— As you can see, — said Dr. Crouch, — the trauma is horrific. I have waited to complete the examination until an official could be present. But all it takes is a cursory glance to see that the killer has not merely sliced open the torso. He has done far, far more. — Crouch rolled up his sleeves, then glanced at Pratt. — If you wish to see the damage, you'll have to step up to the table. —
Pratt swallowed. — I can see it well enough from here. —
— I doubt that. But if your stomach is too weak to handle it, there's no sense in your getting sick all over the corpse. — He pulled on an apron and tied the strings behind his back. — Mr. Holmes, Mr. Marshall, I'll need your assistance. It's a good opportunity for you both to get your hands dirty. Not every student is so fortunate this early in his education. —
Fortunate was not the word that came to Norris's mind as he stared into the gaping torso. Growing up on his father's farm, he was no stranger to the smell of blood or the butchering of pigs and cows. He had gotten his hands dirty, all right, helping the farmhands as they scooped out offal and stripped away the hides. He knew what death looked like and smelled like, for he had labored in its presence.
But this was a different view of death, a view that was too intimate and familiar. This was not a pig's heart or a cow's lungs that he stared at. And the slack-jawed face was one that, only hours ago, had been suffused with life. To see Nurse Poole now, to look into her glazed eyes, was to catch a glimpse of his own future. Reluctantly, he took an apron from the wall hooks, tied it on, and took his place at Dr. Crouch's side. Wendell stood on the other side of the table. Despite the bloody corpse that lay between them, Wendell's face revealed no revulsion, only a look of intent curiosity. Am I the only one who remembers who this woman was? Norris wondered. Not a pleasant human being, to be sure, but she was more than a mere carcass, more than an anonymous corpse to be dissected.
Dr. Crouch soaked a cloth in a basin of water and gently sponged blood away from the incised skin. — As you can see here, gentlemen, the blade must have been quite sharp. These are clean cuts, very deep. And the pattern the pattern is most intriguing. —
— What do you mean? What pattern? — asked Pratt in a strangely muffled and nasal voice.
— If you would approach the table, I could show you. —
— I'm busy taking notes, can't you see? Just describe it for me. —
— Description alone will not do it justice. Perhaps we should send for Constable Lyons? Surely someone in the Watch has the stomach to do his duty? —
Pratt flushed an angry red. Only then did he finally approach the table, to stand beside Wendell. He took one glimpse into the gaping abdomen and quickly averted his gaze. — All right. I've seen it. —
— But do you see the pattern, how bizarre it is? A slice straight across the abdomen, from flank to flank. And then a perpendicular slice, straight up the midline, toward the breastbone, lacerating the liver. They are so deep, either one of these cuts would have caused death. — He reached into the wound with bare hands and lifted out the intestines, painstakingly examining the glistening loops before he let them slide into a bucket at the side of the table. — The blade had to be quite long. It has sliced all the way to the backbone and nicked the top of the left kidney. — He glanced up. — Do you see, Mr. Pratt? —
— Yes. Yes, of course. — Pratt was not even looking at the body; his gaze seemed to be fixed, almost desperately, on Norris's blood-streaked apron.
— And then there is this vertical slice. It, too, is savagely deep. — He lifted up the rest of the small bowel in one mass, and Wendell quickly positioned the bucket to catch it as it came tumbling over the side of the table. Next came other abdominal organs, resected one by one. The liver, the spleen, the pancreas. — The blade incised the descending aorta here, which accounts for the great volume of blood on the steps. — Crouch looked up. — She would have died quickly, from exsanguination. —
— Ex what? — asked Pratt.
— Quite simply, sir, she bled to death. —
Pratt swallowed hard and finally forced himself to gaze down at the abdomen, now little more than a hollowed-out cavity. — You said it had to be a long blade. How long? —
— To penetrate this deep? Seven, eight inches at the least. —
— A butcher's knife, perhaps. —
— I would certainly classify this as an act of butchery. —
— He could also have used a sword, — said Wendell.
— Rather conspicuous, I would think, — said Dr. Crouch. — To be clattering around town with a bloody sword. —
— What makes you think of a sword? — asked Pratt.
— It's the nature of the wounds. The two perpendicular slashes. In my father's library, there is a book on strange customs of the Far East. I've read of wounds just like these, inflicted in the Japanese act of seppuku. A ritualistic suicide. —
— This is hardly a suicide. —
— I realize that. But the pattern is identical. —
— It is indeed a most curious pattern, — said Dr. Crouch. — Two separate slashes, perpendicular to each other. Almost as if the killer were trying to carve the sign of —
— The cross? — Pratt looked up with sudden interest. — The victim wasn't Irish, was she? —
— No, — Crouch said. — Most definitely not. —
— But many of the patients in this hospital are? —
— It is the hospital's mission to serve the unfortunate. Many of our patients, if not most, are charity cases. —
— Meaning Irish. Like Miss Connolly. —
— Now, look here, — said Wendell, speaking far more forthrightly than he should have. — Surely you're reading too much into these wounds. Just because it resembles a cross doesn't mean the killer is a papist. —
— You defend them? —
— I'm merely pointing out the defects in your reasoning. One can't possibly draw such a conclusion as you're doing, merely because of the peculiarity of these wounds. I've offered you just as likely an interpretation. —
— That some fellow from Japan has jumped ship with his sword? — Pratt laughed. — There's hardly such a man in Boston. But there are plenty of papists. —
— One could just as likely conclude the killer wants you to blame the papists! —
— Mr. Holmes, — said Crouch, — perhaps you should refrain from telling the Night Watch how to do its job. —
— Its job is to learn the truth, not make unfounded assumptions based on religious bigotry. —
Pratt's eyes suddenly narrowed. — Mr. Holmes, you are related, are you not, to the Reverend Abiel Holmes? Of Cambridge? —
There was a pause, during which Norris glimpsed a shadow of discomfort pass across Wendell's face.
— Yes, — Wendell finally answered. — He is my father. —
— A fine, upstanding Calvinist. Yet his son —
Wendell retorted: — His son can think for himself, thank you. —
— Mr. Holmes, — cautioned Dr. Crouch. — Your attitude is not particularly helpful. —
— But it is certainly noted, — said Pratt. And not forgotten, his gaze clearly added. He turned to Dr. Crouch. — How well acquainted were you with Miss Poole, Doctor? —
— She administered to many of my patients. —
— And your opinion of her? —
— She was competent and efficient. And most respectful. —