brown eyes bulged and the tongue looked like an eel trying to escape the swollen lips.
There was talk, but I didn't hear it, and running back to call for additional help, but I didn't pay any attention to that, either.
By now I was fixed on what had been done to her face, specifically her nose.
Whoever had done it had made the remains as crude and ugly as possible.
In Indian lore, as in the lore of Ancient Egypt, one cut the nose from a woman's face so that no man would ever again desire her. The mutilated woman often wandered into the woods and lived out her days alone. At least, these are the tales still told, though there is evidence that some of these women in fact took up new mates, and that others were simply accepted by the tribe the way a crippled person might be. Maybe it was only the most hideously defaced who had to flee to the forest to hide forever.
If she'd lived, this woman, who I now saw was a Native American, would have presented her plastic surgeon with some difficult problems. The killer had taken so much of the nose, and removed it so brutally, that only a bloody hole remained, one that was difficult to look at.
"He couldn't have done something like this, he couldn't have."
Cindy was talking to herself, but I could hear her quite clearly. She stood next to me in front of the open trunk.
Then she took my arm. "He didn't do it, Robert. Really he didn't."
Behind us, Gibbs said, "Cindy, could you come over here a minute, please?"
She shook her head. "You hear his voice?"
"Uh-huh."
"He's already got David convicted."
"You have to admit, this doesn't look real good."
"You think he'd be stupid enough to drive her around in his trunk?"
"You're a law officer, Cindy. You know how crazy people can get after they kill somebody. Especially if they've been drinking or something."
This time, she didn't take my arm. She grabbed it. "Goddamn it, Robert, didn't you hear me? He didn't kill her! He really didn't."
Then she went off to see the Chief. She was going to tell him the same thing.
Meanwhile, I spent some more time following down my ghoulish occupation. I borrowed the Chief's flashlight.
There's a little trick about postmortem lividity. Sometimes it can tell you if a body has been moved around in a cramped space, such as a car trunk. This means that even if the body has been moved, the lividity will indicate the original position. Sometimes it's helpful to know such things.
I knelt down next to the trunk, holding my breath — the stink being pretty bad — and started training my light up and down the right side of her body.
On the whole, I would rather have been back home with my cats sleeping on the bed next to me and a bowl of Cream of Wheat waiting to be microwaved in the morning.
PART TWO
Chapter 12
O n this part of the frontier, the cabins had generally been built of logs that had been squared with a broadax and stripped of their bark. The pioneers built cabins close to creeks and streams for the sake of the water supply; and in an area of woods that looked rife with wild game and crab apples and plums and haws; and where there was an abundance of prairie hay which, along with corn cobs and animal droppings, could be used for fuel in the long and harsh winters.
The pioneers would not have recognized the manor house perched above me on the bluffs. It sat on better than two acres of oaks and dogwoods, a brick Georgian Colonial that bespoke not only wealth and privilege but also a certain disdain for anybody who drove up the steep, winding driveway. The house itself seemed to sense that all visitors would be unworthy. The landscaping, which used vast maples and elms as walls to keep out prying eyes, only enhanced the sense of unwelcome.
I was two steps from my rental Chevrolet when I heard a tennis ball being thwocked back and forth. I decided not to try the front door.
Instead, I followed a narrow stone walk around the massive east side of the house. Below me, in a small valley,
There was talk, but I didn't hear it, and running back to call for additional help, but I didn't pay any attention to that, either.
By now I was fixed on what had been done to her face, specifically her nose.
Whoever had done it had made the remains as crude and ugly as possible.
In Indian lore, as in the lore of Ancient Egypt, one cut the nose from a woman's face so that no man would ever again desire her. The mutilated woman often wandered into the woods and lived out her days alone. At least, these are the tales still told, though there is evidence that some of these women in fact took up new mates, and that others were simply accepted by the tribe the way a crippled person might be. Maybe it was only the most hideously defaced who had to flee to the forest to hide forever.
If she'd lived, this woman, who I now saw was a Native American, would have presented her plastic surgeon with some difficult problems. The killer had taken so much of the nose, and removed it so brutally, that only a bloody hole remained, one that was difficult to look at.
"He couldn't have done something like this, he couldn't have."
Cindy was talking to herself, but I could hear her quite clearly. She stood next to me in front of the open trunk.
Then she took my arm. "He didn't do it, Robert. Really he didn't."
Behind us, Gibbs said, "Cindy, could you come over here a minute, please?"
She shook her head. "You hear his voice?"
"Uh-huh."
"He's already got David convicted."
"You have to admit, this doesn't look real good."
"You think he'd be stupid enough to drive her around in his trunk?"
"You're a law officer, Cindy. You know how crazy people can get after they kill somebody. Especially if they've been drinking or something."
This time, she didn't take my arm. She grabbed it. "Goddamn it, Robert, didn't you hear me? He didn't kill her! He really didn't."
Then she went off to see the Chief. She was going to tell him the same thing.
Meanwhile, I spent some more time following down my ghoulish occupation. I borrowed the Chief's flashlight.
There's a little trick about postmortem lividity. Sometimes it can tell you if a body has been moved around in a cramped space, such as a car trunk. This means that even if the body has been moved, the lividity will indicate the original position. Sometimes it's helpful to know such things.
I knelt down next to the trunk, holding my breath — the stink being pretty bad — and started training my light up and down the right side of her body.
On the whole, I would rather have been back home with my cats sleeping on the bed next to me and a bowl of Cream of Wheat waiting to be microwaved in the morning.
PART TWO
Chapter 12
O n this part of the frontier, the cabins had generally been built of logs that had been squared with a broadax and stripped of their bark. The pioneers built cabins close to creeks and streams for the sake of the water supply; and in an area of woods that looked rife with wild game and crab apples and plums and haws; and where there was an abundance of prairie hay which, along with corn cobs and animal droppings, could be used for fuel in the long and harsh winters.
The pioneers would not have recognized the manor house perched above me on the bluffs. It sat on better than two acres of oaks and dogwoods, a brick Georgian Colonial that bespoke not only wealth and privilege but also a certain disdain for anybody who drove up the steep, winding driveway. The house itself seemed to sense that all visitors would be unworthy. The landscaping, which used vast maples and elms as walls to keep out prying eyes, only enhanced the sense of unwelcome.
I was two steps from my rental Chevrolet when I heard a tennis ball being thwocked back and forth. I decided not to try the front door.
Instead, I followed a narrow stone walk around the massive east side of the house. Below me, in a small valley,
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