Taylor said, “Know how you can tell it’s Sunday?”
Kate sighed and did not answer. She sat at her desk sorting through a day’s accumulation of paper, and reading crime scene reports and interviews with Modern Office employees.
“The niggers are in church, the Jews are in Palm Springs, the beaners are fixing their cars, and the Polacks think it’s Tuesday.”
Kate sighed again. “The autopsy report. Give.”
“Hey, I’m part Polack,” Taylor protested, “I gotta right.” He looked injured. “You ever gonna laugh at one of my jokes?”
“Never. Why do you keep trying?”
“One of these days I’m gonna make you laugh.” Taylor dropped the report on Kate’s desk and trudged back to his own paper-strewn desk to pick up a ringing phone.
Taylor had attended the autopsy of Fergus Parker; Kate scanned the preliminary report, picked out its conclusion: death by cardiac puncturation. Entrance wound in the left ventricle, flooding of the pericardial cavity exacerbated by the victim’s movements.
She skimmed Fergus Parker’s vital statistics, noting only that he was five feet nine inches and weighed two hundred and thirty-two pounds. Aortic arteriosclerosis present. Distended urinary bladder. External hemorrhoids. Obesity. Semen level normal. Fingernail scrapings negative. Blood and all blood samples O Positive, all preliminary tests normal.
But there was one new element, and Kate recorded it in her notebook: among undigested food in Fergus Parker’s stomach was several ounces of red wine. She sat tapping her pen against her chin, thinking of Helen Parker’s remark that Fergus Parker would drink a little red wine if he were celebrating something …
She read over other test reports. A partial palm print had been lifted from the glass coffee pot, value pending. Cigarette ash was found along with cigar ash in Fergus Parker’s ashtray. Of the employees past and present, only ex-employee James W. Scott had a prior, 1978. ADW, the assault on his wife, the deadly weapon a poker, charges dropped. Probability zero there, she decided, tugging her cuffs down below the sleeves of her too-tight jacket.
How could anyone leave Ellen O’Neil under these circumstances, she thought as she organized the reports. No matter how important that seminar was, Stephanie should have known to stay with her. Or she should have taken Ellen with her.
She picked up the photographs. After several minutes of scrutiny she spread the closeups of the corpse over her desk and looked carefully at the wound, at the curved and faceted handle of the protruding knife. The autopsy report had listed measurements of the wound, its size slightly larger than the blade—normal for a double-edged weapon. The wound was clean, no tear. The slight curve of the handle was up and down, not sideways, the heavy handle almost perfectly squared with the body.
She stood and pushed her chair back, and using a pocket knife she kept in her desk, feinted in the air with both right and left-handed thrusts, trying to duplicate the entry of the knife into Fergus Parker. Standing at varied distances from an imaginary victim, she could only make the knife go in at a downward angle. And it seemed that plunging the knife with an upward thrust would create a slashing, jagged entry—when the actual wound was a clean puncture. She stood beside the chair and plunged her knife into her imaginary victim from the side. That worked—if she cocked her wrist at an awkward angle and held the handle sideways to duplicate the position of the curved handle.
Taylor got up from his desk and strolled over. “Kate, maybe I can help you stab whoever you got sitting in your chair.”
Kate chuckled. “Fergus Parker.”
“I figured.”
Kate showed him the photographs and demonstrated the problem again. Taylor tried a few experimental thrusts of his own.
“Kate, what about this?” He stood behind the desk chair and plunged the knife downward.
“Good idea, Ed. It would explain why he didn’t struggle. Sit down and let me try. You’re more Fergus Parker’s size.”
“Thanks a lot, partner.” Taylor sat. “And be careful with that blade, will you?”
Kate dangled the pocket knife playfully. “This? Don’t worry, it doesn’t slice baloney.”
She took her place behind Taylor, held the blade over his head, plunged it in an arc that ended at Taylor’s blue plaid lapel. “Closest yet, Ed. But look at the angle.” She held the blade poised against Taylor. “Still upward. And I think it would tear the body. And splatter blood all over the killer’s arms.”
“Maybe. What about the victim standing? Fell back into the chair?”
“That was Everson’s theory, remember? Let’s try.”
A few minutes later Taylor said, “It’s possible. If he stood there leaning back with his chest puffed out and said here, stab me.”
“There’s still suicide.”
“You don’t believe that any more than me. Doesn’t figure, the coroner doesn’t think so, either.”
“Right, it’s not likely. Unless we discover something totally off the wall.” Kate stacked the photographs. “I’m waiting for a phone call from Philadelphia, Gail Freeman’s checking out a call Fergus Parker received from there yesterday morning. I’ll meet you at Modern Office. We get anything on the cigarette butt yet?”
“Nope. Nice jacket.”
Kate tugged again at her cuffs. “You really like it?”
“Fits nice. Like a glove.”
Kate grinned. “Too much like one. Think I’ll take it back.”
“Kidding, aren’t you? You’re in a hell of a good mood this morning, Kate. Bet you got laid last night.”
“Nope,” Kate said cheerfully. Last night had been many things—but she would never term it that.
Her phone rang. “Detective Delafield? This is Wesley Miller in Philadelphia.”
“Yes sir. Are you the individual who talked to Fergus Parker yesterday morning?”
“Yes I did, called Fergus at seven sharp. Just like I told him I would. I understand from Gail you’re actually heading up the investigation. Quite a responsibility. Very progressive city you have there.”
The effervescence of Kate’s mood vanished. “Lieutenant David Bell is available to give you my qualifications, Mr. Miller, if that’s a concern to you.” She concentrated on the pleasantness of her tone. “None of us at LAPD like to work with unqualified people, whoever they may be.”
“Yes indeed, and I do admire that. I do admire your attitude about that. Wish more people in power thought that way. Gail speaks very highly of you. Now, how can I help you?” Wesley Miller spoke easily, his tone bland.
“Your conversation with Fergus Parker, what was the substance of it?”
“Miss, uh, Detective Delafield, can I have your assurance it’ll be kept confidential?”
She made no attempt to soften the hard edges of her tone. “No. Not if it’s relevant to the solution and eventual resolution of this case.”
“Oh, I agree with that. I just don’t think it will be. I don’t see how it could be. Let me explain. I called Fergus to offer him a new position. He was to head up all the company operations west of the Mississippi. But you see, now that he’s, ah, not on board, we’ve had to, ah, reshuffle our plans. And it wouldn’t do for, ah, certain people in the organization to know what we had in mind, they wouldn’t understand why they weren’t chosen in the first place, won’t be chosen now.”
“I see. Whose decision was it to offer this position?”
“It was my recommendation. But in business this kind of decision is never made autonomously.” Wesley Miller’s tone was condescending. “I had enthusiastic approvals from the entire executive board including Jonathon. Jonathon Wagner, our president.”
“Enthusiastic approvals on what basis?”
“The firmest basis.” Wesley Miller’s voice strengthened. “The profit of western operations rose fourteen percent the past two years. The numbers from our other regional centers showed a decline.”
Numbers, Kate thought. Always numbers. “Did you speak with anyone out here about this promotion? Ask their opinion of Fergus Parker?”
“Certainly not, Detective Delafield. The business world is not a democracy. Our country’s democracy is not a democracy.”
“Thank you Mr. Miller, but at least one of your employees found a way to vote. Did Fergus Parker accept the job?”
“Yes, yes he did. With a few provisos.”
“Which were?”
“Oh, that he’d have some autonomy in certain areas of hiring and firing, that he’d still be based in L.A.”
“And did you agree to his conditions?”
“Substantially. With a quibble here and there.”
“Exactly what were his conditions and what were your quibbles?”
“Detective, I can’t see how this is relevant to anything, the information is confidential—”
“Mr. Miller.” Kate stared unseeingly at the drab clutter of the detectives’ room, concentrating on reading the cadences and tones of Wesley Miller’s voice. “Mr. Miller, let me put it to you this way. I’m conducting a murder investigation out here, and a good part of that inquiry involves the motive for killing Fergus Parker. An employee who learned he would be dismissed from the company—”
“Even so—”
“Let me put it this way, Mr. Miller.” Men in power, she thought in disgust. “We have a fine working arrangement with the Philadelphia police. You can cooperate and answer my questions fully, or I can arrange to have my counterparts there—”
“Madam, it was never my intention to interfere with your investigation. We’re absolutely appalled back here by this incredible event, the loss of so valuable a man. I’m sure you can understand that I have to consider the best interests of the company…The first thing Fergus wanted was final say on manpower levels and all job assignments in Los Angeles.” Wesley Miller’s voice had changed from sharpness to caution.
“Isn’t that partly Gail Freeman’s territory?”
“I see you’ve informed yourself about the office there. It’s primarily Gail’s territory, but it wasn’t really a problem. In areas of disagreement we’d have simply arbitrated the matter here without either man knowing. We do that more often than subordinates realize. But Fergus also demanded that Freeman be fired. Of course I couldn’t agree to that, I explained how extremely careful we have to be with black terminations. Even with the Reagan presidency. Particularly when a man’s record has been as exemplary as Freeman’s. We still need to act with caution in the area of equal—”
“What commitment did you make about Mr. Freeman?”
Wesley Miller cleared his throat with a protracted harrumph. “I agreed we’d try to work out an, ah, attractive transfer opportunity.”
Simply move a cog to another part of the machine, she thought, recording the answer in her notes. “What else, Mr. Miller?”
“I presume you’ve met Guy Adams, nephew of our founder. Done an outstanding job wherever we’ve sent him, but apparently there’d been some conflict with Fergus. I told Fergus, and I was very adamant about this, even though old Guy Adams passed on some months back there’s no way we can simply kick his nephew out the door, I mean, how would it look?”
“What commitment did you make about Mr. Adams?”
Wesley Miller harrumphed again. “Fergus finally backed off some and said he wanted him at least out of his territory, maybe we could bury him some place like the Savannah office. I agreed to discuss it with Jonathon and see what we could work out.”
“Do you feel Fergus Parker was justified in either of those demands?”
“Justified?” Wesley Miller was indignant. “Justice doesn’t apply here, madam. It’s a maxim of management that a man has to have loyalty and support from the men around him. By the same token, it’s a definite reflection on the two men who didn’t have the good judgment to work out a satisfactory relationship with a man in the position of Fergus Parker.”
“Anything else you discussed?”
“He wanted some say in naming his successor. And said he’d be making some key changes in his own sales managers in the coming months.”
“Did he say what those changes would be?”
“Not specifically. He mentioned Fred Grayson and Harley Burton as the ones he had in mind. We always discussed his decisions about his people, of course, but it was pretty much his prerogative to operate as he wished in his own area, so long as he kept turning in good profit numbers.”
“Anything else?” She began a fresh page of notes.
“Not really. We discussed remuneration, but I don’t think—” Wesley Miller hurriedly amended, “Do you need to know about that?”
“Not at the moment.”
“And the effective date of his promotion. We agreed on March thirty-first. And that he should travel around his new territory immediately after—”
“Thank you, Mr. Miller. One more question. Will you be taking any action now about Mr. Freeman or Mr. Adams?”
“Well, possibly Guy. Now that his uncle—now that we’re under no obligation to—well, public relations is an expensive proposition even in the best economic times. But Gail—well, if we have to have a black manager, L.A.’s a good city, very liberal and all, more accepting—well, you know. And continuity’s very important till we adjust to this very tragic—I think you can see now why I was concerned about confidentiality.”
“You have my word on that if your information proves irrelevant. Mr. Miller, I may call you again with further questions?”
“Ah, one thing. We’re discussing a replacement for Fergus, we’re all wondering back here who you might’ve eliminated as suspects so that—”
“I can’t discuss the investigation,” Kate said curtly. “I’m sure you understand.”
“Oh certainly,” Wesley Miller said resignedly. “I hope you’ll soon—”
“I’m sure we will. Good day, sir.”