Douglas Preston - Crimson Shore

“How did I make this discovery? Suffice it to say, McCool did the historical legwork.” He waved one hand at the ant farm of activity going on in the hollow before them. “The key fact is this: one or more present-day descendants of those killers of yore know of the massacre. They also knew about the tortured and walled-up captain. Among those individuals we will find our modern-day killer. The only step remaining now is to identify him... or her.”

As Pendergast spoke, Malaga, the head of the SOC team, came up. He fixed the FBI agent with his usual frowning expression. “Well, Agent Pendergast, thanks to you we’ve really got our hands full.”

“So it would seem.”

Malaga ran a hand over his shaved head. “There’s one thing I’m curious about. When I got here, two dozen skeletons had been exposed from the grave site. Once you realized it was a crime scene, why did you continue to uncover the remains?”

“I needed to confirm my theory — that not just murder, but mass murder, had occurred here. But if it’s a crime scene you want, it would appear there are many additional souls yet to be recovered. Poor Dr. Fosswright looks a bit overwhelmed and might welcome the assistance of you and your men.” And with this he nodded at Malaga and Gavin in turn, pulled his coat more tightly around his shoulders, turned, and began making his way through the dune fields back toward the lights of town.

The Essex County Coroner’s Office, Northern Division, was situated in a separate two-story wing of the Newburyport Medical Center. As Agent Pendergast entered the inner office, the M.E., Henry Kornhill, stood up from behind his desk. He was some sixty years old, tall, round about the middle, with sandy tufts of hair above each ear. He was wearing a white lab coat that — judging by its crispness and the early hour — had not yet seen duty that day.

“Dr. Kornhill,” said Pendergast. “Thank you for seeing me.”

“Of course.” The coroner indicated a chair on the far side of his desk and Pendergast took a seat. “I understand you’re here about Dana Dunwoody.”

“Yes.”

“Do you wish to see the body?”

“That won’t be necessary; evidence photos will suffice. I would, however, like to hear your thoughts about the cause of death.”

The M.E. frowned. “That was logged in my official report.”

“Indeed. But I’m not interested in your official opinion. I’m interested, informally, in anything you might have — in your long experience — found interesting or unusual about the condition of the body, or concerning the cause of death.”

“Informally,” Kornhill repeated. “We scientists don’t normally indulge in speculation, but in fact there were some aspects of this homicide that intrigued me.”

Pendergast waited as Kornhill opened a folder that lay on his desk, perused it, and took a moment to form his thoughts. “I found it to be, for want of a better term, a messy killing. Judging by the bruising to the knuckles and forearms, Dunwoody tried to defend himself.” A pause. “And if I had to guess, I’d say the victim knew his attacker.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because all the wounds were anterior. Dunwoody was facing his killer. The first blow seems to have been to his right cheek, above the zygomatic arch. A fight took place. Death was caused by blunt force trauma, partially collapsing the frontal bone and the parietal bone along the coronal suture.”

“And the stab wounds?”

“Same thing. There were a total of seven, once again all to the anterior. The, ah, carvings were to the posterior.”

“They weren’t the cause of death?”

“Although a few of the stab wounds may have been antemortem, based on hemorrhaging, the great majority were done postmortem. And the carvings were all done postmortem. And all of them were too shallow to have caused dramatic exsanguination. The cuts were feeble, almost tentative. This was not an overkill situation.”

“Let’s turn for a moment, if we could, to the other recent murder — that of the historian, Morris McCool.”

Kornhill reached across his desk, pulled a second folder closer. “Very well.”

“His cause of death was quite different — a long, heavy blade that pierced the body laterally, from one side to the other.”

“Correct.”

“Would you say that, in your opinion, McCool also knew his killer?”

The coroner paused a moment, as if wondering whether this was a trick question. “No.”

“And why not?”

“Because the nature of the fatal wound would lead me to believe — again, speaking informally — that he was ambushed.”

“I see.” Pendergast leaned back in his chair, tented his fingers. “I find it interesting, Doctor, that these two killings have so many points of both commonality and divergence.”

Kornhill rubbed his forehead. “How so?”

“One murder was premeditated: an ambush. The other was spontaneous, not preplanned: arising from an argument. One killing was done decisively with a heavy knife. On the other, the stab wounds were more hesitant. And yet in both cases certain markings were carved into the skin.”

Kornhill continued rubbing. “That’s correct.”

“With McCool, the carvings were perimortem. In the case of Dunwoody, the carvings were postmortem. Interesting, don’t you think?”

“The transition from perimortem to postmortem is not a bright line, but I would not disagree with your conclusion. Really, Mr. Pendergast, it’s not my place to speculate on why these murders were committed.”

“Ah, but it is mine, Doctor.” Pendergast paused. “You have autopsy photographs of the markings inflicted on both McCool and Dunwoody?”

Kornhill nodded.

“May I trouble you to lay them on the desk for comparison?”

The M.E. rose, opened a filing cabinet set against the rear wall of the office, pulled out some additional files, and then laid a series of photos on the desk, facing Pendergast.

The special agent examined them with interest. “From an, ah, artistic standpoint, it would appear these symbols were carved by the same person — don’t you agree?”

Kornhill shuddered. “I suppose so.”

“And would you also agree that the same weapon was used?”

“That’s a strong possibility. It was an unusual weapon in both cases, a blade wide, jagged, irregular, but very sharp.”

“So far, we once again have commonality. But I would ask you to indulge me, Doctor — please take a close look at the precise nature of the cuts.”

The M.E. glanced at Pendergast a moment. Then he turned the photographs around, one after the other, and examined each one closely in turn. At last he raised his eyes in mute inquiry.

“Do they appear to be similar?” Pendergast asked.

“No.”

“Could you describe the difference, please?”

“It’s a question of contour. In the case of McCool, the cuts are irregular, even dog-eared in places. But the markings, ah, carved into Dunwoody have a much more regular contour. They are also of a shallower nature.”

“One last question, Doctor, and I’ll leave you to your work. If you had to speculate — once again, I ask informally — what would account for the difference between the way McCool’s body was carved, and the way Dunwoody’s was?”

Once again, the M.E. paused to consider. “The cuts on McCool were deeper, more violent. Those on Dunwoody, on the other hand, seem almost... hesitant.”

“I believed you used the terms ‘feeble,’ ‘tentative.’”

“I did.”

“Excellent. Thank you. You’ve confirmed my own suspicions.” Pendergast stood up, extending his hand.

Kornhill rose as well, shook the hand. “I’m confused. All the similarities, all the differences... What are you implying? That these two were killed by different murderers?”