A Crossword to Die For (15 page)

“Yep,” Lever said with a not-too-convincing smile. “We'll just wait over here until you're done with that … piece of business … Take your time.” Despite a career that entailed frequent visits to the morgue, Lever had never become inured to its grim ambience. His stomach churned every time he stepped through the door.

Carlyle stripped off his latex gloves and deposited them into a receptacle marked
BIO-WASTE.
“Estelle can finish that one up,” he said as he approached. “Cut-and-dried. It'll be the last time that schnook ever fools around with a married woman … Lead poisoning—in the form of a .38 caliber slug to the heart.” He directed the entire conversation toward Lever, as if Belle and Rosco weren't in the room. “I understand Polycrates is now questioning the judgment of the Boston Police Department. How's it go? The more things change, the more they stay the same? Well, better them than me. What's all this about?”

Lever looked at Rosco and gave him a shrug that said:
The floor is all yours
.

Rosco cleared his throat slightly. “I don't know if you heard, but Belle's father passed away on an Amtrak train back on the thirteenth. The Boston ME found nothing suspicious and deemed it a heart attack. The body was returned to a Newcastle mortuary and buried three days later.”

During Rosco's brief speech, Carlyle's face changed from a stone-cold, all-business expression to a look that resembled compassion—an emotion Rosco had never seen the ME register before.

“I'm sorry,” Carlyle mumbled as he brought his eyes to meet Belle's. “Someone gave me a bunch of wrong information. I had no idea it was your
father
on the train. In this business everyone tends to be referred to as a
John Doe
. And of course, there's a kind of ME's gossip network in New England—everyone talks about everyone else's business. Anything interesting, death-wise, gets thrown over the transom—so to speak … I'm sorry … I wouldn't have been so … well …”

Rosco and Lever were left speechless by the ME's admission—to say nothing of his gallant manner. Belle extended her hand. “It's nice to finally meet you … I've heard a lot about you.”

Carlyle nodded in Rosco's direction. “Well, if you've been listening to him, you've most likely been given some misinformation as well.”

Belle smiled. “I know; he can be a little hardheaded sometimes. But I'm working on that.”

“I apologize for my lack of tact—”

“It's okay. Really …”

Lever scowled. For a moment he wondered whether the morgue chemicals had begun to affect Carlyle's brain. The man hadn't displayed an ounce of human kindness in his life. “What Belle and Rosco were wondering,” he interjected, “is this: Is it possible that Theodore Graham could have died under circumstances that might have been less than
natural?
And could that cause of death have eluded the medical examiner in Boston?”

“I.e.,” Carlyle said, still looking at Belle, “you have reason to believe we're looking at a homicide?”

She took in a deep breath. “There's nothing substantiative to prove that. It's just … well … There have been a lot of strange questions popping up.”

Carlyle pointed to a round table with six folding chairs scattered around it. “Why don't we sit.”

Lever picked up the petrie dish that had been designated “morgue ashtray,” and lit a cigarette. He dropped the match in the dish. As an afterthought he said, “This doesn't bother anyone, does it?” No one troubled to answer.

“I know this is a sensitive topic,” Carlyle said after everyone was settled, “so, Belle, please let me know if I'm being too blunt. It can be my nature at times … Okay, back to the gossip drifting over the proverbial transom … A body turns up on a train …? People in my field begin to talk … Now, I'm not saying the man in Boston did anything wrong or made any errors in judgment, because I might well have made the same analysis if I'd been the first one to examine your father—”

“But it's possible Boston could have missed important evidence,” Rosco said, interrupting.

Carlyle ignored him and continued to focus on Belle. “It's virtually impossible that the ME in Boston would have missed anything physical: torn or rumbled clothing, bruises, contusions, et cetera. He would have also noticed any nose or ear bleeding or swelling, fluid discharge, dilation of the eyes, or skin discoloration. All of these things would have indicated that things were not right, not ‘natural' as Al says … and he would have pushed for an autopsy.”

“But he didn't,” Lever said as smoke drifted from his nostrils.

“Obviously he saw nothing out of place. But then again, he had no real reason to suspect anything was wrong. From what I understand, your father's body had been removed from the train before the ME arrived on the scene—allowing Amtrak to return the train to service. That's a frustrating situation for any ME. We're better judges, when it comes to analyzing a suspicious situation, than your average beat cop—or train conductor. For instance, the position of the body at time of death can tell us a lot. The man in Boston didn't have an opportunity to make that type of assessment. Another factor to consider is that your father wasn't a local Bostonian.”

“What does that have to do with it?” Belle asked.

“Well, the police would have had an immediate history. They would have been able to discover if the
John Doe
had a nefarious past, if he owed large sums of money, if he had an unhappy family life, had recently quarreled with someone, etc. The department would have been keyed into that background information, and would have studied the situation from a local angle; ergo, a lot closer.”

“He's right,” Lever added. “The first order of business is to contact next of kin … If they don't raise any questions, and if the death appears to be natural, most municipalities are very happy to let the entire business drift away.”

“So you're saying there's no possible way my father could have been murdered?”

“No. No. Not at all. But the only manner in which your father could have been killed—without the Boston ME becoming suspicious—would be if he'd ingested some type of specialized poison … At this point, the only way to confirm the presence of such a chemical would be to exhume your father's body and perform an autopsy … And to be perfectly honest, Belle, after an undertaker has treated a corpse with embalming fluid, it can be difficult to get completely accurate results. We can be fairly positive, but nothing's one hundred percent.”

At that moment Rosco's beeper sounded. He glanced down, tapped a button, and silently read off the number. He then pulled the beeper from his belt and handed it to Belle. “Florida. I think that's Deborah's number. Do you want me to call her back?”

“No, I'll do it.”

Carlyle said, “Use the phone in my office,” then stood, crossed the room, and formally opened another glass door for Belle. He returned to the table, and the three men watched her sit behind Carlyle's desk and dial the phone.

Rosco was the first to break the silence. “I was under the impression that if someone had been poisoned, it would be fairly obvious to a medical examiner.”

With Belle gone, Carlyle's stony expression returned. “I guess you've been under the wrong impression, Polycrates. Why doesn't that surprise me?”

Lever rolled his eyes as the ME continued. “There are substances that can be placed in an individual's coffee, water, fruit juice, whatever, that will bring on symptoms resembling a coronary—and that can fool the casual observer. Anectine—succinylcholine—is one of these; it's odorless and highly soluble in water … Of course the chemical will show up in the drinking vessel when tested, and a thorough autopsy will also reveal its presence. Then there are substances that have to be injected. Tubarine—tubocurarine chloride—has been employed in criminal cases. Symptoms resemble those of heart attack victims … Likewise Pavulon—pancuronium—which also presents as a probable heart attack … All three substances are neuromuscular blocking agents. Reaction time for each is immediate.” Carlyle thought for a moment. “Pavulon's difficult to detect if an autopsy isn't performed quickly.”

Lever stubbed out his cigarette in the petrie dish. “Correct me if I'm wrong, Rosco, but I'm guessing Belle isn't going to warm up to the idea of exhuming her father's remains.”

“I wouldn't think so, Al … But who knows; she can surprise you.”

“And the odds of finding a two-week-old coffee cup in Amtrak's trash are next to nil,” Lever observed quietly. No one laughed.

Carlyle glanced through the glass at Belle. “Well, those are your only options, gents—if you want conclusive proof.”

Unable to hear the conversation, Belle stared worriedly at the three male figures as she tapped her fingers on the desk top and waited for Deborah Hurley to answer the phone.

After the third ring she heard a male voice sing out, “Hurley residence,” from the other end of the line.

“Oh, hi, Mike … it's Belle Graham. I'm returning Debbie's call … or rather, she was returning my call … anyway … I got her page. Is she there?”

“No. Sorry, Belle. It was me who paged you. I apologize for not reaching you sooner. I got your message about the break-in. That really stinks. Things like that don't usually go on down here. But you know. Summer. Kids with too much time on their hands—”

“I'm sorry to bother you with this, Mike.”

“It's no bother … It's just that I've pulled extra duty, and Deb left for Kings Creek yesterday to visit her aunt.”

“Oh …”

“But I can go over to the condo and check things out if you'd like. I already put in a call to the real estate agent. She said you'd also left her a message.”

“Yes, I did.” Belle made eye contact with Rosco through the window and gave him a small wave indicating everything was being taken care of—at least in Florida. “Since I have you on the phone, Mike, I wonder if you could do me another favor?”

“If I can.”

“Do you know where the Anchorage Marina is?”

“Sure. What's up?”

“If this is too much trouble, please let me know, but my father had some sort of relationship with a man named Horace Llewellen. He goes by the nickname of Woody. Apparently, Woody and my father copurchased a boat called
Wooden Shoe
. It's a Hatteras 42. The owner's papers were among my father's effects, and I wanted to make sure he got them … The boat is usually berthed at the Anchorage. When I went there, however,
Wooden Shoe
was gone, and I was told that Woody's schedule can be erratic. Would you mind terribly stopping by the marina and seeing if he's returned? And tell him that I'd really like to talk to him.”

“Will do. No problem … And don't worry about your dad's condo, Belle … It's too bad, but these things can happen when a property is vacant … I'm sure management will beef up security. Although if it was just kids hunting for the liquor cabinet and a few extra bucks, they won't be back anytime soon.”

“Thanks, Mike. I really appreciate your support.” Then, as an afterthought, she added a quick: “Give my best to Debbie when you talk to her.”

“Will do.”

As Belle stepped out of Carlyle's office, the conversation at the table ceased. Rosco turned to her; his expression was troubled.

“What did I miss?” she asked.

“Is Deborah going over to your dad's condo?” was his evasive reply.

“She's not there, but Mike is. That was him on the phone … What did I miss?”

Carlyle cleared his throat. He avoided looking at Belle. “I was just outlining some possible … well, scenarios … Unfortunately the only way to confirm any of them would be to perform an autopsy, which obviously means exhuming your father's remains.”

Belle returned to the table but didn't sit. Rosco took her hand. “I don't know,” she said softly. “There's something … There's something so repellent about that. It would mean treating him like …” She shivered briefly before nodding toward the cadaver Estelle had been dissecting. “Like … Like that person.”

Carlyle said, “Yes, I'm afraid so,” without glancing in Estelle's direction. “But it's the only way to get a definitive answer to your questions, Belle.”

She shook her head and hunched her shoulders. Rosco held her hand tighter. After a moment she turned toward Carlyle. “I appreciate your honesty. I appreciate your taking time to explain … all of this … But I'd like to give your suggestion some thought—reflection, I guess. If I take a day or two, will it make your work more difficult? Do we need to do this immediately?”

“Well,” Carlyle said, “if we're going to exhume the body, I wouldn't want to wait six months, but at this point a matter of a couple of days—even a week—won't change any test results.”

“I just hate to see my father cut up like that …”

Carlyle shrugged while his mouth narrowed into a resolute line. “And I hate to see people get away with murder.”

CHAPTER 20

When the phone rang at nine-twelve that night, Belle gave it an apprehensive stare. Rosco and the puppy were off on their nightly walk, and their absence made her pause before picking up the receiver. Ten hours of pondering the myriad questions surrounding her father's death hadn't brought her any closer to a decision as to whether to exhume his body; instead, it had only served to further unnerve her. Now, an unhappy hunch made her suspect that this phone call would produce additional distressing news; and she didn't want to tackle it alone. For a moment, she considered letting the machine pick up and eavesdropping on the message before deciding whether to respond in person or not. But she reasoned that was the coward's approach.
Trouble doesn't go away simply because you ignore it
.