled by anything so minor as the sight of a corpse. But when Dr. Crouch pulled off the sheet, Pratt could not suppress a gasp, and he suddenly flinched away from the table. Although Norris had already viewed the corpse and had, in fact, helped carry it into the building, he, too, was shocked yet again by the mutilations performed on Agnes Poole. They had not undressed her; they scarcely needed to. The blade had slashed open the front of her dress, laying bare her injuries, injuries so grotesque that Watchman Pratt remained frozen and unable to utter a sound, his face as pale as curdled milk.

— As you can see, — said Dr. Crouch, — the trauma is horrific. I have waited to complete the examination until an official could be present. But all it takes is a cursory glance to see that the killer has not merely sliced open the torso. He has done far, far more. — Crouch rolled up his sleeves, then glanced at Pratt. — If you wish to see the damage, you'll have to step up to the table. —

Pratt swallowed. — I can…see it well enough from here. —

— I doubt that. But if your stomach is too weak to handle it, there's no sense in your getting sick all over the corpse. — He pulled on an apron and tied the strings behind his back. — Mr. Holmes, Mr. Marshall, I'll need your assistance. It's a good opportunity for you both to get your hands dirty. Not every student is so fortunate this early in his education. —

Fortunate was not the word that came to Norris's mind as he stared into the gaping torso. Growing up on his father's farm, he was no stranger to the smell of blood or the butchering of pigs and cows. He had gotten his hands dirty, all right, helping the farmhands as they scooped out offal and stripped away the hides. He knew what death looked like and smelled like, for he had labored in its presence.

But this was a different view of death, a view that was too intimate and familiar. This was not a pig's heart or a cow's lungs that he stared at. And the slack-jawed face was one that, only hours ago, had been suffused with life. To see Nurse Poole now, to look into her glazed eyes, was to catch a glimpse of his own future. Reluctantly, he took an apron from the wall hooks, tied it on, and took his place at Dr. Crouch's side. Wendell stood on the other side of the table. Despite the bloody corpse that lay between them, Wendell's face revealed no revulsion, only a look of intent curiosity. Am I the only one who remembers who this woman was? Norris wondered. Not a pleasant human being, to be sure, but she was more than a mere carcass, more than an anonymous corpse to be dissected.