Hawks bent down and studied the lifeless rictus of his former friend as dispassionately as a coroner. Then his gaze went down to Cousins’ neck, which was bruised black with long, clawlike stripes from some assailant’s fingers.
“Crushed his windpipe totally,” said McCall. “He was dead before he even fell. Ain’t it a thing?” He pulled a cigarette from a pack and put it between his lips, but Hawks snatched it before he could light it. He tucked the coffin nail into his breast pocket and wrinkled his nose.

The Deadman’s Finger: Chapter One