The Assassin by Clive Cussler (epub ebook reader .txt) 📕

Mr. Hopewell?”

“I’ve already spoken with him. I’m curious about the death of Albert Hill.”

“The refinery fellow,” Dr. McGrade told the jailer, “who drowned in the still.”

The jailer sipped and nodded. “Down in Coffeyville.”

Bell asked, “When you examined Mr. Hill’s body, did you see any signs of bullet wounds?”

“Bullet wounds? You must be joking.”

“I am not joking. Did you see any bullet wounds?”

“Why don’t you read my report from the inquest.”

“I already have, at the courthouse.”

“Well, heck, then you know Mr. Hill tumbled into a still of boiling oil. By the time someone noticed and fished him out, about all that was left was his skeleton and belt buckle. The rest of him dissolved . . .” He paused for a broad wink. “Now, this wasn’t in my report: His belt buckle looked fine.”

“How about his bones? Were any broken?”

“Fractured femur. Long knitted. Must have busted his leg when he was a kid.”

“No holes in his skull?”

“Just the ones God put there for us all to see and hear and breathe and eat and whatnot.”

“And no damage to the vertebrae in his neck?”

“That I can’t say for sure.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t understand what this has to do with the Corporations Commission . . .”

Bell saw no reason not to take the coroner and the jailer into his confidence. If the word got around, someone might come to him with more information about Albert Hill. He said, “Seeing as how Mr. Hopewell was shot while I was discussing the commission investigation with him, I am interested in running down the truth about the deaths of other independent oil men.”

“O.K. I get your point.”

“Why can’t you say for sure whether the vertebrae in Mr. Hill’s neck suffered damage?”

“I didn’t find all of them. The discs and cartilage between them must have dissolved and the bones scattered.”

“That wasn’t in your report.”

“It did not seem pertinent to the cause of death.”

“Did that happen to the vertebrae in his spine?”

“What do you mean?”

“Did his thoracic and lumbar vertebrae separate and ‘scatter’ the way you’re assuming his cervical vertebrae did?”

The doctor fell silent. Then he said, “Now that you ask, no. The spine was intact. As was most of the neck.”

“Most?”

“Two vertebrae were attached to the skull. Four were still connected to the spine—the thoracic vertebrae.”

“How many cervical vertebrae are there in the human skeleton? Seven?”

“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 attached 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.”

“I have read it.”

“Then you know that Reed Riggs was mangled beyond recognition after falling off a railroad platform under a locomotive.”

“Yes. But—”

“But what?”

“Nothing in your written report indicates that you did any more than write down what the railroad police told you—that Mr. Riggs fell under the locomotive that rolled over him.”

“What are you implying?”

“I am not implying,” said Isaac Bell, “I am saying forthrightly and clearly—to your face, Doctor—that you did not examine Mr. Riggs’ body.”

“It was a mutilated heap of flesh and bone. He fell under a locomotive. What do you expect?”

“I expect a public official who is paid to determine the cause of a citizen’s death to look beyond the obvious.”

“Now, listen to me, Mr. Private Detective.”

“No, Doctor, you listen to me! I want you to look at that body again.”

“It’s been buried two weeks.”

“Dig it up!”

The coroner rose to his feet. He was nearly as tall as Isaac Bell and forty pounds heavier. “I’ll give you fair warning, mister, get lost while you still can. I paid my way through medical school with money I won in the prize ring.”

Isaac shrugged out of his coat and removed his hat. “As we have no gloves, I presume you’ll accommodate me with bare knuckles?”

—

“What did you do to your hand?” asked Archie Abbott.

“Cut it shaving,” said Bell. “What do you think of that water tank?”

They were pacing Fort Scott’s St. Louis–San Francisco Railway station platform where refiner Reed Riggs had fallen to his death. “Possible,” said Archie, imagining a rifle shot from the top of a tank in the Frisco train yard to where they stood on the platform. “I also like that signal tower. In fact, I like it better. Good angle from the roof.”

“Except how did he climb up there without the dispatchers noticing?”

“Climbed up in the dark while a train rumbled by.”

“How’d he get down?”

“Waited for night.”

“But what if he missed his shot and someone noticed him? He would be trapped with no escape.”

“You’re sure that Riggs was shot?”

“No,” said Bell, “not positive. There’s definitely a hole in his skull. In a piece of the temporal bone, which wasn’t shattered. But it could have been pierced by something other than a bullet. Banged against a railroad spike or a chunk of gravel.”

“What did the coroner think?”

“He was inclined to