Tess Gerritsen - The Bone Garden - A Novel

Dr. Crouch soaked a cloth in a basin of water and gently sponged blood away from the incised skin. — As you can see here, gentlemen, the blade must have been quite sharp. These are clean cuts, very deep. And the pattern— the pattern is most intriguing. —

— What do you mean? What pattern? — asked Pratt in a strangely muffled and nasal voice.

— If you would approach the table, I could show you. —

— I'm busy taking notes, can't you see? Just describe it for me. —

— Description alone will not do it justice. Perhaps we should send for Constable Lyons? Surely someone in the Watch has the stomach to do his duty? —

Pratt flushed an angry red. Only then did he finally approach the table, to stand beside Wendell. He took one glimpse into the gaping abdomen and quickly averted his gaze. — All right. I've seen it. —

— But do you see the pattern, how bizarre it is? A slice straight across the abdomen, from flank to flank. And then a perpendicular slice, straight up the midline, toward the breastbone, lacerating the liver. They are so deep, either one of these cuts would have caused death. — He reached into the wound with bare hands and lifted out the intestines, painstakingly examining the glistening loops before he let them slide into a bucket at the side of the table. — The blade had to be quite long. It has sliced all the way to the backbone and nicked the top of the left kidney. — He glanced up. — Do you see, Mr. Pratt? —

— Yes. Yes, of course. — Pratt was not even looking at the body; his gaze seemed to be fixed, almost desperately, on Norris's blood-streaked apron.

— And then there is this vertical slice. It, too, is savagely deep. — He lifted up the rest of the small bowel in one mass, and Wendell quickly positioned the bucket to catch it as it came tumbling over the side of the table. Next came other abdominal organs, resected one by one. The liver, the spleen, the pancreas. — The blade incised the descending aorta here, which accounts for the great volume of blood on the steps. — Crouch looked up. — She would have died quickly, from exsanguination. —

— Ex— what? — asked Pratt.

— Quite simply, sir, she bled to death. —

Pratt swallowed hard and finally forced himself to gaze down at the abdomen, now little more than a hollowed-out cavity. — You said it had to be a long blade. How long? —

— To penetrate this deep? Seven, eight inches at the least. —

— A butcher's knife, perhaps. —

— I would certainly classify this as an act of butchery. —

— He could also have used a sword, — said Wendell.

— Rather conspicuous, I would think, — said Dr. Crouch. — To be clattering around town with a bloody sword. —

— What makes you think of a sword? — asked Pratt.

— It's the nature of the wounds. The two perpendicular slashes. In my father's library, there is a book on strange customs of the Far East. I've read of wounds just like these, inflicted in the Japanese act of seppuku. A ritualistic suicide. —

— This is hardly a suicide. —

— I realize that. But the pattern is identical. —

— It is indeed a most curious pattern, — said Dr. Crouch. — Two separate slashes, perpendicular to each other. Almost as if the killer were trying to carve the sign of… —

— The cross? — Pratt looked up with sudden interest. — The victim wasn't Irish, was she? —

— No, — Crouch said. — Most definitely not. —

— But many of the patients in this hospital are? —

— It is the hospital's mission to serve the unfortunate. Many of our patients, if not most, are charity cases. —

— Meaning Irish. Like Miss Connolly. —

— Now, look here, — said Wendell, speaking far more forthrightly than he should have. — Surely you're reading too much into these wounds. Just because it resembles a cross doesn't mean the killer is a papist. —

— You defend them? —

— I'm merely pointing out the defects in your reasoning. One can't possibly draw such a conclusion as you're doing, merely because of the peculiarity of these wounds. I've offered you just as likely an interpretation. —

— That some fellow from Japan has jumped ship with his sword? — Pratt laughed. — There's hardly such a man in Boston. But there are plenty of papists. —

— One could just as likely conclude the killer wants you to blame the papists! —

— Mr. Holmes, — said Crouch, — perhaps you should refrain from telling the Night Watch how to do its job. —

— Its job is to learn the truth, not make unfounded assumptions based on religious bigotry. —

Pratt's eyes suddenly narrowed. — Mr. Holmes, you are related, are you not, to the Reverend Abiel Holmes? Of Cambridge? —

There was a pause, during which Norris glimpsed a shadow of discomfort pass across Wendell's face.

— Yes, — Wendell finally answered. — He is my father. —

— A fine, upstanding Calvinist. Yet his son— —

Wendell retorted: — His son can think for himself, thank you. —

— Mr. Holmes, — cautioned Dr. Crouch. — Your attitude is not particularly helpful. —

— But it is certainly noted, — said Pratt. And not forgotten, his gaze clearly added. He turned to Dr. Crouch. — How well acquainted were you with Miss Poole, Doctor? —

— She administered to many of my patients. —

— And your opinion of her? —

— She was competent and efficient. And most respectful. —

— Had she any enemies that you're aware of? —

— Absolutely not. She was a nurse. Her role here was to ease pain and suffering. —

— But surely there was the occasional dissatisfied patient or family member? Someone who might turn his anger on the hospital and its staff? —

— It's possible. But I can think of no one who— —

— What about Rose Connolly? —

— The young lady who found the body? —

— Yes. Had she any disagreements with Nurse Poole? —

— There may have been. The girl is headstrong. Nurse Poole did complain to me that she was demanding. —

— She was concerned about her sister's care, — said Norris.

— But that is no excuse for disrespect, Mr. Marshall, — said Dr. Crouch. — On anyone's part. —

Pratt looked at Norris. — You defend the girl. —

— She and her sister appear to be quite close, and Miss Connolly has reason to be upset. That's all I'm saying. —

— Upset enough to commit violence? —

— I didn't say that. —

— How, exactly, did you happen to find her tonight? She was outside, in the courtyard, was she not? —

— Dr. Crouch asked us to meet him in the lying-in ward, for a fresh crisis. I was on my way here, from my lodgings. —

— Where are your lodgings? —

— I rent an attic room, sir, at the end of Bridge Street. It's on the far side of the hospital common. —

— So to reach the hospital, you cross the common? —

— Yes. And that's the way I came tonight, across the lawn. I was almost to the hospital when I heard screams. —

— Miss Connolly's? Or the victim's? —

— It was a woman. That's all I know. I followed the sound, and discovered Miss Connolly in the courtyard. —

— Did you see this creature she so imaginatively describes? — Pratt glanced at his notes. — ‘A caped monster like the Grim Reaper, with a black cape that flapped like the wings of a giant bird.' — He looked up.

Norris shook his head. — I saw no such creature. I found only the girl. —

Pratt looked at Wendell. — And where were you? —

— I was inside, assisting Dr. Crouch. I heard the screams as well, and ventured outside with a lantern. I found Mr. Marshall in the courtyard, along with Miss Connolly, who was cowering there. —