Free Snow Falling on Cedars by David Guterson Page A

okay,’ answered Abel. He stood looking into the sink with his handkerchief in his hand and leaned hard against the counter.
    Horace showed the sheriff three fragments of the deceased’s skull that had lodged in the tissue of his brain. ‘That what killed him?’ Art asked.
    ‘That’s complicated,’ answered Horace Whaley. ‘Could be he took a hit to the head, then went over the side and drowned.Or maybe he hit his head after he drowned. Or while he was drowning. I don’t know for sure.’
    ‘Can you find out?’
    ‘Maybe.’
    ‘When?’
    ‘I have to look inside his chest, Art. At his heart and lungs. And even that might not tell me much.’
    ‘His chest?’
    ‘That’s right.’
    ‘What’re the possibilities?’ said the sheriff.
    ‘Possibilities?’ said Horace Whaley. ‘All kinds of possibilities, Art. Anything could have happened, and all kinds of things do happen. I mean, maybe he had a heart attack that pitched him over the side. Maybe a stroke, maybe alcohol. But all I want to know just now is did he get knocked in the head first and then go over? Because I know from this foam’ – he pointed at it with his scalpel – ‘that Carl went in breathing. He was respiratory when he hit the water. So my guess right now is that he drowned, Art. With the head wound an obvious contributing factor. Banged himself on a fairlead, maybe. Setting his net and got a little careless – hung up his buckle and went over. I’m inclined to put all that in my report just now. But I don’t know for sure yet. Maybe when I see his heart and lungs everything is going to change.’
    Art Moran stood rubbing his lip and blinked hard at Horace Whaley. ‘That bang to the head,’ he said. ‘That bang to the head is sort of … funny, you know?’
    Horace Whaley nodded. ‘Could be,’ he said.
    ‘Couldn’t it be somebody hit him?’ asked the sheriff. ‘Isn’t that a possibility?’
    ‘You want to play Sherlock Holmes?’ asked Horace. ‘You going to play detective?’
    ‘Not really. But Sherlock Holmes isn’t here, is he? And this wound in Carl’s head is.’
    ‘That’s true,’ said Horace. ‘You got that part right.’
    Then – and afterward he would remember this, during thetrial of Kabuo Miyamoto, Horace Whaley would recall having spoken these words (though he would not repeat them on the witness stand) – he said to Art Moran that if he were inclined to play Sherlock Holmes he ought to start looking for a Jap with a bloody gun butt – a right-handed Jap, to be precise.

6
    Horace Whaley scratched the birthmark on his forehead and watched the falling snow beyond the courtroom windows. It was coming harder now, much harder, wind whipped and silent, though the wind could be heard pushing against the beams in the courthouse attic. My pipes, thought Horace. They’ll freeze.
    Nels Gudmundsson rose a second time, slipped his thumbs behind his suspenders, and noted with his one good eye that Judge Lew Fielding appeared half-asleep and was leaning heavily on the palm of his left hand, as he had throughout Horace’s testimony. He was listening, Nels knew; his tired demeanor shielded an active mind from view. The judge liked to mull things soporifically.
    Nels, as best he could – he had arthritis in his hips and knees – made his way to the witness stand. ‘Horace,’ he said. ‘Good morning.’
    ‘Morning, Nels,’ answered the coroner.
    ‘You’ve said quite a bit,’ Nels Gudmundsson pointed out. ‘You’ve told the court in detail about your autopsy of the deceased, your fine background as a medical examiner, and so forth, as you’ve been asked to do. And I’ve been listening to you, Horace, like everybody else here. And – well – I’m troubled by a couple of matters.’ He stopped and pinched his chin between his fingers.
    ‘Go ahead,’ urged Horace Whaley.
    ‘Well, for example, this foam ,’ said Nels. ‘I’m not sure I understand about that, Horace.’
    ‘The foam?’
    ‘You’ve