Finally he replaced it, tucking it back within the roll of carpet so that only the top of the figurine was visible. From Becker's vantage point it had looked like a sports figure, a golfer or possibly a batter, and the tip of the golf club or bat stuck out of the rug, reflecting the last of Tee's flashlight beam like a raindrop.
Becker followed Tee into the night as the big man made his way clumsily down the dirt road, through a stretch of trees, and into his car, which was parked just off the asphalt. Only when Tee's taillights had vanished around a bend in the road and Becker was certain that his friend was safe and undetected did he return to his bicycle and make his way home through the darkness. He could have turned his headlight on but he preferred to glide through the night unseen, whether stealth was required or not.
16
Grone said hello to Becker but made little effort to be polite to Kom, whose presence insulted him. Kom seemed not to notice, greeting Grone as enthusiastically as if they were old friends, then turning his attention to the body parts arranged on the table. They were still chilled from storage in the cooler.
"They're the same marks," Kom said to Becker. "I see what you mean." He picked up an upper arm, turned it to examine both ends. "Two little slashes, almost parallel, on both ends of the humerus. Same on the left arm. Slashes on the ulna, too. Again on both ends of the femur and on the exposed ends of both tibiae… Seems pretty obvious now, I don't know why we didn't see it in the beginning. It's certainly not caused by his technique."
"You'll find it in my report," Grone said to Becker. "Along with everything else you need to know."
Becker touched Grone's arm, trying to placate him. "I know it." He glanced at Kom, who was absorbed in a study of the torso. "Politics,"
Becker whispered to Grone. "Nothing personal."
"It must be hard to determine the cause of death when a body is decaying like this," Kom said.
"Not at all," said Grone brusquely. "Really? Not my field, of course.
You guys do great work… What did she die of? I don't see any gross wounds."
"It's all in my report," Grone said, again addressin himself to Becker.
"Humor him," Becker said under his breath. "I'll explain later." He hoped he would not have to explain. Grone would not be sympathetic to the idea that Kom was allowed to handle his corpse because Associate Deputy Director Karen Crist wanted him to be Becker's friend.
Grone stood and extended his outstretched fingers toward Becker's neck.
"Strangled her." He pressed his thumb and fingers against either side of Becker's neck, applying a slight pressure. "Cut off the blood to her brain."
Kom touched the corpse's neck with his gloved finger. "Did he crush the windpipe?"
Grone continued to address Becker, lifting his eyebrows to display his impatience with Kom's remarks. "He didn't suffocate her, he just killed her brain. The body followed."
"Can that be done? Just with the hand?" Kom asked incredulously.
"Apparently," Becker said quickly, forestalling something nastier welling up in Grone. "Actually, it's not that uncommon. It's a known technique, let's put it that way."
"They teach you guys that? In the Bureau?" Kom had taken to referring to the FBI as the Bureau in emulation of Karen and Becker.
"It's not easily done with an adult," Becker said. "The victim just has to move his neck a little to start the blood flow again. Under most circumstances it wouldn't work."
"How do you walk around with all that kind of thing inside you, John? I mean the… I don't know what I mean."
Grone rolled his eyes and turned away.
"Yeah, well," Becker said, letting the words serve for an answer.
"Was she in pain, do you suppose?" Kom asked, troubled.
"Can't feel good," Grone offered. "But a lot better than the way some people go. It probably doesn't hurt at all. It would be the fear that would be the problem."
"Do you think they knew what he was doing to them? Surely not."
"Why not?" Grone asked impatiently. "He was killing them. Why wouldn't they know it?"
"I would think… I don't know. I just hate to think they knew what was going on. I hate to think they suffered,"
"That doesn't mean Johnny hates it," Grone said. "He probably enjoys the fear." He looked to Becker for confirmation. Becker looked away, giving him no satisfaction. "Did you manage to get a good photo?" Becker asked.
"Passable, I suppose. There's only so much you can do with a body that far gone."
"Why do you need a photo?" Kom asked.
"For identification," Becker said. "We can't ask people to come look at a dismembered corpse and expect them to make a sensible response. They'd be too horrified, they wouldn't be able to look at it. If we can get a decent photo we use that, otherwise we'll have an artist give a rendering of what she probably looked like when alive."
Kom studied the body again for a moment. "I wonder what she did look like. Pretty, do you think?"
"Her parents thought so," Becker said.
Later, as they left Grone's domain, Kom said, "Doesn't it bother you, John? How can you look at bodies like that without letting it get to you?"
"It bothers me."
"I would never know it from looking at you."
Becker grinned ironically. "Stanley, there are a great many things you'd never know from looking at me. I have my little secrets. One of them is that I don't like looking at corpses with their limbs hacked off. I do it because it's useful and I've learned to do it without losing my lunch, but I don't like it."
"I didn't mean to imply that you liked it."
"I noticed that you managed to look."
"I'm a doctor."
"You don't doctor corpses, do you? You took a good look, you showed a real interest."
"I've offended you, John. I'm sorry."
"My reactions to things are pretty normal, Stanley, despite what you've heard. Putrid flesh makes me want to vomit. Mutilations make me wince.
Sharp instruments cut me. I sound like Shylock, don't I? Hath not a cop tears?"
"I was trying to offer sympathy, really," Kom said. "I certainly wasn't criticizing. I admire you, I admire your work, I… I marvel at how you do it."
"Okay, Stanley. Sorry. It's a sore spot."
"I certainly didn't mean..
"No way for you to know. It's all right. Really."
"I hope you're not mad at me. I was insensitive, I see that. I wouldn't hurt your feelings for the world, John. I want very much to stay your friend."
"It's okay. I oveffeacted."
"No, it was foolish, it was stupid, I'm so sorry, John…" Kom took hold of Becker's arm. "It's okay, Stanley," Becker said, pulling free.
"Just leave it alone, for Christ's sake."
Kom could not resist one last apology. "I'm sorry," he said, his voice sounding close to tears. Becker forced himself to look at Kom, the man's face filled with remorse and bewilderment, only partially aware of what he had done to incur Becker's displeasure. He just wants to be my friend, Becker thought. He just wants me to like him. Kom's eyes were wide and watery, his smile trembled hopefully on his lips. Becker fought a strong impulse to put his hand on Kom's troubled face and push hard.
"The girl is-was-Inge Schrag," Tee said, tapping the artist's rendering on the desk in front of him. "She was an all pair for the Hills. They reported her missing five days ago and this morning they identified her from the photo. We'll send the girl's fingerprints back to Germany for verification, but the Hills don't have any doubts about it."
"What do you know about the Hills?"
Tee chuckled mirthiessly. "Only what McNeil tells me. I sent him to check out the missing person report. He didn't take it seriously, thought there was nothing to it. As we might expect."
"I'll talk to the Hills."