Where There's a Will

“Mm,” Gideon said and silently went back to the report.

—separated the descending aorta, and lodged in the corpus of the eighth thoracic vertebra (T8), one above the other, three millimeters apart. The projectiles were found to be somewhat deformed, medium-sized, non-jacketed lead bullets of different calibers, with the inferior, smaller one showing some fragmentation. Among the interesting circumstances associated with them was the presence of a cartridge case partially embedded in the intervertebral fibrocartilage separating T8 and T9. Various possibilities come to mind to account for its presence there...

And off the good doctor went on another of his roundabout excursions into supposition and surmise. Gideon paged on until he found what he was looking for at the bottom of page thirteen.

“Here we go, John.” He read aloud. “ ‘The right foot was naturally examined with especial care. External examination of the toes was not possible, inasmuch as the partially melted boot had fused to the skin. Therefore—’ ”

“Ah, there, you see?” exclaimed John, jabbing a finger in Gideon’s direction. “He was expecting to find those amputations. He already had them in his mind. Why else would he ‘naturally’ examine the right foot with ‘especial care’?”

Gideon nodded. “That’s a good point.” He continued reading.

Therefore, a partial deep dissection of the anterior dorsum was accomplished to reveal the condition of the toes. It was found that parts of the second and third toes had been amputated, resection having taken place approximately one centimeter from the distal ends of the medial phalanges.

He turned the page, scanned the next one. “I don’t believe it,” he exclaimed, flipping to the following page, and then the one after that. “You’re kidding me.”

“What’s the problem?” John asked.

“The problem? The problem is, that’s it: ‘On the right foot, parts of the second and third toes have been amputated, resection having taken place approximately one centimeter from the distal ends of the medial phalanges.’ Here this guy takes pages and pages describing every sulcus and pimple on the bladder, but when it comes to something important, something that could make or break an identification, what do we get? ‘On the right foot, parts of the second and third—’ ”

“Okay, okay, I heard you the first two times.” John shook his head, puzzled. “But I don’t get it. Isn’t that what you were looking for? I mean, the toes aren’t there anymore, what else is there to say?”

“There’s a lot he could have—should have—said. Was there any callus formation on the stumps? Was the medullary cavity open or capped? Was there any atrophy? All the things that would give us some idea of whether it was post- or antemortem.” He stood up, slammed the sheaf onto the table, and stormed around the room.

“Gee, Doc, don’t get yourself in a—”

“Was there anything to suggest whether it was a clean surgical procedure or some kind of amateur boondoggle? Was there—”

The door opened and Fukida walked in wearing a Colorado Rockies baseball cap and carrying a paper bag. “Problem?” he asked.

“Nah,” John said. “He gets like this sometimes. Don’t worry, he’s usually not violent.”

Fukida opened the bag and took out three lidded sixteen-ounce cardboard cups. “Here, I stopped on Ali’i Drive and got us some real coffee. I don’t know,” he said, looking hard at Gideon as he handed a cup to him, “I think I should have got you a decaf.”

“This’ll be fine,” Gideon said. He laughed and dropped back into his chair. “Thanks, smells wonderful.”

Fukida took a seat across the table from them, took the lid off his cup, crossed an ankle over one knee, and immediately started jiggling his foot. “I gather the autopsy report wasn’t too helpful?”

“Not about those missing toes, no. It’s the one place in the report where he decided to be concise.”

“What about the photos?”

“No, there wasn’t anything—”

“He means the autopsy photos, not the crime-scene ones, Doc. You haven’t even looked at them.”

“Autopsy photos! I forgot all about them!” He reached for the envelope.

“He’s also a little absent-minded,” John explained.

There were six black-and-white photographs: two pre-autopsy shots of the body from different angles, one of the entry wound, two taken during dissection that showed the bullets’ trajectory...and one excellent-quality close- up of the right foot, post-dissection.

“Ah,” Gideon murmured with satisfaction. He propped the photo against one of the case files that were now strewn on the table and settled back in his chair, hands clasped on his belly, to study it from three feet away. After a minute he leaned forward so that his face was twelve or fifteen inches from it. Finally, he straightened up.

“You were both on target,” he announced. “This was faked. It’s not Torkel. Those toes got hacked off after he died.”

“I knew it. I told you.” Fukida was pleased for a moment, but then he rolled his eyes. “Oh, boy, like I really need this.”

“Or possibly right before,” Gideon said, “but that makes no sense. Anyway, it was peri-mortem, not antemortem. It didn’t happen years ago, that’s for sure.”

“You’re positive about that?” Fukida asked dejectedly.

“Oh, yes. And it wasn’t done by any surgeon, I’m positive about that, too. Or if it was, you better hope he never operates on you.”

Whatever it was that had done the job, he explained, had been a sharp instrument, but sharp like a heavy