Death in the Distillery (17 page)

But, luck took my side at the lab.

"You hit paydirt today. Carl and Spitz are on duty.
They're the techs who assist the ME, but if you want the
truth, they know more about the job than he does," Carrie
Jean whispered, glancing around her brightly lit, but empty
office. "The girls are in the lounge for lunch. The techs eat
in the examining room."

"With the stiffs?"

She shrugged and gave me a wry grin. "At least it's
quiet."

Sure enough, at a corner table in the chilly room, two
technicians were taking a brown-bag lunch break. One
poured iced tea from a thermos. Across the room, a cadaver
lay on a stainless steel gurney, a cloth draped modestly over
his genitals. The bluish cast beneath his pale skin reminded
me of a frozen chicken.

The mixed odor of pine oil and formaldehyde hung
heavy in the lab. At one end of the room was a series of
stainless steel sinks and on one of the sink aprons, rows of
plastic bags containing samples for the pathology lab.

Carrie Jean introduced us.

Carl was short, fat, bald, and bearded. Spitz was of average build, wore a mushroom haircut, and his face had
been scarred by the mother-of-all-acne outbreaks.

"Sit," said Carl, offering me a carrot stick. "Have some
lunch."

I glanced at the cadaver, whose bony legs were about
the same diameter as Carl's carrot stick. "No, thanks. I just
ate." My stomach growled as I sat, and both men laughed.

"Hey." Spitz laughed. "My first few days here, I must've
lost twenty pounds. No appetite. But, you get used to it."
He spooned some chicken noodle soup between his thin
lips. A stray noodle slapped against his chin. He sucked it
into his mouth with a loud slurp and chuckled. "Carl hates
for me to do that."

Carl shook his head wearily.

Carrie Jean patted my shoulder. "I'll see you later. I've
got to get back to my desk." She winked at the techs. "He's
an old flame, boys. Treat him nice."

They all laughed.

"So, old flame," said Carl, biting another chunk of carrot
after Carrie closed the door behind her. "What can we do
for you?"

Quickly, I explained.

Spitz grimaced. "Oh, yeah. Patterson. You remember,
Carl. He was that pile of corned beef hash we had in here."

The grin faded from Carl's pudgy face. "Christ. What a
way to go."

The odor in the lab was getting to me. I swallowed hard
and decided to skip the idle chitchat. "Look, fellas. I've
really just got one question. The injury to his head. I think
you said it was a blunt trauma."

Carl looked at me curiously. "How do you know what
we said? You see the report?"

I studied them a moment, reading the friendly amusement in their eyes. "Let's say I dreamed it or heard it somewhere. All I need to know is what you think caused it?"

They looked at each other, and Spitz shook his head. "I
can't remember. Is that what we put on the report?"

Carl growled. "How can you forget that guy?" He
touched the back of his head. "There was a blunt trauma
right about here. When he fell off the tractor, his head
struck something hard. From what we've learned since he came in, the guy must've hit the frame of the tandem disc.
That's it. No big secret."

I considered my next question. "If you'd seen that kind
of trauma elsewhere, what would you say caused it?"

Both techs frowned.

I explained. "Say, someone came in from off the street,
and he had that sort of injury. What would you say did the
damage?"

Carl shrugged. "Well, it could be anything round and
smooth. I'd say a ball bat would do it, wouldn't you,
Spitz?"

"Suppose so. Maybe something just a little larger than
the bat. Why? You know something?"

"Not me." I laughed, but I was remembering the interior
of Claude Hawkins' cabin. Pure baseball. A picture of the
bleached bat on the wall flashed into my head. "The cops
know more than I do." A glib lie leaped to my lips. "The
truth is, and don't laugh, I've been working on a novel.
My first. And I'm trying to find out ways to mislead my
readers." It was an imaginative fabrication, and to my surprise, it worked.

"A writer, huh?"

"Wannabe. This accident at the distillery got me to thinking," I replied, rising and offering my hand. "Hey, guys.
Thanks. You've told me what I needed."

Spitz nodded. "Anytime. You gonna put us in the dedication of the book?"

"Sure. You bet." I hesitated, remembering Mary Tucker
and the others out at the distillery. "Okay, say, for sake of
my novel, someone was murdered like that. Is it possible
from looking at the injury to tell if it was done by a man
or woman?"

Spitz and Carl looked at each other. "Yeah," Carl said.
"Well, not exactly, but you can made an educated guess.
Take Patterson. If I saw that kind of injury, I'd guess a
woman did it or a puny man. To be honest, I don't think
the blow was hard enough to knock the guy out." He grimaced, and his tone became sober. "And I don't think the fall knocked him out. I think the poor slob was conscious
when he fell under those blades."

"Christ," Spitz put in.

I cringed at Carl's observation. "Gives me the creeps."

Spitz arched an eyebrow. "Think what it did to him."

"Yeah." I shook my head. "In other words, if you had
to say the injury was caused by a person, chances are it
would be a woman?"

"I'd say so." Carl pursed his lips. "I saw a case once
where a man hit another. Crushed the skull. The impact
bruised the brain. We didn't see much of that on Patterson."

Spitz grunted. "At least, from what we could tell by what
we had. He was a mess."

"Thanks, guys. Now, one more question. Suppose I used
a piece of lumber to whack someone on the head, say a
two-by-two, you know with the square corners. What kind
of impression would that leave?"

"Different." Carl made a concave sweep with his hand.
"A baseball bat makes one like this, but if you used a club
with square corners, then it would leave an impression like
this. He brought the edge of his hand straight down, then
cut it at a ninety-degree angle. "That's what they call a
penetrating trauma. Your other one is like you said, a blunt
trauma."

I nodded. The pieces were slowly falling in place.
"Thanks again, fellas." I grinned to myself. A baseball bat.
And I knew just where to look.

I closed the door behind me and glanced around the office. Across the room, Carrie Jean was leaning over one of
the computer operator's shoulders studying the monitor.
She looked up, and I blew her a kiss. She winked, and I
hurried outside, anxious to get back to my apartment and
start building my case.

Danny O'Banion and his bosses popped into my head.
No surprise there. There's no way I could forget men who
repay their debts by burying some poor chump in a foundation.

I knew I was working against time. Sooner or later,
someone would start wondering why I was spending so
much time on the case. All I could do was remind them
that Beatrice Morrison was paying me to prove Emmett
Patterson's death was an accident. But, I had to move fast.
You can tread water for just so long.

I picked up the developed film, a sack of eight burgers
and fries, and headed back to the apartment, anxious for
the comfort of air conditioning, but dreading the presence
of Jack Edney. I chided myself for being so selfish. After
all, he'd probably be out of my hair by now if he hadn't
taken the beating that was meant for me. If I weren't such
a self-centered jerk, I would be considerate and gracious
for the involuntary sacrifice on his part.

Jack reclined on the couch, his feet propped on the coffee
table. Thanks to a heavy dose of lidocaine administered at
the dentist, one side of his face drooped, forcing him to
drink through a straw.

"You still alive, huh?"

He nodded slowly, gently touching his fingers to his jaw.

I held up the sack. "Burgers. Can you eat?"

"You bet," he mumbled, trying to force his numbed lips
to function. "One way or another. I'm starving."

While I opened a beer, he told me about the visit to the
dentist. Two root canals and temporary caps.

"Talked to Maggie?" I unwrapped a burger and splashed
catsup on the fries, hoping the warring couple had made
up. I liked my privacy, and even a good friend like Jack
Edney became worrisome after a time. Ben Franklin said
it best: "Fish and visitors smell after three days."

His cheek bulging like a chipmunk's, Jack shook his
head. "I'm going to give her a call this evening. I don't
want to impose on you any longer, old buddy."

A flood of guilt engulfed me. "Glad to," I replied, willing
at the moment to let him stay for a month to assuage the
guilt and self-reproach I felt. "Sorry about the beating."

Jack was one of those rare souls with an irrepressible
sense of humor and a thick skin. "It coulda been worse.
Maggie could have done it." His words were slurred, but
animated. His good eye twinkled.

I laughed. "What are you, some kind of comedian?"

"Yeah. That's what caused our problem. I wanted to enter a stand-up comic contest at Borgia's down on Sixth
Street, but Maggie didn't want me to. You know how it
goes. One word leads to another, and suddenly, there's a
full-scale war going on."

"A stand-up comic?" I studied him a moment. I'd never
pictured Jack in that role, but now that I considered it, with
his bounce and good humor and his complete disregard of
pointed insults, he might be darned good. "What made you
think about that?"

"I listen to them all the time. I'm better than some already. Some of those bums stumble all over the punchline
for their joke. And they get paid."

"And Maggie didn't like the idea, huh?" I washed a
chunk of hamburger down with a swallow of cold beer.

"Naw. She thought I'd embarrass us or that word might
get back to the school, and I'd get fired or something."

I chuckled. Sometimes, it was hard to understand a
woman's logic. How could it embarrass her if she wasn't
on the stage with Jack? And no way a school could get rid
of a teacher today for working a bar. In fact, only theft or
morals would get one dismissed. Even incompetence in the
classroom was insufficient for termination.

"What are you laughing about?"

"Nothing. Just women. Can't live with them ..

Grinning, Jack added, "And you sure can't drown them,
which reminds me of some of history's most famous presidential statements."

I rolled my eyes. "Forget it. I got work to do."

Jack kept up a constant stream of chatter, but after his
first set of jokes, I shut him out, concentrating on the information I'd picked up at the lab. If someone had indeed
struck Patterson with a ball bat or club, the ME techs believed the perp was more likely to be a woman. But, that
didn't make sense. The only woman at the distillery was
Mary Tucker, who swore she was not present Sunday, even
though Seldes claimed he saw her car.

There was another woman at the distillery, I reminded
myself. Beatrice Morrison. Of course, there was Janice, my
sometimes Significant Other, but she was with me.

However, I could not visualize the matronly Morrison
climbing up on a tractor, whopping Patterson on the back
of his head, then leaping from the tractor. As old and fragile
as she appeared, she'd break into a dozen pieces before the
discs reached her.

That left Mary Tucker. And she had the perfect motive.
Emmett Patterson had seduced her daughter, caused the girl
to abort, and then by his very presence, driven the girl from
her mother. But, according to my notes, David Runnels said
she had not been on the distillery premises on the Sunday
Patterson died, did not come in Sunday night, and never
punched in on Monday. On the other hand, Seldes claimed he saw her car, the red Honda, on Sunday. But Tucker
herself swore she was gone.

Who was lying?

Jack broke into my thoughts. "So, what do you think,
huh?"

I blinked. "About what?"

His forehead wrinkled in a disappointed frown. "About
my routine. My monologue."

"Oh. Yeah, good, good," I muttered, turning back to my
notes.

"You weren't paying attention."

I sighed. "Yeah, I was, Jack. It's just that I got a lot on
my mind. Okay?" I glanced at the packet of film.

Then he started pouting.

I almost laughed. The subtlety of pouting wasn't too effective with lips still numb from lidocaine, and an eye
swollen shut.

"It isn't funny," he muttered, sliding off the bar stool
and stomping back to the couch, but not before he grabbed
another beer from the refrigerator and three hamburgers
from the bag.

Ignoring his hurt feelings, I spread the film on the snack
bar and arranged it as if I was standing in the door looking
into the cabin. I had no idea what I was looking for. Perhaps, I figured, whatever it was would jump out at me and
shout, "Here I am."