The Keepsake

Registering the significance of that description, Maura glanced up at him. “Did you say both?”

Robinson nodded. “According to these records, there are only two in the collection.”

“Could a third have been added later, but never recorded?”

“Certainly. That’s one of the issues we’ve been struggling with, our incomplete records. That’s why I began the inventory, so I could finally get a handle on what we have.”

Maura frowned at the three shrunken heads. “So now the question is, which one is the new addition? And how recent is it?”

“I’m betting on her being the new one.” Jane pointed to the tsantsa with the bobbed hair. “I swear I saw a haircut just like that on my barista this morning.”

“First of all,” said Robinson, “it’s almost impossible to tell, just by appearance, if a tsantsa is male or female. Shrinking the head distorts the features and makes the sexes look alike. Second, the hair of some traditional tsantsas may be cut short like that one. They’re unusual, but the haircut doesn’t really tell us anything.”

“So how do you tell a traditional shrunken head from a modern copy?” asked Maura.

“You will permit me to handle them?” Robinson asked.

“Yes, of course.”

He crossed to the cabinet to get gloves and pulled them on as deliberately as a doctor about to perform delicate surgery. This man would be meticulous no matter what his profession, Maura thought. She could not remember any medical school classmate more exacting than Nicholas Robinson.

“First,” he said, “I should explain what constitutes a genuine Jivaro tsantsa. It was one of my particular interests, so I know a bit about them. The Jivaro people live along the border between Ecuador and Peru, and they regularly raid each other’s tribes. Warriors will take anyone’s head-men, women, children.”

“Why take the heads?” asked Jane.

“It has to do with their concept of the soul. They believe that people can have up to three different types of souls. There’s an ordinary soul, which is what everyone possesses at birth. Then there’s an ancient vision soul, and it’s something you have to earn through ceremonial efforts. It gives you special powers. If someone earns an ancient vision soul, and then he’s murdered, he transforms into the third kind-an avenging soul, who will pursue his killer. The only way to stop an avenging soul from exacting retribution is to cut off the head and turn it into a tsantsa. ”

“How do you make a tsantsa?” Jane looked down at the three doll-sized heads. “I just don’t see how you can shrink a human head down to something that small.”

“Accounts of the process are contradictory, but most reports agree on a few key steps. Because of the tropical environment, the process had to be started immediately after death. You take the severed head and slice open the scalp in a straight line, from the crown all the way to the base of the neck. Then you peel the skin away from the bone. It actually comes off quite easily.”

Maura looked at Jane. “You’ve seen me do almost the same thing at autopsy. I peel the scalp away from the skull. But my incision goes across the crown, ear to ear.”

“Yeah, and that’s the part that always grosses me out,” said Jane. “Especially when you peel it over the face.”

“Oh yes. The face,” said Robinson. “The Jivaro peel that off, too. It takes skill, but the face comes off, along with the scalp, all in one piece. What you have, then, is a mask of human skin. They turn it inside out and scrape it clean. Then the eyelids are sewn shut.” He lifted one of the tsantsas and pointed to the almost invisible stitches. “See how delicately it’s been done, leaving the eyelashes looking completely natural? This is really skillful work.”

Was that a note of admiration in his voice? Maura wondered. Robinson did not seem to notice the uneasy looks that Maura and Jane exchanged; he was focused entirely on the craftsmanship that had turned human skin into an archaeological oddity.

He turned the tsantsa over to look at the neck, which was merely a leathery tube. Coarse stitches ran up the back of the neck and the scalp, where they were almost hidden by the thick hair. “After the skin is removed from the skull,” he continued, “it’s simmered in water and plant juices, to melt away the last of the fat. When every last bit of flesh and fat is scraped away, it all gets turned right-side out again, and the incision in the back of the head is sewn up, as you can see here. The lips are fastened together using three sharpened wooden skewers. The nostrils and ears are plugged with cotton. At this point, it’s just a floppy sack of skin, so they stuff hot stones and sand into the cavity to sear the skin. Then it’s rubbed with charcoal and hung over smoke, until the skin shrinks down to the consistency of leather. This whole process doesn’t take long. Probably not more than a week.”

“And what do they do with it?” asked Jane.

“They come home to their tribe with their preserved trophies and celebrate with a feast and ritual dances. They wear their tsantsas like necklaces, hung by a cord around the warrior’s neck. A year later, there’s a second feast, to transfer the power from the victim’s spirit. Finally, a month after that, there’s a third celebration. That’s when the last touches are performed. They take the three wooden skewers out of the lips and thread cotton string through the holes and braid it. And they add the ear ornaments. From then on, the heads are seen as bragging rights. Whenever the warrior wants to display his manhood, he wears his tsantsa around his neck.”

Jane gave a disbelieving laugh. “Just like guys today, with their gold chains. What is it with macho men and necklaces?”

Maura surveyed the three tsantsas on the table. All were of similar size. All had braided lip strings and delicately sutured eyelids. “I’m afraid I can’t see any difference among these three heads. They all appear skillfully crafted.”

“They are,” said Robinson. “But there’s one important difference. And I’m not talking about the haircut.” He turned and looked at Josephine, who had been standing silently at the foot of the table. “Can you see what I’m talking about?”

The young woman hesitated, loath to step any closer. Then she pulled on gloves and moved to the table. She picked up the heads one by one and studied each under the light. At last she picked up a head with long hair and beetle-wing ornaments. “This one isn’t Jivaro,” she said.

Robinson nodded. “I agree.”

“Because of the earrings?” asked Maura.

“No. Earrings like those are traditional,” said Robinson.

“Then what made you choose that particular one, Dr. Pulcillo?” said Maura. “It looks pretty much like the other two.”

Josephine stared down at the head in question, and her black hair spilled over her shoulders, the strands as dark and glossy as the tsantsa ’s, the colors so eerily similar they could have blended one into the other. Just for an instant, Maura had the unsettling impression that she was staring at the same head, before and after. Josephine alive, Josephine dead. Was that why the young woman was so reluctant to touch it? Did she see herself in those shriveled features?

“It’s the lips,” said Josephine.

Maura shook her head. “I don’t see any difference. All three have their lips sewn shut with cotton thread.”

“It has to do with Jivaro ritual. What Nicholas just said.”

“Which part?”

“That the wooden pegs are eventually removed from the lips and cotton string is threaded through the holes.”

“All three of these have cotton thread.”

“Yes, but it doesn’t happen until the third feast. Over a year after the kill.”

“She’s absolutely right,” said Robinson, looking pleased that his young colleague had picked up on precisely the detail he’d wanted her to notice. “The lip pegs, Dr. Isles! When they’re left in for a whole year, they leave gaping holes behind.”