"I smell blood," said Chiun.
"Ditto," said Remo.
Melvis joined in tasting the breeze. "I ain't smellin' nothin' but diesel and ripenin' corn."
"Blood," said Chiun, walking north.
Remo followed him. The others fell in line.
THEY FOUND the man's head before they found the man. The head was in two parts. He had been split down the center of his face, the line of separation falling between his eyes, dividing the bridge of his nose perfectly. He must have had a gap between his two front teeth, because on either side of the two halves the teeth had survived the sudden cleaving intact and unchipped.
The blade had come down that perfectly.
The Master of Sinanju picked up the two head halves and clapped them together like a husked coconut. It was evident from the horrified expression on the dead man's face that the swordsman had been facing his victim.
"One stroke down, separating the two portions, and one across the neck," said Chiun grimly. "The Pear Splitter Stroke, followed by the Scarf Sweep."
K.C. said, "I ain't never seen such a thing."
Melvis piped up, "Honey, I seen a lot worse. Why, once down Oklahoma way I saw a man's head up in a tree like a pineapple just a-waitin' to be picked. The look on his face was about as hornswoggled as this poor soul's, come to think of it."
"The rest of him must be around here," Remo said, looking around.
They found the body a short distance away. He lay on his stomach in the high prairie grass, with his hands tucked under him, as if he'd fallen in the act of unzipping his fly.
"Musta spliced the poor feller as he was takin' his last leak," Melvis muttered. "A right unkind thing to do, you ask me."
Remo turned the body over on its back. It rolled over as easily as a log. And just as stiff. Rigor mortis had set in.
The hands were frozen at his belt line, as if they had held something before he died. His fly was closed.
"My mistake," Melvis said.
Kneeling, Remo examined one thumb. It was rash red, and a slight indentation was visible in the fingerprint area.
"What's this?" Remo wondered aloud.
"His dead thumb," said Melvis, winking in K.C.'s direction.
"I mean this indentation."
Melvis got down and took a hard look. "Search me."
"Let me see," said K.C. She got down with them and looked the thumb over. "You know, way up in Big Sky country I did a photo feature on those new RC units."
"RC?'
"Radio Controlled. They got transmitters now that can move a locomotive around the switching yards without an engineer in the cab. The transmit-power switch has a little silver ball at the end of it. Makes a deep dent just like this one has."
Melvis scratched his own thumb absently. "You don't say."
"Sure. It's got the Brotherhood of Locomotive Engineers union all in a lather. The freight bosses can cut the crews down to two, sometimes one, by giving a yardman one of those contraptions and have him move rolling stock around without need of engineers."
Melvis set his Stetson over his heart and looked mournful. "A way of life is surely evaporatin' when even an engineer is prone to layoff."
"Ever heard of a rotary-plow engine run by RC?" Remo asked K.C.
"No, but that don't mean it couldn't be."
Remo stood up. The others followed suit.
"Whoever killed this guy took his RC unit and ran the plow down the track," he said.
"It's possible," Melvis admitted.
"Except for one thing," said K.C.
"What's that?"
"I think that thing glinting in the sun over yonder is the RC unit in question."
They went over to the glint. It was the RC unit. It had a stainless-steel case and shoulder straps so that it could carried, leaving the hands free to work the controls.
"So much for that theory." Remo said.
"Looks like it's been busted open," Melvis muttered.
"Why would anyone do that?"
"Got me," said K.C. "Maybe he wanted to get the radio frequency."
"So where's the desperado what skragged this poor feller?" Melvis wanted to know.
"Perhaps he was in the plow engine," said Chiun.
"Suicide," Melvis said, smacking one fist into a meaty palm. "Suicide! That's it! Suicide. Drug-induced suicide. Man cut up his fellow worker and in remorse lit off with the plow engine and run smack dab into the California Zephyr, going out in a blaze of diesel glory."
"Sounds thin," said Remo.
"Maybe he had diabetes to boot."
Everyone looked at Melvis with expectant expressions.
"There was a Brit who had diabetes," Melvis explained. "Couldn't get his leg amputated for love or coal, so he lay down on a track and let a highball do it for him. Bad leg came off clean as bamboo. Maybe this feller had a terminal illness, and this was his way of goin' out."
"What manner of imbecile would commit suicide by crashing into an approaching locomotive?" Chiun demanded.