The Enemy

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