Weak Flesh

by Jo Robertson

  He reached for a tweezers from the array of instruments on the metal tray. Delving through the curls, he pulled out a minute dark sliver and then four or five similar ones and placed them alongside the first on the white towel.

  "Slivers of wood?" Gage asked. "A weapon?"

  Williams shrugged. "Or she hit her head on a log when she fell."

  Gage cut his eyes sharply toward the doctor. No, not a fall, he thought. "She stumbled and fell ... forward, striking her left temple."

  He lifted Nell's right, then her left hand, turning each over to inspect the palm. No abrasions, cuts, or bruises. "Wouldn't she brace herself?" He carefully turned her jaw from side to side, showing smooth white flesh, no bruising. Yet, there were the marks on the neck.

  Deep in thought, no one spoke.

  "Not necessarily," groused Adams, the blacksmith.

  But Gage watched Williams and Jack Butler, the saw miller foreman, make the mental adjustment and slowly nod in agreement.

  "If Nell Carver were struck in the head by someone facing her, a right-handed someone for the blow is on the left side of her temple, she'd likely have slumped sideways from the momentum of the blow." Gage picked up a broom handle by the stove and demonstrated for his audience.

  "She still could've fallen." Adams looked disappointed.

  "No," Sparrow said. "If she tripped, she'd have instinctively tried to break her fall."

  "Yes," Gage said.

  Williams drummed his broad fingers on the table's edge. "Still, there was water in her lungs. I must attest to death by drowning, accidental or not." He spread his hands to indicate the whole of his examination. "The rest of this is all conjecture and speculation."

  Gage didn't answer, unwilling to utter aloud the nasty word that hung in the air – murder.

  Murder, his gut told him, or at the least, a horrible and unfortunate accident by the water's edge that led to a sinister cover up. He didn't see how Nell's body could've rolled into the river unaided with all the flat land surrounding it. Whether she fell and hit her head or someone bashed it in, she was assisted into the cool depths of the Pasquotank.

  He looked around at the somber faces of the coroner's jury. "What do the rest of you think?"

  "I think she's got a hot-headed boyfriend who banged her on the head and threw the body in the river," said blunt Doc Jackson, the veterinarian.

  "Now, Marcus, there's no proof he did that," said Oliver Nolan.

  "Ain't no proof he didn't," countered Jackson.

  "That's definitely a bruise on her head," Al Freeman said, a tone of assurance and pomposity in his voice.

  "I agree," said Jack Butler. "Either she hit her head accidentally or someone knocked her in the head."

  "How do we know which one, though?" asked Nolan.

  "God dammit all," Andrews said. "She can only have died one way."

  Gage held onto his patience. God forbid they wouldn't be able to determine cause of death. "What will you say in your report, gentlemen?"

  After a long wait Dr. Sparrow said, "Let's go to dinner and meet back here later."

  Gage stepped to the door, blocking their way. "I must have a definitive answer," he insisted.

  In the silence that followed, a short squat form stepped into the outbuilding. Alexander Westin – the solicitor who would try the case should someone be charged with Nell's death – entered the building. "Well," he demanded. "Did she die of natural causes?"

  "There was water in her lungs and a bump on her head," Freeman answered readily.

  "What does that mean?" asked the solicitor.

  "They aren't sure," said Gage with no little disgust.

  "Damn it, Williams," Westin said. "How can I charge someone if a murder didn't happen?"

  Finally the word "murder" had been spoken aloud.

  "Look further," Westin commanded, "even if you must cut open her head."

  Grumbling at the delay of their luncheon, several of the inquest members turned the body around so the head faced the waning light. As they did so, several curls fell out of her head.

  "Damn, the skin's oily as bacon grease on a griddle," exclaimed Freeman.

  "Shut up, Al," said Jackson, removing the remaining strands of Nell's hair and placing them one at a time in an empty basin.

  With his scalpel William cut around the scalp, releasing a stream of black liquid from the left temple. He leaned over to peer at the temporal lobe. Nothing. As he peeled off the scalp, however, he found the brain herniation.

  "That's it for sure, then," declared Dr. Sparrow. "Someone hit her hard enough on the head to squeeze out the brain."

  "And then threw her into the river," Freeman said triumphantly.

  "Hold on, now," Westin said. "How do you know she didn't fall and cause this brain, uh, anomaly?"

  "Not likely," Williams answered. "The skull must be hit with a great deal of force to herniate the brain."

  Thus the decision was made. The autopsy ended with the conclusion that Ellen Carver had been struck on the head, lost consciousness, and drowned when her body was dumped into the Pasquotank River by person or persons unknown.

  Chapter 4

  The inquest committee turned in its official report by early evening of the day Nell's body was fished out of the river. Gage sat behind his desk at the Police Station and read the clear, broad writing of Dr. Williams.

  We, the coroner's jury, requested to give opinion in the matter of Ellen Carver do conclude that said woman died from a deliberate blow to the head and subsequent drowning in the Pasquotank River. Gage skimmed to the end where the inquest committee baldly recommended that James Wade and any other suspicious characters be held until the Tuscarora City magistrate determined their guilt or innocence.

  Jesus Christ! As soon as the report was made public, Jim Wade's life wouldn't be worth the paper the report was written on. Gage thought he'd better get Nell's latest boyfriend in for questioning right away.

  Minutes later Harold Carver burst into Gage's office without warning. He slammed his open palm down on the desk and caused Gage's cup of coffee to spill onto the report. Disgusted, Gage mopped up the coffee and moved the paper, at the same time eyeing the balled-up letter Carver had tossed on the desk.

  "I won't put up with this!" Harold Carver was a man accustomed to having people give weight to his words, but at the moment, Gage was more interested in the round ball of paper.

  Carver's eyes were black marbles in a broad face, mean and hard as befitting the saw mill owner who'd scrabbled for every success. "We want to lay her to rest and now this."

  Gage rose slowly and gestured toward the chair opposite his desk, waiting until the man seated himself. He reached for the paper Carver had thrown on his desk, unfolded it carefully, and pressed the creases flat. The 000000 was brief and he perused it before looking up at Carver.

  "Well, it's another hoax, isn't it?" Carver asked, clearly impatient to put the letter aside and move on to discuss the release of his daughter's body for the funeral.

  Gage studied Carver with his innate sense of suspicion. The man clearly had been fond of his daughter and overwrought at her death. When Gage investigated Nell's disappearance, he'd wondered if Carver's affection for her was over much.

  Gage couldn't fathom such a thing although he knew there were men who believed their wives and children were not only their personal property to do with as they wished, but their creations, rather like toys designed for their personal pleasures.

  He'd known such men out West.

  But for now he must believe that Carver was a genuinely bereaved father, less angry with the Marshal than helpless over his great loss. While Gage would take no umbrage with the man's officious tone, there were questions he must ask.

  "I don't know if it's a hoax or not," he said in answer to Carver's question. "Tell me when and how the letter arrived."

  "In today's post."

  "And you've already searched the area indicated?" It was too much to hope Carver had waited to satisfy h
is curiosity.

  "Certainly."

  The missive explained that in exchange for one hundred dollars, certain clues would be provided regarding Nell's death. To show good faith, evidence could be found hidden beneath the pier at the foremost pile, some mile or so from Carver's house.

  Gage muffled a sigh. If there had been clues at the site, they were certainly obliterated by now. "Pruitt!" he barked to the patrolman who'd just entered the outer office.

  When Will appeared at the door, Gage sent him to investigate the location. "Take Johnson with you."

  Sitting down, he turned back to his visitor. "Now, Mr. Carver, you must tell me every detail you can remember about this letter. At what hour did it arrive? Did it come by regular post or special messenger? Who was at home when it arrived?"

  As Carver began to argue, Gage turned frosty eyes on him, staring him down until the man fell silent. "Begin," he continued calmly, taking a pencil from a circular container and pulling a writing pad close to him, "and leave nothing out."

  "A man must protect his family," Carver mumbled, all bluster and bluff ebbing out of him. He raised his hands, palms up. "At any rate, I found nothing when I went to the dock."

  With effort Gage tamped down his impatience and the certain knowledge that if the letter were not a hoax, if there were clues beneath the pier, they'd been destroyed by this man's ignorance and haste. "When did the letter arrive?" he repeated.

  "In the morning post, about eleven-thirty," Carver answered, "but with all the ... disturbance, I didn't read it until a few hours ago."

  "Addressed to you?"

  Carver nodded.

  "Did you recognize anything specific about the letter?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "The language or phrasing of the words ... " Gage pushed the letter back across the desk. "Do they seem familiar?"

  Carver peered down to examine the letter, lips pursed. "No," he said at last, frustration in his voice. "For God's sake, it's just a letter! I get dozens of them in my business and personal correspondence. They all look the same to me."

  "Is most of the correspondence you receive created on a writing machine like this one?"

  Gage himself employed an Oliver type-writer, a fairly innovative style which stroked downwards, thus allowing the person to observe the message as it was created.

  "I – I don't know. I'm not sure. Perhaps half of my business is handwritten, the other half machine written." Carver tugged at his mustache. "Why? Does it matter?"

  "Perhaps," Gage murmured. He picked up the note and carefully examined it, using a magnifying glass which he retrieved from his desk drawer. All the letters were capitalized, which might indicate the use of an older type of machine, such as the Hansen Writing Ball.

  He could not have explained how he came to know so much about these machines except that he had a curious mind and found himself interested in a variety of subjects. At any rate, he knew the older machines had keys which struck upwards so that the letters were not observable as they were created.

  Mr. Carver's letter contained a significant number of errors, which could mean that the type bar had not fallen back into place before the next key struck, and the writer hadn't noticed the error until the page scrolled into view.

  His instinct told him the writer of this letter had used an older machine, and he'd learned to trust that gut feeling. He wondered if he could match the letter to a specific type-writer machine.

  "I don't see that it makes any difference at all," the older man grumbled. He stood and turned toward the door, looking resigned that the police could do nothing.

  Perhaps he was right.

  "Everything makes a difference when someone is preying on your grief," Gage said without looking up from the letter. "And attempting to extort money from you," he added pointedly.

  #

  "Is that you, Meggie?" Dr. Bailey called from the parlor at the front of the house when she entered later than usual.

  "Yes, Father." Meghan removed her cloak and hung it on the peg in the entry, placing her gloves on the marble-topped table by the front door. "Sorry I'm late."

  "An unruly student?" He smiled and looked over his shoulder from the fireplace where he stoked the flames in the grate. "Or a teacher conference?"

  "Neither, I'm afraid." She sank heavily into the winged chair close to the fire, pulled off her boots, and flexed her toes toward the warmth.

  Her stockings were damp from trudging down the river bank on her way home, but she had no intention of telling her father she'd taken that way. Since Nell Carver's disappearance right before Thanksgiving, the community – her usually unflappable father included – panicked at the slightest intimation of danger.

  Since retirement, Meghan's father rarely left home, seldom engaged in neighborhood gossip, and worked on the medical book he was writing. She knew he wouldn't have heard the news.

  "I went to see Tucker Gage."

  Dr. Bailey jerked upright and alarm clouded his faded blue eyes. "You've gotten word about Nell."

  She rose, ruffled his graying head, and patted his shoulder. "I'm sorry to tell you, Papa, but they've found Nell's body. I stopped by the Police Station right after school."

  Dr. Bailey rose from tending the fire and took his normal worn leather chair, moving the papers to the side table. "What does Tucker have to say?"

  If she'd been a man, the noise that came from Meghan as she flopped into her chair would've been called a snort. "Gage is being tight-lipped as usual. They're suggesting Nellie drowned."

  "Well, darling, it is possible. The Pasquotank can be extraordinarily dangerous."

  "I told Gage that Nell was an excellent swimmer."

  "As she was. But even good swimmers get cramps. Or slip and fall. Lose their balance."

  Meghan didn't believe in such oddities, but she knew her father was playing devil's advocate, trying to force her to look at all possibilities. She rose and made for the arched doorway that led to the kitchen. "Shall I make tea?"

  Dr. Bailey followed her into the large kitchen where he watched her set the kettle on the cook stove as he stoked up the embers and added wood. After gathering the cups and saucers from the pantry and arranging place settings for them, her father settled himself at the kitchen table. Meghan reached for the tea tin and sugar and added those items.

  She stared off at a spot over her father's head, deep in thought. "Am I being short-sighted, Papa? Could Nell's death have been an accident?" she asked when they'd finally sat down to drink their tea and eat the biscuits.

  "No," he answered quietly. "I don't think Nell's disappearance and death happened by chance."

  Meg looked up, startled.

  "I am a man of science," he explained. "Of logic and rational thought. So I ask myself – what would a young woman like Nell Carver be doing away from her home on an inclement winter's night?" He scratched his shaggy head. "And since she was a lovely, vibrant young woman – "

  "With many gentlemen friends," Meg interrupted, lifting one brow.

  "With too many gentlemen friends," her father conceded the point. "I ask myself if she'd gone to meet one, or possibly two, of those young men."

  He scratched his gray head thoughtfully and shifted in his chair. "Was there an ensuing altercation? Did one beau discover the identity of another? Was Nell harmed during the fracas?"

  He smiled gently. "You see, Meggie, there are many unanswered questions regarding Nell's disappearance." He spread his hands and tilted his head quizzically as if the problem were obvious.

  "Then, a cryptic diagram is sent to the authorities," he continued, "and finally, her body is discovered."

  Meghan frowned and jumped up, planting her hands on her hips. "And why hasn't Tucker Gage asked these same questions, Papa? Why is his first presumption that she drowned?"

  Her father finished the last drop of tea and placed his dishes in the sink. He turned to face her, a patient smile playing around his lips. "And you can read his thoughts, now? You know how the
Marshal plans to investigate poor Nell's death?"

  He reached for her hands and held them gently in both of his. "You're privy to the conversations he's had with relatives, friends, and witnesses?"

  Meghan had the grace to blush, a condition of contrition only her father was able to arouse in her. She worried her bottom lip and shrugged like a young girl.

  "Give Gage a chance. He's going to keep his findings close to his vest if he's a smart man." He eyed his daughter's small, athletic form and shook his head. "I think our town marshal is a highly intelligent man. Don't be too quick to condemn his methods."

  "It's just like you to take his side," she complained, kissing her father quickly on the cheek.

  Chapter 5

  While he waited for Pruitt to bring James Wade to the Station House, Gage reviewed his interview notes with Nell's beau from November when she'd first gone missing. He spun his chair around to look out the window at the wet wintry day and thought about how to proceed.

  What he hated most about an investigation was the relentless, prying questions he was obliged to ask family and friends. Necessary probing, for among these people lay the likeliest suspects.

  Discovering Nell's body made Gage ponder the vagaries of death, never a good path for his mind to take. Tuscarora hadn't seen a death in the six months he'd been marshal. Petty thefts, arguments among local tradesmen, and domestic squabbles were the troubles he was comfortable with.

  Not murder.

  Murder reminded him too well of the Indian squaw.

  #

  The Chippewa woman squatted in the dirt, her bronze features passive and infinitely patient. The bundle of cloth she held to her breast wiggled a little, but otherwise was silent. Captain Andrew Butler dismounted and walked up to where Gage stood, the butt of the long-barreled Winchester resting on his right thigh.

  "What in fucking hell's going on here, Lieutenant?"

  Gage squinted and swung his eyes over the campsite. The bodies of bare-chested bucks and straggly-haired old men lay lifeless on the ground. Their blood made brick-colored puddles in the dust.

  "Sir?" His voice was gravel in his throat.