“Seven.”
“So we’re missing only one.”
The doctor nodded. “One. Down in the bottom of the still. Dissolved by now, of course. Distilled into fuel oil, or kerosene or gasoline, even lubricants.”
“But . . .”
“But what, Mr. Bell?”
“Doesn’t it make you curious?”
“About what?”
“You say two cervical vertebrae were still attac
hed to the skull. So the missing vertebra would be cervical number three, wouldn’t it?”
“Three it was.”
“Wouldn’t you love to get a gander at cervical two and cervical four?”
“Not really.”
“I would.”
“Why?”
“Let’s assume that instead of the disc cartilage dissolving, something knocked cervical three clean out of Mr. Hill’s vertebral column.”
“Like what?” asked the coroner, then answered his own question. “. . . Like a bullet.”
“You’re right,” said Isaac Bell. “It could have been a bullet . . . Aren’t you tempted to have a look?”
“The man’s already buried in the ground.”
Bell said, “I’d still be tempted to have a look.”
“I’m strictly against disinterring bodies. It’s just a mess of a job.”
“But this poor fellow was just a heap of bones.”
Dr. McGrade nodded. “That’s true. Those bones looked polished like he’d passed a hundred years ago.”
“Good point,” said Bell. “Why don’t we have a look?”
“I can lend you shovels,” said the jailer.
—
The coroner at Fort Scott, a railroad town where several lines converged, was a powerfully built young doctor with a chip on his shoulder.
Isaac Bell asked, “Did you see any bullet wounds?”
“Of course not.”
“Why do you say ‘of course not’?”
“Read my testimony to the coroner’s jury.”