"No evidence bags," she said.
I paused. Normally you take exquisite care not to contaminate evidence with foreign prints and hairs and fibers, so as not to confuse the investigation. If you screw up, you can get your ass chewed by the prosecutors. But this time the motivation had to be different, with Willard in the mix. If I screwed up, I could get my ass sent to jail. Means, motive, opportunity, my prints on the weapon. Too good to be true. If the training accident story came back to bite him, he would jump all over anything he could get.
"We could bring a specialist out here," Summer said. She was standing right behind me. I could sense her there.
"Can't involve anyone else," I said. "I didn't even want to involve you."
She came around beside me and crouched low. Smoothed stalks of grass out of the way with her hands, for a closer look.
"Don't touch it," I said.
"Wasn't planning to," she said.
We looked at it together, close up. It was a handheld wrecking bar forged from octagonal-section steel. It looked like a high-quality tool. It looked brand new. It was painted gloss black with the kind of paint people use on boats or cars. It was shaped a little like an alto saxophone. The main shaft was about three feet long, slightly S-shaped, and it had a shallow curve on one end and a full curve on the other, the shape of a capital letter J. Both tips were flattened and notched into claws, ready for levering nails out of planks of wood. Its design was streamlined and evolved, and simple, and brutal.
"Hardly used," Summer said.
"Never used," I said. "Not for construction, anyway."
I stood up.
"We don't need to print it," I said. "We can assume the guy was wearing gloves when he swung it."
Summer stood up next to me.
"We don't need to type the blood either," she said. "We can assume it's Carbone's."
I said nothing.
"We could just leave it here," Summer said.
"No," I said. "We can't do that."
I bent down and untied my right boot. Pulled the lace all the way out and used a reef knot to tie the ends together. That gave me a closed loop about fifteen inches in diameter. I draped it over my right palm and dragged the free end across the dead stubble until I snagged it under the crowbar's tip. Then I closed my fist and lifted the heavy steel weight carefully out of the grass. I held it up, like a proud angler with a fish.
"Let's go," I said.
I limped around to the front passenger seat with the crowbar swinging gently in midair and my boot half off. I sat close to the transmission tunnel and steadied the crowbar against the floor just enough to stop it touching my legs as the vehicle moved.
"Where to?" Summer asked.
"The mortuary," I said.
I was hoping the pathologist and his staff would be out eating breakfast, but they weren't. They were all in the building, working. The pathologist himself caught us in the lobby. He was on his way somewhere with a file in his hand. He looked at us and then he looked at the trophy dangling from my boot lace. Took him half of a second to understand what it was, and the other half to realize it put us all in a very awkward situation.
"We could come back later," I said. When you're not here.
"No," he said. "We'll go to my office."
He led the way. I watched him walk. He was a small dark man with short legs, brisk, competent, a little older than me. He seemed nice enough. And I guessed he wasn't stupid. Very few medics are. They have all kinds of complicated stuff to learn, before they get to be where they want to be. And I guessed he wasn't unethical. Very few medics were that either, in my experience. They're scientists at heart, and scientists generally retain a good-faith interest in facts and the truth. Or at least they retain some kind of innate curiosity. All of which was good, because this guy's attitude was going to be crucial. He could stay out of our way, or he could sell us out with a single phone call.
His office was a plain square room full of original-issue gray steel desks and file cabinets. It was crowded. There were framed diplomas on the walls. There were shelves full of books and manuals. No specimen jars. No weird stuff pickled in formaldehyde. It could have been an army lawyer's office, except the diplomas were from medical schools, not law schools.
He sat down in his rolling chair. Placed his file on his desk. Summer closed his door and leant on it. I stood in the middle of the floor, with the crowbar hanging in space. We all looked at each other. Waited to see who would make the opening bid.
"Carbone was a training accident," the doctor said, like he was moving his first pawn two squares forward.
I nodded.
"No question," I said, like I was moving my own pawn.
"I'm glad we've got that straight," he said.
But he said it in a voice that meant: Can you believe this shit?
I heard Summer breathe out, because we had an ally. But we had an ally who wanted distance. We had an ally who wanted to hide behind an elaborate charade. And I didn't altogether blame him. He owed years of service in exchange for his medical school tuition. Therefore he was cautious. Therefore he was an ally whose wishes we had to respect.
"Carbone fell and hit his head," I said. "It's a closed case. Pure accident, very unfortunate for all concerned."
"But?"
I held the crowbar a little higher.
"I think this is what he hit his head on," I said.
"Three times?"
"Maybe he bounced. Maybe there were dead twigs under the leaves, made the ground a little springy, like a trampoline."
The doctor nodded. "Terrain can be like that, this time of year."
"Lethal," I said.
I lowered the crowbar again. Waited.
"Why did you bring it here?" the doctor asked.
"There might be an issue of contributory negligence," I said. "Whoever left it lying around for Carbone to fall on might need a reprimand."
The doctor nodded again. "Littering is a grave offense."
"In this man's army," I said.
"What do you want me to do?"
"Nothing," I said. "We're here to help you out, is all. With it being a closed case, we figured you wouldn't want to clutter your place up with those plaster casts you made. Of the wound site. We figured we could haul them to the trash for you."
The doctor nodded for a third time.
"You could do that," he said. "It would save me a trip."
He paused for a long moment. Then he cleared the file away from in front of him and opened some drawers and laid sheets of clean white paper on the desktop and arranged half-a-dozen glass microscope slides on the paper.
"That thing looks heavy," he said to me.
"It is," I said.
"Maybe you should put it down. Take the weight off your shoulder."
"Is that medical advice?"
"You don't want ligament damage."
"Where should I put it down?"
"Any flat surface you can find."
I stepped forward and laid the crowbar gently on his desk, on top of the paper and the glass slides. Unhooked my boot lace and picked the knot out of it. Squatted down and threaded it back through all the eyelets. Tightened it up and tied it off. I looked up in time to see the doctor move a microscope slide. He picked it up and scraped it against the end of the crowbar where it was matted with blood and hair.
"Damn," he said. "I got this slide all dirty. Very careless of me."