Aaron Elkins: Icy Clutches

Wrong. Wrong because one of those arm bones wasn't male at all. That piece with the prominent, rugged, oh-so-obviously masculine deltoid tuberosity…was female. He was ready to bet on that now, thanks to Cheri. Because-how had he allowed himself to forget?-there was one kind of habitual activity that could do that to a woman's humerus. Oh, there were plenty of things that would develop the bone overall, but just one, as far as he knew, that would exaggerate only the deltoid tuberosity without also developing the other muscle insertion points.

Waiting tables. Lifting trays, year after year, with the time-honored technique Cheri had been using all week. Male or female, anyone who hefted those thirty-pound trays five days a week was eventually going to come out of it with a hell of a deltoid tuberosity on the weight-bearing arm. If an anthropologist wasn't careful, if he relied on that criterion alone, he could easily misidentify the humerus of a hardworking waitress as that of a man.

Which is just what he'd done, and what Worriner had done before him. But at least Worriner had an excuse; anthropologists hadn't known about the “waitress tuberosity” in 1964. Gideon, however, had no excuse but carelessness; carelessness and wanting the old man to have done it right. The fact that the rest of Worriner's work had been competent, that the other identifiable bones had all been male, that the humeral fragment had simply given him nothing else to go on, all had led him into being sloppy and acquiescent.

My God, where had his brain been? What was it Cheri had said a couple of days ago at dinner? I got muscles on my muscles. And how could he have forgotten what Shirley Yount had been shouting at Elliott Fisk the day Gideon had gone up to talk with them all about the bones? She was killing herself taking classes full time and still working in a goddamn Chinese restaurant, humping dishes every night. And hadn't Elliott countered with something about her having been a waitress since she'd been fifteen? How could Gideon have failed to remember that? How much more obvious could things be?

That was Jocelyn's humerus, he was positive.

Well, ninety-nine-percent positive.

"I made a mistake,” he said aloud.

"A mistake?” John said lazily. He and Julie had begun their breakfasts.

"On the bones."

Julie put down her fork. “You made a mistake on the bones?"

"Is that so amazing?"

"It's just nice to be reassured that you're human once in a while."

"Come on, Julie, that's not fair. I never said I was infall-"

"Take my word for it,” she interrupted in her gruff, funny imitation of his voice, “I've looked at ten zillion bones-"

"One zillion,” he said, laughing along with them. “Not enough, I guess. Remember those two left humeri of Worriner's in Juneau?"

"Sure. Both male. That's how you knew there were parts of at least two bodies: Pratt's and Fisk's."

"Right. Only I was wrong. We were both wrong. One of them wasn't male."

He explained about deltoid tuberosities and waitressing. This took some time, and when he was done, John and Julie were still looking at him with something less than total comprehension.

"Okay,” John said a little suspiciously, “so it's Jocelyn's humerus; so what does that tell us?” He spread his big hands, knife in one, fork in the other. “What's the big deal? We already knew she was dead."

"Don't look at me,” Julie said, chewing. “I seem to be missing something too."

"The big deal is this,” Gideon said. “When we came up with that female femur yesterday-the one that got stolen last night-we concluded that we finally had parts of all three skeletons, right?"

John chewed slowly. “Umm…"

"Sure we did. We already had parts of two males, or so we thought, and now here was a female femur. That makes three."

"I guess so,” John said.

"But if that's Jocelyn's humerus down in Juneau, then we don't; at least not for sure."

"We don't?” John said.

"We don't?” Julie said.

Gideon restrained his impatience. It had taken him long enough to put two and two together, and he was supposed to be an expert. “Look,” he said, “we know we have some of Steve Fisk, all right; no question about it. That jaw was positively identified by the dental work, and then we matched the ramus and the punctured cranial fragment to it."

"Okay,” they both said.

"Okay. And we have some of Jocelyn: the female femur they found yesterday and now that misidentified humerus I've been talking about."

Two cautious nods this time.

"But now-with that humerus reassigned from James Pratt to Jocelyn-it's possible that all the male fragments belong to Steve Fisk, since there aren't any other duplications. And that means, or it could mean, or it's at least conceivable-"

"Gideon, dear,” Julie murmured, “I don't mean to press you, but you do have a way-"

He sat back in his chair and put his hands flat on the table. “I think I know who killed Tremaine, and why. And who clobbered me,” he added with satisfaction. He drew a breath. “I think it's-"

"Gerald Pratt,” John said.

Gideon looked at him. “John, you have to stop doing that. It's really irritating."

John laughed. “Is that who you're talking about? Pratt?"

"Yeah, that's who I'm talking about,” Gideon said grudgingly.

John slapped the table and stood up. “I'm gonna pick up Julian and go have a talk with Pratt right now. Owen too,” he added. “He's got proprietary jurisdiction. If there's an arrest, he oughta be the one to make it.” He headed for the door.

"You're going to arrest him right now?” Gideon asked. “This minute?"

"I'm not sure.” He paused, musing, with his hand on the doorknob. “Doc, how the hell did you figure out it was Pratt? Even with that stuff about the bones."

"How the hell did you figure it out?” Gideon responded.

But John was already gone. Julie stared after him at the closing door. “How the hell did anybody figure it out?” she muttered. She leaned toward Gideon, frowning.

"Figure what out?” she said.

Gerald Pratt was sitting by himself at one of the tables that looked out over the cove, a half-empty cup of coffee before him. He was wearing his orange coveralls; already looking like a prisoner, John thought.

"Mr. Pratt?” he said.

Pratt, caught predictably in the act of tamping his pipe, looked up from under his eyebrows to take in the three men. “Hm?"

"Could we speak with you, please:"

"Sure,” Pratt said, and pointed with the pipe. “Have a seat.” If he was made uneasy when none of them moved, he didn't show it. The pipe went into his mouth and was laboriously lit. “What about?” he said through the resulting fug.

"I think it'd be better if we talked in private.” Around the room, a few other solitary members of Tremaine's group had looked up from their breakfasts to watch.

Pratt took the pipe from his mouth. He probed a cheek with his tongue. “They're warming up one of those jelly donuts for me. Kind of hate to pass that up. Why don't I look you up in ten minutes or so?"

"I'm sorry, that won't do,” Minor said.

Pratt sat up straight. His long jaw tightened. A ropy tendon stood out on either side of his throat. “Well, sir. I'm afraid it'll have to do. I don't see that I have to sit here and be, well-” He looked directly into John's eyes. “Mister, are you standing there and telling me I'm under arrest?"

"I tell you what,” John said, “why don't we just say-"

"Why don't we just say what you've got on your mind?"

John exhaled, then nodded, not at Pratt but at Owen. “All right, do it,” he said quietly.

Owen took a laminated plastic card from his shirt pocket. “James Pratt,” he said in a tight, unfamiliar voice, “you have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can be used against you in a court of law. You have the right at this-"