Make No Bones

Gideon looked at John. “Is that enough, do you think? In a court of law?'

'In a court of law, who knows? That's Farrell's problem, or rather his DA's, but I think we're doing okay; the investigation's just revving up. Oh, and we do have something on motive. For killing Jasper, I mean.'

Julian Minor's research skills had paid off again, John told them. Minor had hunted down Marie Tustin, the retired secretary of the anthropology department at Nevada State, who remembered Jasper's mysterious telephone call very well. Jasper had demanded that Harlow mail him the department's copy of Callie's workbook—the record of measurement data and statistics for the dissertation project she'd begun under Jasper and completed under Harlow. Harlow had asked Ms. Tustin to retrieve and mail the copy for him, and Ms. Tustin had done so. She remembered, however, that Callie had been extremely obstructive, even underhanded, in unsuccessfully trying to keep Ms. Tustin from carrying out her commission.

And why, Minor had asked her, would Callie have behaved that way? At this, Ms. Tustin had emitted a condescending flutter of laughter. She was revealing no secrets in telling him that Harlow Pollard was not the most exacting or interested of dissertation supervisors. Those students lucky enough to draw him tended to go their way without unduly rigorous guidance. And it had been remarked behind the back of many a hand—Ms. Tustin could not say if it was true or false—that Callie Duffer had taken more advantage than most of this circumstance and had been somewhat free in statistical manipulations. Did Ms. Tustin mean that Callie had faked her dissertation, Minor had asked. Ms Tustin had coughed discreetly. Well, as to that, she was hardly in a position to say. She was merely reporting what was common gossip.

'So what do you make of it, Doc?'

'Interesting,” Gideon said. “You think Jasper suspected that Callie fudged her results? Maybe went over her workbook and satisfied himself that she had? Confronted her at Whitebark?'

'Could be. The workbook disappeared, along with his clothes and everything else. Everybody figured they were burned up in the bus crash. But of course he never got on the bus, did he?'

'You're saying she killed him for that?” Julie said. “Why? She already had her degree. Jasper couldn't take it away, could he?'

'Maybe not,” Gideon said, “but she was just beginning her career. She had a new assistant professorship at Nevada State. Her dissertation was being published as a major monograph. If Jasper went public—and he was the sort of man who would have—it would have ruined her, right at the start. No decent university would touch her.'

'All right, I can see that, but why would Harlow get involved? He was already established. Being a little careless wouldn't have cost him his career.'

'You know,” Gideon said, “my guess is that Harlow had nothing to do with the actual killing, that Callie came to him afterwards and got him to fake the dental records.'

'Why in the world would he agree to that?'

'Well, she could easily have cornered him the next morning, after they heard about the bus crash, and told him: ‘Look, I gave him a little push and he hit his head and died. Now help me! I saved your reputation too—you were supposed to be overseeing my dissertation. Anyway, he's dead, isn't he? What difference does it make?''

'Yeah, I could see it happening like that,” John said. “In fact, it could be she really never did mean to kill Jasper. Maybe she went to see him after the roast to make a last try at keeping him quiet; you know, throw herself on his mercy.'

'With Jasper?” Gideon said. “Good luck.'

'Well, that's what I mean. Maybe she just lost control; shoved him or something. Or maybe he fell; he was pretty drunk, from what everybody says. You said those cracks in his head were from a fall, didn't you? Could have been unintended.'

Gideon nodded. “But not the garroting.'

'No, not the garroting. And not what happened to

Harlow.” John stood up. “Thanks a million, Doc. I'm

gonna get over to Bend and see where we go from here.'

Gideon stood with him. “John, this thing about her motive, the dissertation. It sounds good, but, you know, at this point it's just—'

'Unverified supposition.'

Gideon laughed. “Well, yes. Maybe even unverifiable, what with the workbook gone.'

John grinned back at him, the skin around his eyes crinkling. “Well, as a matter of fact, the great Julian has turned up a little something that might help. A copy of her dissertation in the library stacks—with a 125-page appendix full of statistics. In small print. I was hoping I, uh, might convince some trustworthy, public-spirited anthropologist to, uh, sort of go through it in the next few weeks and see if he could turn up anything. You know, see if the statistics match what she says, or whatever the hell you do.'

'I hate statistics.'

'It'd really be helpful. It might make or break the case, Doc.'

Gideon wilted. “How long is the dissertation?'

'Long.'

'What's it about?'

'Good question.” John took his notebook from his shirt pocket, opened it, and handed it to Gideon. “Here's the title,'

It was printed in careful block letters. Cephalometric Sexual Dimorphism in Four Related Populations (n= 572): A Multifactorial Study Using Discriminant Function Analysis.

Gideon sagged back down into his chair with a moan of self-pity. “Great God-o-mighty.'