Jeff Abbott - No Rest for the Dead

Scooching forward with an alternating cheek-to-cheek maneuver, McGee teased a photo from the assortment cascading over the desktop, grabbed the lens, and gestured everyone close.

“The bone in this shot forms the left half of the pelvis. That deep, round hole below the blade is where the head of the thighbone sits. The joint is called the femoroacetabular junction. That socket is protected by very thick muscle. Soft tissue is often preserved there long after the rest of the flesh sloughs. You with me?”

Nods all around.

Satisfied, McGee positioned the lens over the pelvic photo.

“What do you see circling the hip socket?”

“Cut marks,” said Olsen.

“Exactly.”

McGee laid down the lens. Justine picked it up and drew her nose and the glass to within inches of the print. The others assumed listening postures.

“Here’s my take. Bruno Muntz screwed up the ID. The man in the iron maiden was not Christopher Thomas. The victim was an Asian male of roughly Thomas’s age and size but slightly shorter in stature. The man’s teeth were destroyed to prevent dental identification. His fingertips were removed to eliminate prints. His left fifth finger was replaced by that of someone else. Incisions were made into the gluteal mass of the Asian victim, rather clumsy ones, I might add. Thomas’s finger was coated with glycerin and fat to retard decomposition, then jammed through the muscle deep into the dead man’s hip socket.”

“And Muntz blew this whole phalange-bone thing?” Tony Olsen flapped a hand at the photos. “The missing fingertips?”

“Distal phalanges are tiny, often missed in recovery. If he noticed their absence, which I doubt, the good doctor probably thought they’d gotten lost. Perhaps he didn’t bother to sift through all the sludge in the maiden. Thomas’s belt, with recognizable buckle, was placed on the victim. The body, sans fingertips but cum Thomas’s pinkie, was sealed inside the iron maiden. The apparatus was crated and shipped. The rest is history.”

“The mismatched bones? The cut marks?” Tony Olsen’s cheeks were now the color of raspberry sherbet.

“Muntz was a pathologist, not an anthropologist. The man overstepped his abilities.”

“But-” Justine sat forward. “One of Christopher Thomas’s teeth was found inside the iron maiden, wasn’t it? And that was proved.”

“Right again, little lady.” McGee gave her an odd, lopsided smile. “It was Christopher Thomas’s tooth. And it surely did not come out of the Asian man’s mouth.

Silence.

Olsen was the first to break it. “If you’re right, someone took brutal measures to ensure that the victim would be misidentified as Christopher Thomas.”

McGee nodded.

“Who?” Tony Olsen.

“Why?” Meyer.

McGee’s shoulders rose and dropped. Beats me .

All eyes turned to Jon Nunn.

But Nunn was looking at Stan Ballard.

It was Olsen who voiced the question on everyone’s mind: “Then where the hell is Christopher Thomas?”

Iknow where to find them. I know more about everything than all of them.

I found Peter Heusen easily. No prob. Rented a rubber dinghy with a putt-putt motor and sailed out to his cabin cruiser moored near the St. Francis Yacht Club.

Typical San Francisco day, foggy and damp, the water choppy, blue-brown under the clouds. I could see the Golden Gate Bridge off to my right, but I didn’t come for sightseeing.

Twelve years later, and I knew how happy Heusen would be to see me.

Peter must be in his fifties now, I figured. And richer than God. Thanks in part to me.

As I came closer, I saw him seated by himself at a table on the back deck. He had a wineglass in his hand. He stood up when he saw me and stepped to the rail.

“Remember me?” I shouted. He didn’t look much older. Money’ll do that for you. He was in a white admiral’s jacket. He had a blue yachting cap pulled down on his head. What was this? Halloween?

I couldn’t see if he still had his hair. But he looked tanned and fit.

Of course he recognized me. He began waving his arms in front of him, like signaling an alarm. “Ruby? I don’t want to see you!” he shouted. “Turn around! Go back! You’re not welcome here.”

Of course he didn’t want to see me. I scrambled onto the deck and tied the dinghy to the side. The sun came out for a moment, and everything started to gleam. Like a spotlight shining on me. Time for my close-up.

I thought maybe he had some flunkies who would come push me off the yacht. But he appeared to be alone.

“I have nothing to say to you,” he said as I stepped up to his table. “You’re not welcome here. Why have you come?”

“Peter, come on. I thought you’d be more friendly.” I couldn’t keep a smile off my face. “I mean, I did a very big favor for you.”

Beneath the cap, his forehead creased. His pale eyes narrowed. “Favor for me? I don’t know what you’re talking about. I know who you are. But you never did anything for me.”

“Why, just the other day, some guy finds me, starts asking me questions about the favor I did for you.”

“What?” Peter squealed.

“Don’t worry, I had him taken care of.”

Peter looked worried now.

“Did you really think that lousy ten K was going to last me forever?” I sat down at the table. I picked up his wineglass and took a long sip. “Is this a Chablis?”

“I can call the harbor police. I’ve had intruders before.”

I picked up a biscuit from the silver bread basket. Still warm. I took a bite. “Are you really going to pretend you don’t know anything?”

He stood over me. His lips began to twitch. “I don’t have to pretend. I didn’t have anything to do with it.”

“Amnesia? Let me help you.” I decided to go for it. “The body in the iron maiden?”

Heusen swallowed. But he didn’t blink. “Excuse me? Are you insane?”

“Jeez, how long you going to keep up this charade?”

“I’m going to call the patrol now.”

“Oh, I know who you’re going to call-and it won’t be no police.”

He made a move toward the cabin, but I grabbed his arm. “Just sit down. Let’s be civilized, Peter. Tell you what. I’ll tell you a story, and you sit there and pretend you don’t already know it.” I had to pull him down to the chair.

“I’ll give you five minutes,” he said, still playacting, but he was sweating. “What’s your story?”

“Yeah, let’s say it’s a story,” I said. “Let’s pretend it’s not all total truth.”

He stared at the wineglass in my hand. I tilted it to my mouth and drank the rest.

“Peter, let’s say there was once an iron maiden in a museum in San Francisco. Let’s say it was built hundreds of years ago, but used recently-”

“I’m not a history buff,” Heusen interrupted, shaking his head. “You’re wasting your time.”

“Well, I did my homework- after the fact.” I ran my finger around the rim of the empty wineglass.

Heusen started to his feet. “You’re out of here.”

I pushed him back down. I had to be a little rough. I could see a flash of fear on his face. His tan had disappeared.

“Let’s say there was a dead man stuffed inside the thing?”

“That’s very old news,” Heusen muttered. “Why did you come here?”

I brought my face up close to his. “Is it old news, Peter? What if I told the story-the whole story? What if I call the police?”

That got to him. I saw two red circles blossom on his cheeks. “Why would you do that, Artie?” His eyes danced around. As if he were looking for a way to escape. “It, it was a lot of years ago. Why would you go to the police now?”