Free Snow Falling on Cedars by David Guterson

graceful curve. In this manner he was able to peel back the dead man’s face as though it were the skin of a grapefruit or an orange and turn his forehead inside out so that it rested against his nose.
    Horace peeled down the back of the head, too, then lay his scalpel in the sink, rinsed his gloves, dried them, and brought out a hacksaw from his instrument cupboard.
    He set about the work of sawing through the dead man’s skullcap. After twenty minutes it became necessary to turn thebody over, and so with reluctance Horace crossed the hall to Abel Martinson, who sat in a chair doing nothing at all, his legs crossed, his hat in his lap.
    ‘Need a hand,’ said the coroner.
    The deputy rose and put his hat on his head. ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘Glad to help.’
    ‘You won’t be glad,’ said Horace. ‘I’ve made an incision across , the top of his head. His skull is exposed. It isn’t pretty.’
    ‘Okay,’ said the deputy. ‘Thanks for telling me.’
    They went in and without speaking turned the body over, Abel Martinson pushing from one side, the coroner reaching across and pulling from the other, and then, with his head hung over the sink, Abel Martinson vomited. He was dabbing his mouth with the corner of his handkerchief when Art Moran came through the door. ‘Now what?’ asked the sheriff.
    Abel, in answer, pointed a finger at Carl Heine’s corpse. ‘I puked again,’ he said.
    Art Moran looked at Carl’s face turned inside out, the skin of it peeled back like a grape, a bloody foam that looked like shaving cream clinging to his chin. Then he turned away from seeing it.
    ‘Me, too,’ said Abel Martinson. ‘I got no stomach for this neither.’
    ‘I’m not blaming you,’ the sheriff answered. ‘Jesus H. Christ. Jesus Christ .’
    But he stood there watching anyway while Horace, in his surgical gown, worked methodically with his hacksaw. He watched while Horace removed the dead man’s skullcap and placed it beside the dead man’s shoulder.
    ‘This is called the dura mater.’ Horace pointed with his scalpel. ‘This membrane here? Right under his skull? This right here is the dura mater.’
    He took the dead man’s head between his hands and with some effort – the ligaments of the neck were extremely rigid – twisted it to the left.
    ‘Come over here, Art,’ he said.
    The sheriff seemed aware of the necessity of doing so; nevertheless, he didn’t move. Certainly, thought Horace, he had learned in his work that there were distasteful moments about which he had no choice. In the face of these it was best to move quickly and without reservations, as Horace himself did as a matter of principle. But the sheriff was a man of inherited anxieties. It was not really in him to go over there and see what was under Carl Heine’s face.
    Horace Whaley knew this: that the sheriff did not want to see what was inside of Carl Heine’s head. Horace had seen Art this way before, chewing his Juicy Fruit and grimacing, rubbing his lips with the ball of his thumb and squinting while he thought things over. ‘It’ll just take a minute,’ Horace urged him. ‘One quick look, Art. So you can see what we’re up against. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.’
    Horace indicated for Art Moran the blood that had clotted in the dura mater and the tear in it where the piece of brain protruded. ‘He got hit pretty hard with something fairly flat, Art. Puts me in mind of a type of gun butt wound I saw a few times in the war. One of those kendo strikes the Japs used.’
    ‘ Kendo ?’ said Art Moran.
    ‘Stick fighting,’ Horace explained. ‘Japs are trained in it from when they’re kids. How to kill with sticks.’
    ‘Ugly,’ said the sheriff. ‘Jesus.’
    ‘Look away,’ said Horace. ‘I’m going to cut through the dura mater now. I want you to see something else.’
    The sheriff turned his back deliberately. ‘You’re pale,’ he said to Abel Martinson. ‘Why don’t you go sit down?’
    ‘I’m