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"As plain as the nose on Pinocchio's face," Woodson answered. "Bits of skin, blood, and hair were stuck on the corner of the alternator housing cover."
"I'm not that familiar with the Sappho II's equipment. How is it mounted?"
"On the starboard side, about ten feet from the stern. The housing cover is raised about six inches off the deck so the alternator below is easily accessible for maintenance."
"Then it might have been an accident. Munk could have stumbled and fallen, striking his head on the edge."
"He could have, except his feet were facing the wrong way."
"What do his feet have to do with it?"
"They were pointed toward the stern."
"So?"
"Don't you get it?" Woodson said impatiently. "Munk must have been walking toward the bow when he fell."
The fuzzy picture in Pitt's mind began to clear. And he saw the piece of the puzzle that didn't belong. "The alternator housing is on the starboard side so it should have been Munk's right temple that was smashed, not his left."
"You got it."
"What caused the TV camera to malfunction?"
"No malfunction. Somebody hung a towel over the lens."
"And the crew? Where was each member positioned?"
"I was working the nozzle while Sam Merker acted as pilot. Munk had left the instrument panel to go to the head which is located in the stern. We were the second watch. The first watch included Jack Donovan-"
"A young blond fellow; the structural engineer from Oceanic Tech?"
"Right. And, Lieutenant Leon Lucas, the salvage technician on assignment from the Navy, and Ben Drummer. All three men were asleep in their bunks."
"It doesn't necessarily follow that any one of them killed Munk," Pitt said. "What was the reasoning? You don't just kill someone in an unescapable situation twelve thousand feet under the sea without one hell of a motive."
Woodson shrugged. "You'll have to call in Sherlock Holmes. I only know what I saw."
Pitt continued to probe "Munk could have twisted as he fell."
"Not unless he had a rubber neck that could turn a hundred and eighty degrees backward."
"Let's try another puzzler. How do you kill a two-hundred-pound man by knocking his head against a metal corner that's only six inches off the floor? Swing him by the heels like a sledgehammer?"
Woodson threw out his hands in a helpless gesture. "Okay, so maybe I got carried away and began seeing homicidal maniacs where none exist. God knows, that wreck down there gets to you after a while. It's weird. There are times I could have sworn I even saw people walking the decks, leaning over the rails, and staring at us." He yawned and it was evident that he was fighting to keep his eyes open.
Pitt made for the door and then turned. "You better get some sleep. We'll go over this later."
Woodson needed no further urging. He was peacefully gone to the world before Pitt was halfway to the sick bay.
Dr. Cornelius Bailey was an elephant of a man, broad shouldered, and had a thrusting, square jawed face. His sandy hair was down to his collar and the beard on the great jaw was cut in an elegant Van Dyke. He was popular among the salvage crews and could out drink any five of them when he felt in the mood to prove it. His hamlike hands turned Henry Munk's body over on the examining table as effortlessly as if it was a stick doll, which indeed it very nearly was, considering the advanced stage of rigor mortis.
"Poor Henry," he said. "Thank God, he wasn't a family man. Healthy specimen. All I could do for him on his last examination was clean out a little wax from his ears."
"What can you tell me about the cause of death?" Pitt asked.
"That's obvious," Bailey said. "First, it was due to massive damage of the temporal lobe-"
"What do you mean by first?"
