On, Off. Colleen McCullough

      “Professor of Neurology in the medical school. When the Hug was opened in 1950 he wanted to head it, but our benefactor, the late William Parson, was adamant that his Chair should go to a man experienced in epilepsy and mental retardation. As Watson’s field is demyelinating diseases, naturally he wasn’t suitable. I told Mr. Parson that he ought to have chosen an easier name than Hughlings Jackson, but he was determined. Oh, a very determined man, always! Of course one expects to see the name abbreviated, but I had thought it would be the Hughlings, or the Hugh. However, Frank Watson had a small revenge. He thought it terribly clever to call it the Hug, and the name stuck. Stuck!”

      “Exactly who was or is Hughlings Jackson, sir?”

      “A pioneer British neurologist, Lieutenant. His wife had a slow-growing tumor on the motor strip—the gyrus anterior to the Fissure of Rolando that represents the cortical end of the body’s voluntary motor function—muscles, that is.”

      I do not understand a single word of this, Carmine thought as the level voice continued, but does he care? No.

      “Mrs. Jackson’s epileptic seizures were of a very curious kind,” the Prof went on. “They were limited to one side of her body, started on one side of her face, marched down to the arm and hand on that same side, and finally involved the leg. They are still known as Jacksonian marches. From them Jackson put together the first hypotheses about motor function, that each part of the body had its own invariable place in the cerebral cortex. However, what fascinated people was the indefatigable way that he sat beside his dying wife’s bed hour after hour, taking notes on her seizures with the most minute attention to detail. The researcher par excellence.”

      “Pretty heartless, if you ask me,” said Carmine.

      “I prefer to call it dedication,” Smith said icily.

      Carmine rose. “No one can leave this building unless I give them permission. That means you too, sir. There are police on the entrances, including the tunnel. I suggest you say nothing about what’s happened to anyone.”

      “But we have no cafeteria!” said the Prof blankly. “What can the staff do about lunch if they don’t bring it from home?”

      “One of the police can take orders and bring food back.” He paused in the doorway to look back. “I’m afraid we’ll have to take fingerprints from everyone here. An inconvenience worse than lunch, but I’m sure you understand.”

      

      The Holloman County Medical Examiner’s offices, laboratories and morgue were located in the County Services building, which also housed the Holloman Police Department.

      When Carmine entered the morgue he found two pieces of a female torso fitted together and laid out on a steel autopsy table.

      “Well nourished, a part-colored female about sixteen years of age,” Patrick said. “He plucked the mons Veneris before introducing the first of several implements—might be dildoes, might be penis sheaths—hard to tell. She’s been raped many times by increasingly large objects, but I doubt she died of that. There’s so little blood in what we have of the body that I suspect she was bled out the way you would an animal for slaughter on a farm. No arms or hands, no legs or feet, and no head. These two pieces have been scrupulously washed. Thus far I’ve found no traces of semen, but there’s so much contusion and swelling up there—she’s been anally raped too—that I’ll need a microscope. My personal bet is that there will be no semen. He’s gloved and probably used his sheaths as condoms. If he comes at all.”

      The girl’s skin was that lovely color called café au lait, despite its bleached bloodlessness. Her hips swelled, her waist was small, her breasts beautiful. As far as Carmine could see, she bore no insults outside the pubic area—no bruises, slashes, cuts, bites, burns. But without the arms and legs, there was no way to tell if or how she had been tied down.

      “She looks like a child to me,” he said. “Not a big girl.”

      “I’d say about five-one, tops. The second most interesting thing,” Patrick went on, “is that the dismemberment has been done by a real professional. One sweep with something like a filleting knife or a post mortem scalpel, and look at the thigh and shoulder joints—disarticulation without force or trauma.” He pulled the two sections of torso apart. “The transverse section was done just below the diaphragm. The cardia of the stomach has been ligated to prevent leakage of the contents, and the esophagus has been ligated too. Disarticulation of the spinal column is just as professional as the joints. No blood in the aorta or the vena cava. However,” he said, pointing to the neck, “her throat was cut some hours before he removed her head. Jugulars incised, but not carotids. She would have bled out slowly, no spurting. Hung upside down, of course. When he took her head, he separated it at the C–4 to C–5 junction of the spine, which gave him a small amount of neck as well as the entire skull.”

      “I wish we had the arms and legs at least, Patsy.”

      “So do I, but I suspect they went into the fridge yesterday, together with the head.”

      Carmine spoke so positively that Patrick jumped. “Oh, no! He’s still got her head. He won’t part with that.”

      “Carmine! That kind of thing doesn’t happen! Or if it does, it’s some maniac west of the Rockies. This is Connecticut!”

      “He’s still got the head, no matter where he comes from.”

      “I’d say he works at the Hug, or if not at the Hug, then at some other part of the medical school,” Patrick said.

      “A butcher? A slaughterman?”

      “Possible.”

      “You said, the second most important thing, Patsy. What’s the first?”

      “Here.” Patrick turned the lower torso over and pointed to the right buttock, where a heart-shaped scab about an inch long showed dark and crusted against the flawless skin. “At first I thought he had cut it there on purpose—heart, love, that kind of thing. But he made no template incision around the edge. It’s simply one neat transverse slice, the way I’ve seen a knife-man slice off a woman’s nipple. So I wondered if she’d had a nevus there, a birthmark raised well above the surface of the skin.”

      “Something that offended him, destroyed her perfection,” said Carmine thoughtfully. “Who knows? Maybe he didn’t know she had it until he got her to wherever he did his nasty things to her. Depends if he picked her up or knew her previously. Any idea about her racial background?”

      “No idea, other than that she’s more Caucasian than anything else. Some Negroid or Mongoloid blood, or both.”

      “Are you picking that she’s a prostitute?”

      “Without arms to look for needle tracks, Carmine, difficult, but this girl is—I don’t know, healthy looking. I’d search the Missing Persons files.”

      “Oh, I intend to,” said Carmine, and went back to the Hug. Where to begin, given that Otis Green couldn’t be questioned until tomorrow at the earliest? Cecil Potter, then.

      “This is a real good job,” Cecil said, sitting on a steel chair with Jimmy on his knee, and apparently indifferent to the fact that the macaque was busy grooming Cecil’s hair, picking with delicate fingers through its dense closeness in a kind of intent ecstasy. Jimmy, he had explained, was still very upset over his ordeal. Carmine would have found the entire bizarre sight easier to cope with if the big monkey hadn’t been wearing half a tennis ball on top of his head; this, said Cecil, was to protect the electrode assembly implanted in his brain and the bright green female connector embedded in pink dental cement on his skull. Not that the half a tennis ball seemed to worry Jimmy; he ignored it.

      “What makes the job so good?” Carmine asked, aware that his belly was rumbling. Everyone at the Hug had been fed, but thus far Carmine had missed out on breakfast and lunch.

      “I’m the boss,” Cecil said. “When I worked over in P.P. I was just one more