Call stepped forward and stared at it narrowly. “It is. Battlefields in the East are littered with them. I carried a Springfield rifle that used a minié. It was standard issue on both sides.”
“I don’t understand,” said Laurel. “Why isn’t there evidence of a wound in Mr. Pye’s chest?”
“Because, Miss Morrison, Mr. Pye was shot in the back.”
27
Dr. Singer swept away the shirt covering Mr. Pye’s privates and held it up for Laurel. He pulled the material taut so the back of the shirt could be inspected. The tattered hole was clearly visible now. “Mea culpa,” he said. “My fault. I should have examined his clothing at the outset.” He replaced the shirt and lifted Josey Pye by the shoulder, turning him just enough to see the lead ball’s entry. “There you are.” He pointed to the puckered tissue with his probe. “The minié ball entered here”—Singer lowered Pye so he was once again lying flat on the table and carefully ran his probe along the rib closest to where he’d located the bullet—“and nicked this rib right here, which slowed it down and changed the trajectory, and then lodged in the pectoral muscle.”
“Not a fatal wound, surely,” said Laurel. “The bullet missed his heart and lungs.”
“With proper care, Mr. Pye might have survived. It’s hard to say. I’ve known men who survived far worse, but there was no intention of saving Mr. Pye. The shooter meant for him to die, perhaps even thought he had.” He wiped off his scalpel and returned it to his bag before he addressed Call. “You said you were up above the falls.”
Call stopped writing and put the pencil behind his ear. “That’s right.”
“Did you see evidence of blood?”
“No. We’ve had enough rain since Mr. Pye’s disappearance to wash it away. Why? What are you thinking?”
Singer snapped the shirt and laid it over Pye’s body. He used his probe to outline the faint bloodstain that had blossomed on the back. “The force of the bullet should have made him fall forward, but this stain suggests that at some point he turned on his back, perhaps on his own, perhaps with help. However it occurred, the position contributed to his death through blood loss.” The doctor used his probe again to indicate the discoloration around Pye’s wrists and ankles. “He was bound hands and feet. The bruising suggests he struggled, so he was still alive at that point, though I doubt he had long. That evidence that Miss Morrison said you found... it wasn’t a pair of socks and boots, was it?”
Call shook his head. “No.”
Laurel frowned. “Why did you ask—” She stopped, realizing the obvious and feeling foolish she hadn’t thought about it earlier. “Oh. Mr. Pye wouldn’t have marks on his ankles if he’d been bound wearing his boots.”
“Precisely,” said Singer.
Call said, “So the killer took them. If they were a good pair, maybe he’s wearing them now.”
“I don’t think we should pin our hopes on that,” said Laurel. “We can ask Rooster and the boys about Mr. Pye’s boots, but isn’t it more likely they were taken to discard?”
“Pitched over the falls?” asked the doctor.
“Doubtful,” said Call. “They would have turned up before Pye’s body, and he wasn’t meant to be discovered. Can you tell us how long he’d been in the drink?”
“Time of death? No. The best I can tell you is that it’s been weeks, not days.”
“So it could have happened soon after the robbery,” said Laurel. “Pye might never have left the area. Rooster and I took the trail after him, and it never occurred to me that he might still be around. As for the path that goes to the top of the falls, I didn’t realize he knew it existed.”
Call could see Laurel was working up to blaming herself. Before their conversation at the corral, he would havesaid something to reassure her. Now he remained silent. “Is there anything else you can tell us, Dr. Singer?”
He shook his head. “I’m about done here. Can you tell me about the evidence you found at the top of the falls?”
Call glanced over his shoulder to where Theo Beckley was still loitering in the hallway. The undertaker might not have been interested in the doctor’s procedure, but he was certainly interested in the conversation. Call shook his head and had to hope that Laurel would not speak up.
She did, but not in a way that undermined Call. “Perhaps at another time. When this business is concluded.”
Singer accepted that. “I understand that Mr. Pye left the station in the middle of the night. Correct?” When Call and Laurel nodded, he went on. “I’m assuming you both understand that it was daylight when Mr. Pye was shot. Depending on the shooter’s skill, the Springfield rifle loaded with a minié ball is accurate up to three hundred yards.”
“Four hundred,” said Call.
“Four hundred,” the doctor repeated. “I yield to your expertise. My point is that no one shoots at a target like Mr. Pye at night. Daybreak, yes, with only a light wind.”
Call nodded. Knowing about the bullet meant he could go back to the top of the falls and confidently widen his search. He couldn’t say what he would be looking for, not precisely, but it seemed likely the killer left some trace of his passing. Another proverbial needle in a haystack, but with patience and some luck, even a needle could occasionally be found.
Dr. Singer addressed the undertaker. “We’re done here, Mr. Beckley. Thank you for the use of your workshop. We’ll leave you to it now.” He returned the probe to his bag. “Is there somewhere I can wash my hands?”
“There’s a pump in the kitchen.” He pointed the way.
