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“The guy’s shirt was a blood-spatter analyst’s wet dream. So, yeah. My money’s on him being theslochet.”
“Shochet.”
“Whatever.”
“I should drive you to an ER.”
“Not a chance.”
Monck stood and brushed sand from his clothes.
“Now what?” I asked.
“Now I bag the sonofabitch.”
We skipped lunch. A bad idea.
While driving, Monck called HQ to issue a second BOLO, this one for Uri Stribbe.
I phoned the hospital. Again. Was told by the same woman that the scope was unavailable. Again.
I asked the woman’s name.
Della Pratt.
I asked Della Pratt when the scope would be free.
Answer: when Dr. Lindstrom has finished his analysis.
Della Pratt disconnected.
What’s the definition of crazy?
By the time Monck dropped me at the morgue it was half past two.
Frustrated, and cranky due to my throbbing knee, I spent the rest of the afternoon eyeballing the cut ends of Palke’s and Bonner’s lower arm bones.
Without the benefit of magnification, I knew the exercise would produce little useful data. Still, I wanted to stay busy. To not think about Musgrove. To wrap up the freaking case so I could head north.
My stomach, less dedicated than my mind, registered almost nonstop complaint. Soft at first, the growls gradually attained an impressive volume.
A variety of tools can efficiently dismember a human corpse, machetes, cleavers, and axes being among the more popular. My goal was to determine what implement the killer had used to hack the hands from his vics.
Employing only a badly scratched handheld lens, I examined each cut’s horizontal face and scanned for associated fracturing. I looked for kerfs—false starts—hoping to observe shape and estimate width and depth. Actual measurement would have to wait for amplification.
Every few minutes my gut grumbled its displeasure at being ignored. Each time, I glanced at my phone, hoping Monck’s BOLO had worked and that a patrol unit had netted either Musgrove’s abusive ex, Willis, or the animal slaughterer, Stribbe.
No word came. Both persons of interest remained in the wind.
At six, Iggie came by to tell me he was leaving for the day. I assured him I’d be close behind. And that I’d lock up.
The next time I glanced at the wall clock its hands were pointing to the seven and the two. Seven-ten.
In the islands, the sun arrives and departs with year-round predictability. Up by six, down by seven. Ish.
The small room had no window, but I knew that outside shadows were deepening as light faded from the day. That ole sol was probably setting the horizon on fire.
I’d been squinting through the scratched lens for five hours. A headache was knocking at my frontal lobe.
