Archer Mayor - The Disposable Man

“There’s nothing else?” I asked in the brief silence following.

Short readied himself to cut through the scalp from ear to ear, just above the occipital portion of the dead man’s head, in order to expose the cranium and subsequently the brain.

“There might be,” Hillstrom admitted, nodding in his direction. “We’re not quite finished, and there are some tests to be done. We’ve taken blood, bile, vitreous humor, and urine samples for tox scans, along with a blood standard for DNA typing. It’s possible we’ll pick up something later as a result, but I wouldn’t hold my breath.”

Short, having finished his incision, peeled the face down under the victim’s chin like a rubber mask. He pointed to a small bloody stain on the glistening skull while Harry took a picture. “Definitely looks like that head laceration was perimortem.” He hesitated slightly under Hillstrom’s gaze and added, “I would guess it happened as he fell, since it’s not compatible with an attack wound-too minor. ’Course, that’s just a guess. He could’ve bumped his head before he even set eyes on the person who killed him.”

Hillstrom smiled. “No, I would agree with the first suggestion. It’s reasonable and logical.”

Short let out a small sigh and reached for the bone saw. As its high-pitched whine filled the room, Hillstrom resumed her conversation with me. “We took a complete set of X-rays and made a listing of all moles, scars, and signs of prior surgery for future reference, but I imagine his teeth and fingerprints alone will suffice if you ever come up with a possible identification.”

“Are you going to include a hair sample with the tox scans?” I asked.

She gave me a surprised look. Her answer, I guessed, was as much an olive branch to Short as a response to me. “That’s a good idea. I wouldn’t have thought of it, since drugs weren’t a known factor. But where identification is the goal, everything should be considered.”

I noticed Short smiling as he put aside the saw and began working the top of the cranium loose, and I realized that despite their curious way of communicating, they probably made a good team.

Bernie freed the skullcap and held its bowl-like interior up to the light. “Yeah-there’re no signs that blow to the head caused any cerebral damage.”

Hillstrom moved to look more closely, suddenly interested. “Yes, but see that yellow-green color on the inner table of the calvaria?”

“Tetracycline?” Short asked.

“Right,” she agreed, and explained to me, “tetracycline leaves a permanent stain here on everyone who’s ever used it. It’s a common enough finding in the U.S., where it’s routinely prescribed for infections, but it’s rarer in less developed countries. If the assumption is correct that this man is a foreigner, and of Slavic origins as his features suggest, this could be an interesting finding.”

“Can you determine what caused the infection?” I asked.

Short began to shake his head, but Hillstrom, for once not watching him, merely shrugged her shoulders, making him instantly freeze.

She was smiling as if to herself and said, “Well, there is one small test we could try-more for fun, really.”

She picked up a long, thin probe from the counter by her side, and stepped up to the corpse’s midriff. She took his uncircumcised penis in one hand and gently inserted the probe up his urethra. After a minute, she withdrew the probe and laid it back on the counter.

“Strictures?” Short asked.

She looked pleased. “Yes.” She turned to me. “I found an obstruction-probably scarring caused by a bout of gonorrhea, which could have been treated with tetracycline. It’s entirely conjectural, of course, so don’t take it too seriously. We have no way to really prove it. I just thought of it because of the tattoos and the man’s age. In a rough-and-tumble life, a man is likely to contract an STD at least once before he goes.”

The wall phone buzzed, and she crossed over to pick it up. “Hillstrom.”

She listened for several seconds, said, “Thank you, Betty,” and hung up, explaining, “I thought the wording might catch his attention. Tim’s on his way.”

I hadn’t bothered forming a mental image of Hillstrom’s Russian-speaking friend, but when he was shown through the door by one of her staff, I was somewhat taken aback. Instead of a skinny, stooped academic, with maybe a goatee and thick glasses, a man in the casual dress of a businessman-sport jacket and slacks-balding, sharp-eyed, broad-chested, and thin-lipped, entered the room as if he were about to address a board meeting.

“Beverly, what are you up to?” he demanded, taking the rest of us in with a glance and a curt nod.

Hillstrom knew better than to bother with introductions. She took Cox’s arm and led him to the autopsy table. “We have a John Doe with a curious set of toes. What do you make of them?”

Perching a pair of half-glasses on his nose, Timothy Cox bent at the waist and peered at the row of letters, keeping his hands by his sides. After no more than half a minute, he straightened back up, removed the glasses, jammed them into his breast pocket, and announced, “We’re tired.”

“That’s what they say?” I asked, after a moment’s stunned silence.

Cox allowed a small, pleased smile. “Right. In the old Soviet Army days, you’d mix an excess of vodka with boredom and a barracks artist, and this,” he pointed at the toes, “was often the result. It was considered a classic infantry badge, way back when.” He glanced up the table at the discolored face. “And judging from his looks, this guy’d be about the right age. My bet is you’ve got yourself an old-time Russkie here.”

I reached Brattleboro late that night. The trip home had been by the sepulchral gleam of a full moon, washing the tree-covered mountains and the undulating road with the colorless light of a hundred-year-old photograph. Vermont at night has always made me think of the eighteenth century, when its few inhabitants surrendered the darkened fields and forests to the mysterious elements that helped fuel Indian folklore on one side and settlers’ fears on the other. To this day, even in a car flying down the interstate, I see the vast spaces between the occasional lights as teeming with nocturnal life, most of which is watching me as I pass, a meaningless blur, no more than a shiver of wind.

I took Exit Two, considered checking in at the office, but turned right instead, toward West Brattleboro, making another right up Orchard Street, where I shared a house with Gail Zigman. It was time to be home-to be one of those glimmering lights.

Still, I paused on the street opposite our address, killing the engine to better savor the moment. The house was large-even enormous-with a garage, an attached barn, a back deck so big a huge maple looked comfortable sticking up through its middle. It was two and a half stories tall, Greek Revival in style, with white-painted wooden clapboards and a slate roof. It was surrounded by a lush, sloping lawn and sat in the moonlight like a display in some celestial shop window. Not long ago, it would have been as foreign to me as a mansion in Rhode Island. And now it was home.

It was Gail’s doing, of course. An erstwhile hippie of the sixties, come to Vermont to exchange a wealthy urban lifestyle for a nearby commune, she’d eventually migrated to town, become a successful Realtor, earned a place on half the boards available, been elected a selectman, and fallen in love with me. Now she had a dependable bank account, worked endless hours as a brand-new assistant state’s attorney, and was as happy as I’d ever seen her. It had been a long road, almost destroyed by a violent rape a few short years ago, and this house was the visible reward.