Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 100, Nos. 4 & 5. Whole Nos. 603 & 604, October 1992

“Oh, for certain.” The lemonade in one hand, he started flipping through a manilla folder. “Though he wasn’t a regular dental visitor, his teeth match right up to a T. According to his records, his left clavicle — collarbone, to you uninitiated — was broken when he was in high school, and what you found in the front yard’s got the same fracture. So, yeah, I’d say that’s Henry Hanson.”

Victor pulled out a notebook, started making some notes. “Thanks, Doc.”

Fernald tipped back his lemonade. “Sure, but I knew it was Henry Hanson within five minutes of seeing him.”

Victor stopped writing, looked up in surprise. “You did? How?”

The medical examiner grinned again. “Found a wet lump of leather and stuff and when I pulled it apart, saw it was his wallet, and stuck there in its plastic seal was his driver’s license. Ugly son-of-a-bitch, I’d say, from his picture. Overweight, too.”

“That your famous second opinion?”

“Yeah, and one more thing.” Fernald put down the lemonade, picked up the folder. “You mentioned something about looking for damage in the skull and neck area.”

Victor said, “That’s right. The son said his mom took a Louisville slugger to the back of Dad’s head.”

Fernald shook his head. “If she did, it must’ve been made of foam rubber.”

Something cold started to tickle at Victor’s forehead. “What do you mean, doc?”

He shrugged. “Means Henry Hanson didn’t die from a blow to his head. His skull and neck are in fine shape, Victor. Pristine, I’d guess. The only injury that’s there is the old collarbone fracture.”

“Then what the hell killed him?”

Fernald ruefully shook the empty lemonade container. “Victor, I’m a medical examiner, not a bloody fortuneteller. You drop a pile of bones and clothing that’s been rotting in someone’s front yard for five years. You tell me he died from blows to his head. I’m telling you he didn’t. There’s no damage that suggests anything — no fractures associated with gunshot wounds, or damage to the ribs from a knife attack.”

“Great.” He folded up his notebook, realizing with an ache that he had a long drive back to Norwich, with not much to show for it.

“So. Which one?”

“Hunh?”

Fernald swung about in his chair and pointed up to the skulls. “Which one is real?”

“Oh. The one on the right, Doc.”

His face fell. “How did you know?”

“I’m a cop. Got any more questions?”

The next day Victor was in the corner booth of Mona’s Diner, on Route 4, leading out of town. From there he could see out a floor-to-ceiling window, looking over the Norwich Valley, right on the western edge of the White Mountains. The valley was dark green today, with even darker shadows racing across the trees and fields from the clouds overhead. In his thirty years living and working in Norwich, he had never tired of this view.

The breakfast dishes had been cleared away save for cups of coffee, and across the table from him Rachel Adair stirred in another Sweet’n’Low, her red fingernails bright against the tarnished spoon. She wore a blue dress with a faint floral pattern, snuggly fit. Around her neck and one wrist she wore gold chains, and her tinted-blonde hair reflected the morning sunlight. Her briefcase was beside her on the counter.

“I tell you, Chief, you’re too good for this town. You ought to get into the state police, or go to Massachusetts and pick up some additional schooling. Maybe even the FBI academy.”

He frowned as he took a sip from his mug. There were only a few other customers here this morning, and most of them were at the long counter running down one side, where Mona held court. “Counselor, I barely keep ahead of what goes on in Norwich. My mind would be spinning within five minutes of leaving here.”

“You barely keep ahead because you’re a one-man department. You ought to lean on the selectmen to get you more help.”

“One-man department means I know what’s going on. And I lean too hard on the board, they may replace me with someone a little less noisy.”

Rachel drank from her cup, leaving a trace of lipstick on the mug. “They wouldn’t be that stupid, hill people as they may be.”

“Don’t get into that hill people crap.”

She smiled. “You’re mad because you know it’s true. You and I both grew up in the valley, relatively well-off. It’s tough up in those hills. Little farms and mobile homes, miles up on dirt roads, no neighbors, electricity going out in every bad storm, late at night and in the winter. I don’t care how good you are, Chief, you can’t know what’s going on up there all the time.”

“Like the Hanson family, for instance.”

Returning the coffee cup to the counter, she said, “That’s my case and it’d be prejudicial if I discussed it with you. But let me tell you a story that might give you some insight.”

“A hypothetical story?”

“Aren’t those the best kind?”

“Go ahead.”

Rachel folded her hands before her. “Let’s say — hypothetically, of course — you’re a hill woman married to an abusive man. His name is Henry.”

Victor said, “Some coincidence.”