A Fountain Filled With Blood

“Okay.” He released her and strode toward the center of activity, Lyle matching his steps.

“You really think this might be unrelated to the previous assaults?” Lyle asked, pausing before the bushes to put his latex gloves back on.

“No.” Russ tried to tug his gloves on too quickly and got his fingers stuck. He wiggled them partway off and eased them on more carefully. “I don’t believe in coincidences. I think he was targeted. What I want to know is how.” He held an armful of wet spiny-leafed branches out of the way. He and Lyle stepped into the now partially cleared opening where Sergeant Morin and Dr. Scheeler crouched over the body in the trough.

Scheeler glanced up and nodded at Lyle. “Deputy MacAuley. And you must be…”

“Russ Van Alstyne. Chief of police. Whaddya have there?”

The medical examiner gestured with a long probe. “By the temperature, I’m going to say he died within the last two hours. There’s not enough water in here to change his lividity much. You don’t see this very often.” He delicately traced along what used to be Bill Ingraham’s neck. “Cut right through almost to the spine. He must have bled out almost instantly.”

“We were thinking a garrote.”

“Yes, I think you may be right. I’ll need to examine the edges under the microscope, of course, but it doesn’t have the shape characteristic of a knife cut.” The dead man’s hands were already encased in opaque Baggies to preserve possible unseen skin samples trapped under the fingernails. Scheeler slid a probe under one of the plastic-wrapped hands and lifted it slightly. “He had no lacerations or defensive marks here. You’d expect to see those if someone had been coming at him with a knife.” He removed the probe and lightly touched several places on the face. “And see here, and here, where the bruises are? I can’t be sure until I can examine the bone underneath, but I think he was beaten after he was dead.”

“After?” Lyle said.

“The bruises are flat, hardly diffuse at all. There’s been no swelling. Swelling happens fairly quickly to tissue while it’s alive, but it slows down markedly postmortem. I suspect he was killed quickly and then beaten.”

“Uncontrolled rage?” Lyle asked, raising his thick eyebrows at Russ.

“Or he wanted it to look like the other beatings,” Russ said. “It was a he, wasn’t it? It takes a hell of a lot of upper-body strength to pull a wire through someone’s throat.”

“Absolutely. I suppose a particularly muscular woman might have been able to accomplish the feat, but I’d lay my money on an adult male. And the wire or fishing line he used must have either been wrapped around something sturdy he could hold on to or—”

“He wore gloves,” Lyle said, completing the thought. “That’s something I’d like to find.”

“If the glove fits, you must convict,” Russ misquoted. “Can you confirm it was done here, Doc?”

“Oh, yes.” Dr. Scheeler pointed to the edge of the trough, where blood was congealing to the consistency of skim on a pudding. “There’s no doubt in my mind that he was alive when he walked in here. Once he’s in the lab, I may be able to see some markings that will tell me if he was coerced or not,” he added, forestalling Russ’s next question. The doctor unfolded himself from his crouch and stood, snapping his gloves off and pocketing them. “I’m done with the in situ examination. I should have the preliminary report to you within twenty-four hours. Toxicology will take longer—the state lab has been backed up.”

Russ peeled his gloves off and shook the medical examiner’s hand. “Thanks for getting out here so promptly.”

“It’s good to work with you. I’m just sorry it had to be under these circumstances. I know Emil Dvorak well. He’s a fine pathologist. Damned shame.”

They exited the small copse, and Russ waved the mortuary boys over to do their job. “We need to extend the tape all along here,” he said to Lyle, his arm swinging wide. “I want this line of brush gone over from the little gate down to the riverbank as soon as it’s daylight. He left one way or the other, dripping blood, maybe shucking gloves. There’s got to be something.” He caught sight of Clare, still sitting beneath a tree with the dogs. “And I need to figure out how to get Reverend Fergusson home.”

“What’s going on with you two?” Lyle asked, his voice neutral.

“Whaddya mean ‘what’s going on’? Nothing. I’m a happily married man.”

“So was I,” Lyle said. “Until I wasn’t anymore.”

Russ’s reply was cut off by a gleeful crow from Sergeant Morin, who emerged from the thicket ahead of the two mortuary attendants. “Take a look at what was under the body,” he said loudly. A damp and bloodstained piece of paper dangled between Morin’s latex-covered fingers. The tungsten lights seared the paper, popping the black lettering off the page so that even from several feet away, Russ could see the boldfaced heading: STOP BWI DEVELOPMENT NOW!

Chapter Eleven