Marshall turned away, blinked several times. Then he took half a dozen of the clean towels from the bench, rolled them tightly, and snugged them up against the body to stop the blood that still trickled from a hundred cuts. Reaching into the medical kit, he removed a metal probe. Then he turned his attention back to Peters.
“The body seems to be completely exsanguinated,” he said. “There appear to be excoriations over almost its entire surface, along with numerous, perhaps hundreds, of narrow wounds with non-ragged margins. I am at a loss to explain how these smaller wounds were created. At least two of the other, larger wounds present could individually have proven fatal. The first of these fractured and exposed the-let’s see-the eighth to the twelfth ribs on the left side, penetrating the pleura and causing massive hemorrhaging, then continued down to the abdominal area where it also penetrated the peritoneal cavity. In the wound channel there are indications of damage to the cardiac ventricles. The second large wound needs little description. Massive damage to the entire region of the neck and head, from the right internal jugular vein to the cerebrum to the parietal lobe to the frontal lobe, along both sides of the longitudinal fissure. Elsewhere, the patella and other bones of the left knee are crushed, the femoral artery pierced.” A pause. “Damage to the clothing corresponds to the injuries noted. Further analysis will have to await toxicological and professional forensic analysis.” He stepped away.
For a moment, nobody spoke. Then Gonzalez cleared his throat. “It’s like I said. A polar bear attack. Now, can we get him wrapped up and stowed in a meat locker?”
“It could be human,” Wolff replied. His voice was quiet but steady.
“Are you crazy?” Gonzalez said. “Look at the wounds!”
“People high on certain illegal drugs have been known to fall into ferocious, murderous rages. With the right kind of implement-weapon-this kind of damage could be inflicted.” He turned to Marshall. “Isn’t that right?”
Marshall glanced back at the body. “The chest wound is about ten centimeters wide, with a total depth of almost eight centimeters. The amount of pressure to inflict such a wound would be massive, requiring tremendous strength.”
“Such as a polar bear,” said Gonzalez.
“Frankly, I’m surprised even a polar bear could create wounds like that,” Marshall replied.
“A killer could do it,” said Wolff. “If given time to land enough blows.”
“What about this, then?” With the probe, Marshall lifted the left leg at the knee. The foot swung loosely-too loosely-and hung at an odd angle. “It’s bitten almost completely through, hanging by a few tendons.”
“Simulated bite marks,” Wolff replied. “Created to cause fear and unease.”
“For what purpose?” asked Sully.
“To keep the curious away from the site where the cat’s body has been cached.”
Marshall sighed. “So you’re telling us that whoever stole the cat is willing to kill-kill in the most outrageous and savage fashion imaginable-to protect his prize?”
“He or she was willing to come up here, pretend to be one of us,” Wolff countered. “Willing to spend the time and the money, take a terrible risk. Why not?”
Marshall looked speculatively at him. “I don’t see why you refuse to accept the far simpler, far more rational explanation: this man blundered into the path of a polar bear and got killed as a result. Polar bears are ferocious, known man-killers. Why can’t you believe that?”
Wolff’s eyes glinted in the harsh artificial light. “Dr. Marshall, you speak of simple, rational explanations. I can’t accept that a polar bear did this for one very simple, very rational reason: if there is no thief-if a polar bear did this-then where did the cat go…and why is it missing?”
25
Throughout the meeting in the infirmary, Conti had remained silent, preferring to keep his observations to himself. As the group broke up, he stayed behind for a moment, watching Gonzalez and the newly returned Private Phillips carefully wrap the body in preparation for storage. From the soldiers’ chatter he’d learned that, in order to isolate the corpse from the rest of the personnel, a spare meat locker in the south wing would be used. Now he began making his way slowly and thoughtfully back to the central section of the base.
As he reached the entrance plaza, he saw Fortnum and Toussaint approaching.
“Emilio,” Fortnum said. “We heard you wanted to see us?”
Conti glanced around quickly before answering. The plaza was empty, the guard station temporarily unattended. Conti lowered his voice anyway.
“I have some assignments for you,” he told them. “Some special footage I need.”
The two nodded.
“Consider these projects to be under the radar. Surprise segments I’m going to insert for added effect. Don’t take any others along. And nobody is to know-not Kari, not Wolff.”
The cinematographers looked at each other, then nodded again, a little more slowly this time.
“Have you heard the news?”
“What news?” Fortnum replied.
“Josh Peters is dead.”
“Josh?” the two men said in unison.
“How?” asked Toussaint.
“The scientists think a polar bear got him-it happened outside. Wolff thinks it was whoever stole the cat.”
“Christ,” said Fortnum. He’d gone dead white.
“Yes. And we have to capitalize on this while we still can.”
The men looked at him blankly.
“Kari is going around right now, spreading the word of Josh’s death.” He turned to Fortnum. “Allan, I need you to find her. Get reaction shots from the crew. The more extreme, the better. But be subtle about it, try not to clue Kari in on what you’re going for. If you don’t get the reactions you want, wait until Kari has left and then embellish on her descriptions while the camera’s running. I want to see naked fear. Hysterical tears would be even better.”
A puzzled look had spread over Fortnum’s pallid features. “This is our own crew you’re talking about filming-right?”
“Of course. They’re the only ones around who don’t know about Peters yet.” Conti waved an impatient hand. “You need to hurry up, Kari’s out there already, playing Johnny Appleseed with news of the killing.”
Fortnum opened his mouth as if to raise another objection. Then he closed it instead and-with one last curious look at Conti-walked off in the direction of the crews’ quarters.
Conti watched him go. When the DP was out of sight, he turned toward Toussaint. “I have an even more important job for you. The body is currently being held in the infirmary. It’s in the south wing, I’ll sketch out a map for you. They’re going to place it in cold storage, but I heard them saying that some repairs are needed to the unit; it won’t be ready and chilled until tomorrow. That’s our opportunity.”
“ Opportunity,” Toussaint repeated a little uncertainly.
“Don’t you understand? Once the body’s in the freezer, it’ll be locked up.” Conti tried to master the almost frantic impatience and frustration that had been building within him since he’d first heard about the missing cat. “It’s like this. Wolff doesn’t want us filming Peters’s corpse.”
“Naturally.” Toussaint’s voice sounded detached, far away.
“But we have to. This is a fluid situation; it’s changing all the time. The documentary has to change with it.” Conti grasped the cameraman’s sleeve. “Our livelihoods, our reputations, are on the line here. We were dealt a rotten hand. That cat was the heart and soul of our show-and now it’s gone. But something new is beginning to happen. What started this morning as just a mystery has become a murder mystery. Do you see? Done right, this could be even bigger than Raising the Tiger. With the publicity that’s already run we’ve got a built-in audience. And we can give them something nobody’s given them before: a ‘closed-box’ documentary that suddenly morphs into something completely different. A crime drama that plays out in real time, among the actual crew.”