Page 7 of The Frozen River

“Moses?” I ask.

“Aye?”

“You went with the others this morning?”

“Aye.”

“Was there a rope around his neck when he came out of the ice?”

“Not that I recall.”

“Ask the others please.”

He turns on his heel and leaves the storeroom, quiet as a cat.

In my nearly five and a half decades of life, I have seen only one other hanged man, and he’d looked quite different from this—but then again, in that case, the drop hadn’t done its job. Performed properly, a hanging breaks the neck and offers a quick—albeit gruesome—death. When done wrong, it is a slow suffocation that causes the face to turn purple and the tongue and eyes to protrude. Joshua Burgess’s eyes are open and wide, but the look on his face is one of surprise, not strangulation. His lip is split, however, and several teeth are broken.

But still, there should be a rope. Whether dangling from gallows, trees, or bridges, hanged men must be cut down. The term deadweight comes to mind as I run my thumb over the abraded skin at his throat.

“No one saw a rope,” Moses says, back again.

Then the killer took it with him.

This troubles me, but I set it aside for now.

Burgess is not married. He lives—No, he lived—on a small homestead, on a third-tier lot, three miles down Winthrop Street. These lots—the smallest, least desirable, and farthest from the river—are typically assigned to single men or former militia with scant means and few connections. Since coming to Hallowell, Burgess has made no secret of the fact that he wants a lot with river frontage so he can join the mill trade. Those lots are hard to come by, however, and, according to Ephraim, have all been leased.

But the fact remains that Burgess does have a homestead, and on it are any number of animals that must be tended now that he is dead. I mention this to Moses as I run my fingers along Burgess’s scalp, looking for wounds that might be hidden in his long, dirty hair.

“I’ll go tell Da’,” he says, “see if he can send someone to collect them.”

Moses is back by the time I’ve determined that Burgess has no lacerations on his scalp.

“He sent three men to move the animals to the neighbors. They’re also going to collect any valuables in the house and bring them here for safekeeping until his family can be found.”

I thank him, then steady myself for the next part of the examination. “Scissors,” I say, extending my hand to Moses.

He sets them in my palm, then shifts closer. The metal is colder than the air, but the weight grounds me to the task at hand. I cut away what is left of Burgess’s shirt and take a half step backward to make sense of what I see. As a student of human anatomy, I am always amazed at the variations it can take. Tall. Short. Round. Straight. Fat. Thin. Burgess is not a big man. Average size, or less, and the kind of wiry that runs to skinny in winter. Yet he is possibly the hairiest man I have ever seen. As is typical this time of year, he’s grown a beard, but his chest, arms, and back are carpeted with dark, coarse hair as well. None of it can hide the countless gruesome bruises, or the obvious broken ribs, arm, and fingers. At first glance it looks as though someone has taken a boot to Burgess’s entire face and torso. When I cut away his trousers, I see that the damage includes his groin as well.

And that is when the remaining witnesses in the doorway depart en masse, gagging, cursing, and sweating. It would seem that—accusations of rape aside—few men can stomach the sight of another man’s crushed genitals.

I look to Moses for signs of distress, but he stands quietly, a muscle twitching along his clenched jaw. He breathes through his nose, and his eyes are unfocused. But at least he hasn’t fled. Or vomited.

“Deserved it, he did,” Moses finally whispers. “If it had been my sister he’d hurt, I’d have killed him too. And I wouldna feel bad for it.”

I wash away the blood and dirt from the exposed, frozen, twisted body. I let the exclamations and comments out in the tavern fade away. I ignore the men as they say their farewells. I don’t startle when a door bangs, or a dog barks, or a man curses. Nor do I cease my meticulous inspection of each bruise and cut and gash as a pair of even footsteps tread across the flagstones behind me. My focus remains entirely on the body, on my work, rendering careful inspection.

After several seconds I can feel Moses shift uncomfortably beside me. “Mistress Ballard…,” he says, voice rising on the last syllable.

“Joshua Burgess was beaten, hanged, and thrown in the river.” I nod, wipe my hands on my apron, and step back from the table, pleased with my conclusion. But when I turn toward Moses, I find that he is looking to the storeroom door. He spoke my name in warning, not in question.

“I think I’ll be the one to determine that.”

A young gentleman stands in the doorway wearing a good coat and a smug grin. He holds a leather satchel in one hand and a new felt hat in the other. He is freshly shaven and handsome in the meticulously groomed way that has always irritated me.

“Who are you?” I demand.

“Dr. Benjamin Page.”