Icy Clutches

by Aaron Elkins

  Wu looked at him. “Hypostasis,” he said. “Livor mortis. Lividity."

  "Settling of the blood, you mean?"

  "Right, right,” Wu said impatiently. “Blood and body fluids."

  "Due to gravity after you die."

  "Yeah, yeah, sure."

  "And the ligature is the cord around his neck, is that right?"

  "Of course, ligature. All of which means he couldn't have died in that position."

  Gideon had no prejudice against scientific words, but until Wu spelled it out, he hadn't seen what he was driving at, either. “I see,” he said slowly. “You mean, the blood would have settled below the ligature if he'd been hanging there when he died. So if there was some lividity above it, on the dorsal aspect"—for John's benefit he patted the back of his own neck—” then Tremaine must have been lying on his back for a while after he died; long enough for some of the fluid to settle there."

  "Not long; less than an hour,” Wu said. “The lab boys—” He turned abruptly to John. “Who is this guy?"

  "Dr. Gideon Oliver. It's okay. He's working with the bureau."

  Wu shrugged. “It's your case. Anyway, that's point one. Second, I did a little palpation of the throat area; not much, because I didn't want to screw anything up before the autopsy. But I think I could feel a fracture of the left—well, there are these sort of extensions of cartilage that tend to get broken when you strangle somebody with your hands, but not when you get hanged."

  "The laryngeal cornua,” Gideon said.

  Wu looked him over again. “Who'd you say this guy's supposed to be?"

  "I'm Gideon Oliver, Dr. Wu. I'm a physical anthropologist."

  "He's the Skeleton Detective,” John offered helpfully. Gideon managed not to wince.

  "Never heard of him,” Wu said, “but it so happens he's right. The left superior cornu. Maybe the inferior too. And the third thing is, the rope's not right. Neither is the burlap on top of the partition."

  "What do you mean, not right?” John asked.

  "The fraying runs the wrong way. Say a guy wants to hang himself. He ties a rope to a hook on a partition, okay? He runs it over the top of the partition, then ties it around his neck, stands on an overnight case, and kicks the case out from under him. He drops a few inches and ghaagh!—the rope strangles him. Well, when that rope gets pulled over the top and down, the rope itself is going to fray in the opposite direction...” He peered up at John. “You got any idea what I'm talking about?"

  "Yeah,” John said peevishly, “I think so. The scraping on the rope is gonna be in the direction of the knot around the hook. And the burlap on the partition is gonna get scraped in the opposite direction when the rope pulls over it."

  "Give this guy a banana,” Wu said. “Well, in there, the fibers show signs of friction, all right, but in the wrong direction—which has got to mean someone tied the rope around his neck and then hoisted it up and over the partition. No doubt about it. Any questions?"

  "Any idea where the rope came from?” John asked after a moment.

  "Not a rope. Two thick bootlaces doubled and tied together. Looks like they came from a pair of hiking boots in the closet."

  "What about time of death?"

  "Well, rigor's just beginning to recede; small muscles are starting to unstiffen. So I'd say, oh, maybe—"

  "Six to ten last night?"

  "Right. How'd you know that?"

  "Doc here looked at the body."

  Wu glared at Gideon. “Skeleton Detective,” he muttered. “Jesus Christ."

  Gideon shrugged apologetically.

  "I figure it'd be closer to ten than six,” John said.

  "You do, huh?” Wu said, unimpressed. “Why's that?"

  "The false teeth. They were already in the glass for the night."

  Wu's eyes rolled up. “Do you believe this?” he asked the ceiling. He finished the coffee, followed it with a final unappreciative grimace, and set the cup on a corner of a table which held a cautionary display of ruined cans, pots, and other food containers that had been savaged by bears. “I need to find someplace quiet and write up my report. The lab boys should be finished up with their tweezers inside of half an hour.” He opened the door and stepped out onto the porch. “You got a problem with our taking the stiff out with us, then? You get a full report in three days."

  "No problem,” John said. “Well, I think I'll go on up to Tremaine's room and see how they're doing."

  Wu looked disapprovingly up at him. “Try not to bother them, will you?” He rammed the door closed and headed decisively up the hill toward the lodge.

  John looked at Gideon. “Friendly little guy, isn't he?"

  Gideon smiled. “A little testy, but he seems to know what he's doing. I guess we really do have ourselves a murder here."

  "I guess we do. You want to come up with me and see what's happening?"

  "No, thanks,” Gideon said. Not if Tremaine's unstiffening body was still there, he didn't.

  "Okay. What do they do for lunch here?"

  "They put out a buffet in the dining room from twelve to one-thirty."

  "I want to get in a couple of interviews before then. How about meeting me there at one?"

  "You're on,” Gideon said.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter 12

  * * * *

  For fifteen minutes, comfortably occupying the largest armchair in the upstairs lounge, Walter Judd had snuffled, chortled, and suspender-snapped his way through John's questions. No, he hadn't seen Audley after the cocktail hour last night. Yes, he himself had gone directly to his room after dinner and remained there all night. No, there wasn't anyone who could confirm that; just what was Mr. Lau insinuating? (Chuckle, rumble, snap, snap.) Yes, his room was next to Tremaine's, but no, he hadn't heard anything unusual, or anything at all for that matter.

  Now, at John's latest question he stopped with his thumb hooked in a suspender strap. “Would you mind repeating that?"

  "Sure. Who do you think killed Tremaine?"

  "Now there's a question. My, my. Must I really answer that?"

  "No, sir,” John said affably, “but I thought you'd want to help."

  Judd slowly eased the band back. “Well, I just might. May I assume anything I tell you is confidential?"

  "No,” John said, “you can't.” He had learned a long time ago that nine times out of ten, once someone got as far as asking him that question—paid informers excepted—the information was already as good as given, regardless of his answer. Refusing confidentiality at the outset made life simpler and saved grief all around.

  Judd chuckled softly. “You certainly don't give a man a lot of room. Well, I don't imagine I'm telling you anything you don't already know if I say that the Illustrious Deceased had a somewhat, ah, shall we say, tarnished reputation when it came to using other people's ideas. Without attribution, I need hardly add."

  "You don't sound as if you liked him very much."

  "And who do you know who did?” Judd smiled. “Anyone of normal intelligence, I mean. And not counting his legion of adoring television fans.” The smile broadened. “Two mutually exclusive categories, I should think."

  "Go ahead and tell me about his using other people's ideas."

  "For example: A few years after the expedition, he published a very well received monograph on postglacial Rosacea dryas colonization. Anna Henckel claimed, quite probably with cause, that most of the ideas were stolen from her own unpublished work."

  "And Dr. Henckel resented this?"

  Judd gave him an amused look. “A bit,” he said drily. “To be frank, Anna still resents him quite bitterly. The other night in the bar, she was beating us about the head and shoulders with Audley's mismanagement of the Tirku survey.” He shook his bearish head wonderingly. “I mean to say, it's been thirty years."

  "Us?"

  "Gerald Pratt and me, though I don't think she ever quite got through to poor Gerald. One often doesn't."

  "What w
as she saying?"

  Judd blew out his lips and fluttered them like a horse. “God knows. She had some ancient memo, some self-serving document written by an obscure federal minion and mercifully lost in the files all these years, I suspect. Frankly, I wasn't paying much attention. Audley did botch things, of course, but after all this time, who cares? Unless, of course, he was going to gloss them over in his precious book and blame the problems on certain other people—which I wouldn't have put past him—in which case I, too, was prepared to set him straight. Oh, yes."

  The botanist began chortling again. “If you were a botanist you'd have heard of the famous—the infamous—scene between Anna and Audley at the ASPT conference in 1969. Or 1968, was it? No, 1969; the year it was in Phoenix."

  John waited patiently.

  Judd's small eyes twinkled with remembered pleasure. “This was after an acrimonious exchange of letters in the Journal of Phylogeography that followed the publication of Audley's monograph. Anna had spat accusations and Audley had waffled, both true to form. Well, while Audley was speaking at a plenary session, Anna stood up in the audience and challenged him. And he refused to acknowledge her."

  He leaned forward, eager and happy. “Whereupon the fearsome Henckel simply stood there and stared him down until he more or less wilted to a halt.” He rubbed his hands together. “Then she said—and I do mean said: ‘You, sir, have the balls of a fish!’ Upon which she stamped grandly out, thumping that staff of hers, her great black Dracula cape billowing."

  His body began to jiggle with mirth. “Not being a piscine anatomist I can't vouch for how much sense it makes biologically, but I can tell you it brought down the house. Without fear of contradiction I may say that it has entered the annals of botanical legend.” He laid his head comfortably back and laughed without sound, eyes closed, shoulders shaking. It occurred to John that he was always making noise—sniffling, wheezing, snorting—except when he laughed. That he did silently.

  The botanist was built like a turnip. His excess weight was all above the waist, mostly in that high, swollen belly. Below, he was chunky and solid, even at sixty. No spreading, sagging butt, no jellied thighs. A powerful man for all the fat, John thought; wide-shouldered, massive, thick-armed.

  "Tell me,” John said, “did Tremaine ever steal any of your ideas?"

  Judd clutched at his heart. “Egad, I'm a suspect!” His shoulders started jiggling again. “Sorry, Mr. Lau, I'm flattered, but I'm afraid I never impressed Audley enough for him to covet any of my ideas. More's the pity, more's the pity.” The jiggling slowly subsided. He batted a finger back and forth across pursed lips. “Although I suppose I should mention in this regard that there was some trouble between Audley and...no, no, that couldn't have any relevance to this."

  John waited for him to go on. Outside of the movies, had he ever heard anyone say “egad” before?

  "Really, no, it couldn't,” Judd said. “I don't know what I was thinking of."

  "You never know,” John said. “Why don't you just tell me?"

  "Well, it was one of Audley's graduate students: Steven Fisk. Steve seemed to think that Audley had appropriated some of his data, too. I seem to remember some grumbling about it from time to time, but it never came to anything. Of course he was Audley's student, and professors are expected to steal from their students, aren't they? In any case, Steve's been dead for all this time now, so...” He spread his palms and shrugged. “Well, you see, it just doesn't apply. Sed hoc nihil ad rem."

  "Uh-huh,” John said, not willing to give him the satisfaction of asking him what it meant. “I understand you just missed getting caught in the avalanche yourself. You were sick that day?"

  "I was attacked, sir. By a vicious specimen of Culex pipiens." Again he closed his eyes and shook his bulky shoulders, consumed with his odd, silent hilarity. “The things that lay men low."

  John recrossed his legs and quietly sighed. He didn't think much of this heavy-footed posturing. He wasn't sure if the botanist was putting him down, or putting him on, or if maybe this was just some kind of standard routine he went in for. Whichever, it didn't make him like the man any better, or trust him, either.

  "So what is that, some kind of bug?” he asked.

  "Indeed, a mosquito of particularly nasty disposition. Apparently I'd been bitten several days before, and the bite had gotten infected without my realizing it. True, I wasn't feeling my best, but I flew out to Tirku with the others, determined to do my part. But when our exalted leader caught a glimpse of my wrist he said no. Despite my protestations, I was forced to remain down below on the beach, at the edge of the lateral moraine, while the others trekked across the glacier to the survey area."

  "You wanted to go with them?"

  "Certainly. In the strongest imaginable way, but Audley was adamant."

  "The airplane had already gone back? Is that why you had to stay on the beach?"

  "That's right. It was a seaplane. It was coming back for us later."

  "So you were on the beach when the avalanche hit?"

  "Yes, wallowing in bitterness and self-pity.” He pursed his lips. “Of course, as it turned out, I suppose you could say I was lucky."

  "I suppose you could. What did you do when it happened?"

  Judd seemed startled. “Do? What was there to do?” For the first time he treated a question as something other than a rich, juicy joke.

  "You heard it, didn't you?"

  "I saw it. In a general sense, I mean,” he added hurriedly. “I saw it sliding down the mountain. It was terrifying, unbelievable.” He sobered still more. “I didn't actually see it strike them, of course."

  "Did you go up and try to help them? Find them?"

  It seemed to take a few seconds for the question to get through. Judd sat like a plaster Buddha, his smile frozen, his hands clasped motionless over his belly. Even his wheeze was suspended. The only sound was a soft thud from the stone fireplace. Someone had lit a fire hours before, but it had been allowed to go out. A few blackened remnants of logs still smoldered.

  "Find them?” Judd said at last. He gave an incredulous snort. “I don't believe you have any idea of the colossal—of the—It was unbelievable, stupendous. And I was desperately ill. I—"

  "Ill? I thought you wanted to go with them."

  "Well, I did, yes. But that had been hours before. They'd already done their reconnaissance and were on their way back when it happened. By that time I was feverish, weak..."

  "So it turned out Tremaine was right about the bite."

  "Well, yes,” Judd said grudgingly, “you could say that. Anyway, the first search plane arrived in less than an hour. What was there for me to do besides stay where I was and wait?"

  John could think of a few things, but kept his thoughts to himself. “Afterwards,” he said, “did you get medical care for those bites?"

  "I can't remember,” Judd said. He seemed offended at the question. “Wait a minute, yes I do. I was treated at the hospital in Juneau. I was put on antibiotics for ten days. I'm sure there's a record. And now I think I have a right to know why you're asking these questions. If there's any relevance to Audley's death I fail to see it."

  "I'm not just looking into Tremaine's death, Dr. Judd. As I think you know, there's reason to think there was another murder—"

  "Another..."

  "—almost thirty years ago. We—"

  Judd whistled softly. “Of course, of course. What with poor Audley, I'd almost forgotten. You're investigating James Pratt's death too, aren't you?"

  John looked at him, his interest quickening. All he knew was that there was a piece of a male skull that had had an ice ax put through it. Gideon had said it could be Pratt's or it could be Steven Fisk's. Two possibilities, take your choice.

  "What makes you think that was Pratt's skull?” he asked. “Well, whose else would it be?"

  "What about Steve Fisk?"

  "Steve Fisk?” Judd seemed honestly surprised at the idea. “I suppose it's possible, but..."


  John waited.

  "I don't like to pass on gossip,” Judd said with an unconvincing show of reluctance, “and I hesitate to speak ill of the dead...” Aside from M. Audley Tremaine, John thought. “Go ahead, Dr. Judd."

  "Very well. Were you aware that Steve was engaged to Jocelyn Yount, the female graduate student who was with us?"

  John nodded.

  "Well, Jocelyn was—how shall I put it?—a rather odd young lady. She was bright but extremely passive, compliant, almost childlike. No self-discipline, no judgment—and not constitutionally inclined toward, er, celibacy, if you get my drift."

  Judd reached down to tug his ankle onto his knee and wedge it forcibly into place. He leaned forward conspiratorially and leered, male to male. “What it added up to,” he said, lowering his voice, “was that Jocelyn Yount was hardly the world's most difficult lay, if you'll pardon my Latin.” He made a snuffling noise. His small eyes twinkled. “I do not speak from personal experience, I hasten to add."

  "You were telling me why you think that's Pratt's skull,” John said.

  Judd chewed his lower lip for a moment. “I think it was the weekend before the avalanche. Steve flew back to Juneau for the day for something or other—supplies, I suppose. The rest of us took most of the day off and James talked Jocelyn into going off on a picnic, which didn't take much talking. Anyway, Steve got back to Gustavus before they did, and when they finally got in, you'd have had to be blind not to see what they'd been up to. Well, Steve had had this sort of trouble with Jocelyn before, and he just blew up, literally flung himself on James like a panther. Chairs flying, Jocelyn screaming—oh, it was quite a show. You can ask Audley—oops.” He rolled back his head and chuckled warmly. “Well, that might be a little difficult, but you can ask Anna. She was there too."

  "Who got the best of it?” John asked.

  "Oh, Steve, quite definitely. They were both powerful men, you understand, but James was in the wrong and knew it. Besides, he was caught by surprise. This wild animal just leaped on him. He wound up on his back with Steve straddling his chest, pummeling away like a madman—"