Pictures were a better option, but not by much. She took an unsteady breath. Someone had to help the police, and it was obvious that someone wouldn’t be her boss. “All right.”

Jackson slid three photos from a yellow clasp envelope and spread them out on the director’s desk. The images were zoomed in so closely that at first she wasn’t sure what she was seeing. Plus, the skin was dark . . .

Louisa put on her glasses. Oh God. That was a person’s skin.

“The marks are hard to see.” Jackson pulled a small magnifying glass from his pocket. “They’re very small, and the body was burned.”

The graphic mental image that followed his statement dimmed her vision for a fraction of a second. Knife wounds. Charred skin. She was accustomed to seeing blade marks on bones that had been buried for a thousand years. Time provided distance. But this . . .

These wounds were here and now. They screamed pain and fear and violence.

Jackson hovered the glass over the tiny purplish blotches. “These bruising patterns are what we’re interested in. They look like spirals and something else.”

Louisa closed her eyes to the gruesome images and took a single deep breath. She lifted her eyelids and studied the marks, trying to detach herself from the pictures as if studying a recently unearthed bone. It didn’t work. This was too recent, too fresh, too real. She still saw a person, charred skin, and suffering. Determined, she cleared her throat and focused. “Those look like typical Celtic symbols: spirals and knots. This one might be a horse.”

“What can you tell us about them?”

“Celts decorated their weapons with symbols of their gods and beliefs, whatever they thought would give them an edge in battle.” Louisa fought the nausea gathering beneath her sternum.

“What type of weapon might leave marks like this?” Jackson asked.

“We have a few Celtic daggers with engravings.” Louisa knew she’d seen a similar pattern.

“Are the weapons here?” Jackson stacked his photos and slid them back into their envelope.

“Yes, they’re in the collection storage room. We’re in the process of building a new exhibit of Celtic weapons. The artifacts are locked away until the renovations are complete.”

He fastened the metal clasp. “Can we see them?”

“Certainly, but the blades aren’t sharp enough to kill anyone.” Louisa shuddered. To leave bruises around the wounds, the blade must have sunk to the guard. Great force—or great rage—would have been required. “They’re between eight hundred and two thousand years old.”

“No one is claiming that the weapons have anything to do with a murder.” But Cusack’s voice sounded hollow.

Louisa and the policemen ignored him.