Free Murder on High by Stefanie Matteson Page B

he blabbed to the press,” he whispered, a look of consternation on his usually genial face.
    Nodding affirmatively to the journalist’s question, the M.E. explained that the unusual amount of blood had been caused by the arrow hitting the carotid artery. He then went on to describe the nature of the crushing injury that had occurred at the juncture of the cervical and thoracic vertebrae.
    “Dr. Clough, wouldn’t one of the other hikers on the Knife Edge or on Baxter Peak have noticed someone carrying a bow and a quiver full of arrows?” asked another reporter.
    “That would be true of a longbow,” Dr. Clough replied. “But not of a crossbow.” Returning to the stand, he reached into his bag and pulled out a weapon the likes of which Charlotte had never seen. “Especially one like this,” he said, holding it up. “For those of you who are unfamiliar with it, this is a pistol crossbow.”
    Tracey let out a long, low whistle.
    “Basically, it’s a cross between a bow and a pistol: a short, powerful bow mounted at right angles on the forward portion of a pistol body. Fourteen inches long, collapsible”—he demonstrated by folding the limbs up, and sliding the stock into the body—“and neatly fitted into a carryall.”
    “What’s the range?” asked one of the board members.
    “Thirty to forty yards.” Pulling the weapon back out, Clough opened it up. “This one’s fitted with a rear notch sight and an adjustable front pin sight,” he said, pointing the sights out to his audience, “but they can also be fitted with scopes.”
    The journalists, no longer skeptical, were writing furiously.
    Holding the weapon at arm’s length by its pistol-type grip, which resembled that of a military weapon, Dr. Clough sighted a bead on an imaginary target, and pulled the trigger. “As accurate and deadly as a pistol, but with the advantage of making very little noise.”
    “Aren’t crossbows illegal in the state of Maine?” asked one of the television journalists.
    Tracey leaned over to whisper again in Charlotte’s ear. “Since when does a weapon’s being illegal mean that criminals don’t use it?”
    “Illegal to hunt with, but not to possess,” Dr. Clough said. “I got this one at a local sporting goods store. The clerk described it as looking like a gun and shooting like a bow, but in my opinion, he should have said that it looks like a bow and shoots like a gun.” Bending over, he reached into his bag again and pulled out an arrow, which was about eight inches long. “This is the arrow,” he said, holding it up. “It’s called a bolt, or a quarrel.”
    “Can you spell that, please?” asked one of the reporters.
    “Q-u-a-r-r-e-l,” he said. “Like an argument. Maybe that’s where the word comes from. Anyway, this is a target bolt made from high-strength drawn aluminum alloy.” He pointed to the tip. “The point has been fitted with an ordinary cartridge shell to create a blunt head.”
    He nodded to the projectionist, and an enlargement of the point appeared on one half of a divided screen, and a close-up of the entrance wound on the other. “As you can see, the shape of the point corresponds exactly to that of the entrance wound. Judging from the fact that the bolt didn’t go all the way through the victim’s neck, I’d guess that the victim was shot from some distance, let’s say about forty yards.”
    “Would it be correct to say that the murderer would have to be a good shot?” asked one of the board members.
    “I would say so, yes,” Dr. Clough replied. “It requires a lot less skill to hit the bull’s-eye with a crossbow than with a conventional longbow, because the speed of the bolt is much greater, but …”
    “How great?” interrupted the chairman.
    “The bolt speed of this model is two hundred and eighty feet per second.”
    “That’s almost as fast as a bullet, isn’t it?” asked the park supervisor.
    “About a third of the muzzle velocity of a .38 calibre