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“Those are blowups of the cut marks on Palke’s and Bonner’s arm bones. They’re labeled by victim name and specific bone.”
“Got it.” Going back through the stack, more slowly.
“Hacking is essentially blunt-force trauma inflicted by a sharp object.”
“How about you don’t go all sciency?” he asked, sounding exactly like Claudel. Or my sometime investigative partner Skinny Slidell back in North Carolina.
“Research on such trauma has established two things. First, when cutting bone, sharp tools leave behind both individual and class characteristics. Second, no two tools produce the exact same marks.”
Monck’s attention to the printouts suggested genuine interest. Or that the pictures were more engaging than what I was saying. Either way, he didn’t interrupt me again.
“With both Palke and Bonner, the wrist end of each left radius and ulna was severed cleanly. The blow caused no crushing, no breakage, no triangular fragmentation at the blade’s exit point.”
“The exit point is here?” He raised an image and pointed.
“Yes.”
“What does that mean?”
“The unknown implement wasnotan axe.”
“An axe is not subtle.”
“Exactly. With both victims, the blade’s entry points are also clean. No fracturing or chattering.”
“Chattering?”
“Tiny jumpy steps in the vertical wall of the cut. Look at images two, four, and six. A machete often leaves chattering. You’ll notice there’s none.”
Monck studied the photos. Then, “Musgrove suspected a machete, but you don’t think so.”
“I don’t. The lack of fracturing and fragmentation at both the blade’s entrance and exit sites is characteristic of a much sharper tool.” Oversimplifying greatly.
“Like what?”
“Like a cleaver.”
“You’re saying it was a cleaver?”
“Or a tool resembling a cleaver.”
“Go on.”
“With a machete, the width of the blade entry site is approximately3.5 millimeters. With a cleaver, it’s closer to 1.5 millimeters. The cuts I measured fell toward the narrower end of that range. You can see the measurements superimposed on several of the images.”
“Not an axe, not a machete.” Monck’s eyes met mine, sparking with the same excitement I was feeling. His lips parted and the bionic hand rose to emphasize a point.
The quick move upended Monck’s mug, sending coffee spewing in all directions.
“Shit!”
“Crap!”
Monck sprang to his feet and bulleted from the room, returned in seconds with a roll of paper towels. While he blotted first the desktop, then his dizzying tie, I shook coffee from the prints.
“My bad,” he said.
“May I spread these across the other desk?”
