Authors: Richard E. Crabbe
Suspension (20 page)
“Listen,” Matt said. “I know we're gonna do damage to a lot o' folks with this, and like I said ⦠I'm with you boys to the bitter end. I think you know that.” He looked at both Earl and Watkins, who nodded silently. “Just gotta be ready for the hurt of it.”
T
om stopped at 300 Mulberry to check in. No one was looking for him, and nothing particularly important was going on, so he told the desk sergeant he was off to Bellevue and headed out. He doubted the coroner could tell him much about Bucklin that he didn't already know, but it was wise to check. He took the El back uptown, resisting the urge to get off at Astor Place. He stood all the way, hanging on to one of the straps that hung from the ceiling. He couldn't help thinking about Emily. She was a married woman. He had no right to think that she might be interested in him. She had education, that was obvious, and a quick, inquisitive mind. She had wealth and social standing. The more he looked at the logic of it, the more illogical it looked. But then there was the way she had smiled at him when they said good-byeânot just
with her mouth, but with her eyes. And there was that little tilt of her head and a lingering pressure from her small, warm hand in his. These things had nothing to do with logic. Did they?
om stopped at 300 Mulberry to check in. No one was looking for him, and nothing particularly important was going on, so he told the desk sergeant he was off to Bellevue and headed out. He doubted the coroner could tell him much about Bucklin that he didn't already know, but it was wise to check. He took the El back uptown, resisting the urge to get off at Astor Place. He stood all the way, hanging on to one of the straps that hung from the ceiling. He couldn't help thinking about Emily. She was a married woman. He had no right to think that she might be interested in him. She had education, that was obvious, and a quick, inquisitive mind. She had wealth and social standing. The more he looked at the logic of it, the more illogical it looked. But then there was the way she had smiled at him when they said good-byeânot just
with her mouth, but with her eyes. And there was that little tilt of her head and a lingering pressure from her small, warm hand in his. These things had nothing to do with logic. Did they?
After walking across town from the El, Tom plunged into the echoing gloom of the corridors of Bellevue. Tom never liked the place. Its hard tile surfaces; its smells and sounds; its perpetual gloom always left him feeling depressed and anxious. He dreaded the thought of waking up one day in this place. It was a tomb for the living, big, hard, and impersonal. As he neared the coroner's operating room, he thought he heard music. The sound of a string quartet drifted and echoed down the corridors. He heard the violins swell and it gave him a chill. They sounded too heavenly for this cold-tiled basement.
Tom walked down to the morgue and pushed the door open. He thought he heard the sound of a saw just as he entered. Dr. Thomas looked up from his work.
“Oh ⦠Tom, c'mon in. I'm right in the middle of something, but if you'll bear with me for a moment I'llâ” The doctor continued to saw. His apron was smeared with red, and there was a red blotch on his glasses. He seemed to be humming to himself. A gramophone was playing in the far corner of the operating room. It sounded like opera. Tom's landlady sometimes sang opera and this sounded similar, but he didn't know the tune. “So, Detective, what brings you to my, ah ⦠my, ah ⦔ Doc Thomas hooked a finger in the skull he was sectioning, pulling the top of the head open a bit more to keep the saw from binding. “Ah, where was I? Yes, what brings you to my dissectorium? As you can see, I have an interesting case ⦠ah ⦠here.” The doctor had a habit of almost never finishing a sentence. He was famous for it, in fact. Most everyone in the department called him Dangling Thomas.
He went back to the job at hand, squinting through his blood-smeared glasses. He sawed slowly, taking his time not to cut too deep. Tom looked on in morbid fascination. The sound of a saw on bone was a chilling reminder to him. During the war he had been in many field hospitals. Thinking of it now, the word “hospital” was a vast overstatement. Most often it was a barn, or the nearest farmhouse. Usually the cutting went on in the kitchens.
As he listened to the coroner's saw, its rhythmic, muffled grinding took him back to a field hospital near Spotsylvania. His old head wound ached at the memory. He had followed the hospital wagons filled with wounded to check on a couple of men in his squad. The wagons snaked on rutted roads for about two miles back of the lines. The men bounced and moaned and dripped crimson on the red Virginia mud. It was easy to find the hospital. What he wished he could forget was the pile by the back door. Maybe four feet high, tangled in a grisly embrace was a collection of severed human limbs. Hands,
feet, legs, arms, and unidentifiable bits drained into the dirt. As he walked up, a large pig rooting nearby dashed in and snatched an arm. The lifeless hand flopped and waved in the pig's jaws. Tom couldn't remember drawing his pistol, but he remembered the satisfaction of shooting the pig. He'd looked at the grisly pile for what seemed like an age. An odd notion about it had haunted him down the years. Did a limb mourn a body, as a body will mourn a limb? Did this pile of inert parts pine for the whole? Did a leg, on some biological level, cry out for its body, its blood, its energizing brain? Did these limbs long to run in a field, caress a lover's breast, or feel a newborn baby's tender weight? He could almost feel their searching loss.
feet, legs, arms, and unidentifiable bits drained into the dirt. As he walked up, a large pig rooting nearby dashed in and snatched an arm. The lifeless hand flopped and waved in the pig's jaws. Tom couldn't remember drawing his pistol, but he remembered the satisfaction of shooting the pig. He'd looked at the grisly pile for what seemed like an age. An odd notion about it had haunted him down the years. Did a limb mourn a body, as a body will mourn a limb? Did this pile of inert parts pine for the whole? Did a leg, on some biological level, cry out for its body, its blood, its energizing brain? Did these limbs long to run in a field, caress a lover's breast, or feel a newborn baby's tender weight? He could almost feel their searching loss.
“So, Detective, what brings you to, ah ⦠Bellevue?” Dr. Thomas brought Tom out of his macabre reverie. He stood over the cadaver whose skull he had just sectioned, his saw dripping absently.
“A man brought in yesterday, about noon. Bucklin, Terrence Bucklin?” Tom stared at the top of the cadaver's brain.
“Oh, yes. The one with the, ah, cranial ⦔ The coroner waved vaguely at the back of his head.
“Yeah, that would be him. Have a chance to give him a look?”
“Yes, this morning.” Doc Thomas looked around distractedly. He put down his saw, shuffled over to a desk on the far side of the room, and pulled a report from the small pile atop the desk.
“Hm. Nasty bump on the head. Blunt trauma, extensive bleeding into the parietal and occipital lobes, extending also into the cerebellum, medulla oblongata, and spinal column. Ah, let's see ⦠second cervical vertebra fractured at the vertebral arch, impacting and partially severing the ah, spinal column, transverse process detached, um ⦔
“Uh-huh. So what does that mean exactly, Doc?” Braddock asked, shaking his head. “Explain it to this simple old detective, if you would.”
“It means someone didn't like him much,” the doctor said, grinning over the tops of his glasses.
“Yeah, I guess not,” Tom agreed with a little chuckle. “Anything you can tell me about what hit him?”
“Oh, yes, yes, here it is. I, ah, peeled back the scalp to get a look at the pattern of the fracture. Sometimes can tell from the way the bones break.” The doctor stopped again, lost in his thoughts. Tom waited. He wondered if he was going to have to finish every thought for the coroner.
“Did a nasty job,” he went on finally. “Crushed part of the brain itself. Massive internal bleeding ⦔ The doctor paused, fingering the day's growth of stubble on his chin.
“So what caused it? What's your best guess?” Tom asked, hoping to hurry
him along. Doc Thomas looked up as if startled out of his thoughts. “By the pattern of the bone fracture, it's my opinion that it was something about one to maybe one point two five inches in ⦠ah ⦠diameter.”
him along. Doc Thomas looked up as if startled out of his thoughts. “By the pattern of the bone fracture, it's my opinion that it was something about one to maybe one point two five inches in ⦠ah ⦠diameter.”
“Pretty small,” Tom observed, holding his thumb and forefinger in a small circle that he guessed to be about that size.
“Yes, but heavy enough, or driven with enough force to, ah ⦠crush the skull and ⦠drive a section of bone into the ⦔ Thomas paused again, peering over his glasses at his notes.
“So, I'm guessing a hammer, or the end of a pipe, or something.”
“Hammer's more likely, Tom. A pipe, unless it had a cap on the end, would tend to leave a circular ah ⦠cut.”
Tom grunted agreement. “Looked like he was hit more than once, right?”
“Twice, you're right. Second time actually from a slightly different ⦠angle. Hit at the base of the skull and into the second cervical vertebra, just at the top of the neck. A glancing blow, but still powerful enough to break the, ah ⦠neck. Cause of death was massive cranial and brain damage, accompanied by, ah ⦠intracranial bleeding, paralysis, and cessation of respiratoryâ”
“Okay, I got it. Did you have a chance to look at the stain on his vest?” Tom asked just a bit impatiently, anxious to move along.
The doctor didn't seem to notice, or if he did, didn't care. This was his world and it moved to his own sense of time and no one else's.
“The tobacco juice? Yes, your nice young patrolman, ah ⦔ Thomas said, flipping through his papers.
“Jaffey.”
“Yes, quite. Jaffey passed along your concern about that. It would appear as though someone spat on your victim.”
“That's what I thought. Fresh enough to have taken place at the same time as the murder?” Tom asked.
“Yes. Definitely tobacco. Hard to be precise about the time, but ah ⦠yes, I think they would coincide.
“Yeah, that's what I thought. Spat on him while he was on his back?”
“That would be my, ah ⦠opinion,” Thomas said, looking pointedly at Tom over his glasses. He obviously didn't approve of such things.
They spent another half hour or so discussing the condition of the body, approximate time of death, and contents of digestive tract, when Doc Thomas said rather suddenly, “Curious thing.” Tom cocked an interested eyebrow. “The curious thing is what I found in your man's, ah ⦠stomach. A key, to be precise.”
“In his
stomach
?
stomach
?
“Interesting, eh?” Doc Thomas paused for effect. “Curious place for a key,
wouldn't you say?” He turned and rummaged through a drawer in his desk, which seemed to be brimming with oddities. “Now, where did I put that damn thing? Quite small, you know. Not hard to swallow at all. Ah ⦠here it is!” He held the little key aloft.
wouldn't you say?” He turned and rummaged through a drawer in his desk, which seemed to be brimming with oddities. “Now, where did I put that damn thing? Quite small, you know. Not hard to swallow at all. Ah ⦠here it is!” He held the little key aloft.
Braddock stood, his big hand held out. “In his stomach, you said.” The doctor placed the key in his palm. It was small, less than an inch long, with a tubular design, like a key for a pocket watch. Tom doubted that's what it was for. He had examined Bucklin's pocket watch. There was nothing hidden there, and the winding mechanism was in the stem. Tom stood gazing at it in his open palm. “How long would it take for something like this to get down into the stomach, Doc?”
“Depends,” the coroner said with a shrug. “Not long.”
“Yeah, I guess. But could Bucklin have swallowed this key before he was killed? Would it have had time to reach the stomach?”
“Possibly,” the doctor admitted. “As to why your man might want to swallow a key, Detective ⦠well, that's your job I suppose.”
Tom stood silent, bouncing the little key in his hand, feeling its weight but weighing the possibilities as well.
After going over everything else he could think of, Tom was about to leave when the coroner said, “Oh, by the way, your killer was right-handed.” He went on to explain how he'd arrived at the conclusion, while Tom kicked himself mentally for not thinking to ask. The key had him preoccupied, he figured. Minutes later he was heading back to headquarters. As he closed the door to the morgue behind him he heard Thomas say, “Now, ah ⦠where were we?”
B
ack at Mulberry, Tom spent the next hour and a half filling out his folder on Bucklin. He included his notes on the interviews of Bucklin's coworkers as well as the general impressions he had of them. He had long ago gotten into the habit of writing down his observations of people he thought could have some bearing on a case. There were no established police procedures for such things, the men all had their own ways of doing things. From time to time those offhand observations proved more useful than expected. Those times were relatively rare, but Tom told himself that it was worth the extra time. Besides, Byrnes liked his men to be thorough. One thing he didn't want to do was disappoint Thomas Byrnes.
ack at Mulberry, Tom spent the next hour and a half filling out his folder on Bucklin. He included his notes on the interviews of Bucklin's coworkers as well as the general impressions he had of them. He had long ago gotten into the habit of writing down his observations of people he thought could have some bearing on a case. There were no established police procedures for such things, the men all had their own ways of doing things. From time to time those offhand observations proved more useful than expected. Those times were relatively rare, but Tom told himself that it was worth the extra time. Besides, Byrnes liked his men to be thorough. One thing he didn't want to do was disappoint Thomas Byrnes.
I
t wasn't until around 6:00 P.M. that Tom left 300. He wanted to see Mary. They hadn't been together since Saturday, and he was beginning to feel the
tug of missing her. But he had Coffin and his veiled threats on his mind too. Tom started thinking that maybe he should just get the Finney thing over, and the sooner the better. If he could get that unpleasant “favor” out of the way, it would keep Coffin off his back, give him a little breathing room. Then he'd be free to concentrate on Mary. She was worth concentrating on. Tom hailed a cab.
t wasn't until around 6:00 P.M. that Tom left 300. He wanted to see Mary. They hadn't been together since Saturday, and he was beginning to feel the
tug of missing her. But he had Coffin and his veiled threats on his mind too. Tom started thinking that maybe he should just get the Finney thing over, and the sooner the better. If he could get that unpleasant “favor” out of the way, it would keep Coffin off his back, give him a little breathing room. Then he'd be free to concentrate on Mary. She was worth concentrating on. Tom hailed a cab.
“Corner of Baxter and Centre streets,” he told the cabbie.
Tom settled into the back of the cab. It had been another warm day for March, but it was cooling off with the lowering of the sun. The streets were in the shade of early evening, and there was a chill in the air. Tom reached under his jacket and took out his pistol. He had carried it since the war. It showed. The old Colt was nicked and scratched, worn shiny. The engraving on the cylinder was nearly smooth, even though he had replaced it when the Colt was converted to cartridges. The walnut grips were the original, though, and glowed like an old saddle. The pistol and he had seen a lot of miles together. It had seen him through some tight spots. He couldn't begin to imagine how many times he had fired it in practice or necessity. He would never be certain either of how many men had felt its bite. Since the war he had used it only twice and felt himself fortunate not to have taken a life either time. The war was another matter.
As a safety measure Tom carried the Colt with its hammer on an empty cylinder. Although he had no intention of using the thing tonight, it was foolish to go where he was going and not be certain of his weapon. Slowly he spun the cylinder, listening to the measured, metallic certainty of the piece as each chamber indexed. He added a sixth bullet in the empty chamber, lowering the hammer on it gently, then pulling it back to the half-cock safety. No sense taking chances. He hoped he wouldn't need the gun, but if he did, he knew there would be no substitute. The old piece was getting just slightly loose in the frame. It hadn't been shooting as well in practice lately, and the frame was probably why. But practice was practice. In his experience, if he shot someone, it would probably be from no more than six feet away. Tom figured the Colt was still good at that distance. The department hadn't standardized sidearms, and as long as there had been a police force the men carried their own weapons. The word was that soon there would be a regular police-issue pistol for everyone, but until then he was satisfied with the Colt. It slipped back into the shoulder holster under his jacket like an old friend. Its familiar weight was a comfort. Won't be needing you tonight, partner, he thought.
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