Giving the sheriff the hundred dollars to ransom Elise’s car had left him short of cash. He hesitated outside the door of the Court House entrance to orient himself and then walked down the wide concrete steps and across the square to the bank. Entering, he stopped at one of the high tables to make out a check. As he turned toward the tellers windows, he saw the distinguished graying head and classic profile of the bank president, Arnold Stanhope, coming though the front door.
He waited as Stanhope paused to greet another customer on the way out and, as he came abreast of him said, “Good morning, Mr. Stanhope.”
The bank president started to answer perfunctorily, but stopped short as recognition dawned in his eyes.
“Ahh, good morning.” He hesitated, searching for a name to go with the face. “Mr. Tuesday, isn’t it? It’s, ah, been quite awhile. How are you?”
“Two years last month, and I’m fine,” he answered. “How’s your son?”
He saw the full remembrance of the Beamer accident cloud Stanhope’s eyes and recalled how he had thought at the time that the father did not believe his son’s story, but lacked the influence or inclination to try to persuade him to confess the truth. He had never met the mother, but the girl had told him later that she was an invalid, confined to her room, who refused to believe that ‘her boy’ could do any wrong.
“Oh, Ronny,” Stanhope was saying, “He’s in college in the East. Started this Fall. Doing quite well.” Although obviously disconcerted by being compelled to remember the unpleasant events of two years ago, Stanhope still managed to speak in the clipped British accents that he suspected was an affectation. “Ah, how are, ah, Mr. and Mrs. Beamer getting on?”
It was apparent from the ease with which he recalled their name, that he had been wondering the same thing for sometime, and now hoped for a report that would salve the pangs of conscience caused by his sudden appearance. He saw no reason to make it any easier for him, and stated the cold facts as he had to the sheriff earlier. Stanhope was obviously more effected by his reply than the lawman had been, but he could take no satisfaction from the blanched features and stricken look in the eyes of the bank president.
“Tragic, tragic,” Stanhope murmured, rubbing his hand across his brow as if to wipe the picture from his mind. “Ah, perhaps.perhaps there is something I could do.?”
“Don’t trouble yourself. Mrs. Beamer wouldn’t want you to.”
“Ah, yes. Yes, I see.” It was the excuse he wanted to change the subject. “Well, what brings you to Plainville today, Mr. Tuesday?”
“I had to see Sheriff Bentley about the accident last night. I suppose you’ve heard about it?”
“Ah, yes. Yes. I, ah, heard it on the late news last night. Terrible thing. Wonder others weren’t killed.”
“A couple of people almost were.”
“So I understand. Ah, one of your clients involved, I presume?”
“The trucking company, Central States Motor Freight.”
“I see. But then, it does seem to be pretty straight-forward, doesn’t it. I mean, accidents will happen and all that, what?”
He still seemed strangely uneasy though it was apparent that he had once again dismissed the Beamers from his thoughts. The uneasiness was causing him to overdo the British accent.
“They will and they do,” he replied cryptically. “But, in this case, it may not have been entirely accidental.”
Stanhope looked startled but tried to mask it with an air of bemusement. “Ah, is that so? What, ah, what makes you say that, Mr. Tuesday?”
“One of the witnesses seemed to think the driver was either dead or unconscious before the crash.”
“Good heavens! Poor fellow! But, of course, it, ah, could have been a heart attack or something of the sort, I suppose?”
“Yes. It could have been.”
“Of course, of course. Must have been.” He sounded as if he was trying to convince both of them. “Actually, it was probably better for the poor chap in the long run. Wouldn’t youagree, old man?”
“I would. Except that he was a young man in the prime of life. A heart attack seems unlikely. But, if it was anything like that, it will undoubtedly show up in the autopsy.”
Stanhope looked unhappy again. “Ah, autopsy, you say? Well, it would hardly seem necessary under the circumstances.”
“I believe it’s required whenever a doctor isn’t present at the time of death-violent death, at least.” It was as good a time as any to end the conversation. He was intrigued by the banker’s evident disquietude, but the discussion was leading nowhere. “I was just on my way to the hospital to see the coroner. I only stopped in to cash a check.”
“A check. Certainly. Happy to do it. Just let me initial it for you.” He handed him the check, certain that his eagerness to be helpful was only prompted by a desire to see him leave as quickly as possible.
“There you are, old man,” Stanhope said, handing the check back. “Any of the tellers will be glad to cash it for you.”
“Thanks.”
“Not at all, not at all. Glad to be of service. Good to see you again.” Looking at a point beyond him, he added, “I believe my secretary has a call for me. Have to run. Sorry. Goodbye.”
Stanhope patted him lightly on the arm and strode quickly toward the rear of the bank where he disappeared behind the oak-paneled door of his office. It had been a peculiar performance. Normally, Stanhope’s portrayal of the urbane British sportsman was letter perfect. But, the mask had slipped, revealing an aging actor having trouble remembering his lines.
Either the memory of the Beamer accident or the circumstances surrounding the death of the truck driver had shaken his composure. Only, there seemed no logical reason why either should bother him. The first, in the words of the sheriff, was a ‘dead horse’, and the second did not seem to have the remotest connection to him. Possibly, he had more compassion for his fellow man than he had given him credit for.
He went to the nearest teller window, cashed the check and left the bank. Retracing his route across the square, he climbed the courthouse steps, walked the length of the building, past the sheriff’s office, and down to the basement. There was a light behind the glass partition of the coroner’s laboratory and, ignoring the admonition on the door, he walked in. A thin young man in a stained, white smock looked up from the microscope he was bending over and, in answer to his question, told him ‘Doc’ was still at the hospital. He thanked him and left, climbing back up the metal stairs to the parking lot.
As he walked to his own car, he noticed that Elise’s was gone. The hundred dollar payment to the sheriff had, at least, brought prompt results. He drove out of the lot, around the square and out the main street to the edge of town where the hospital was located just off the highway. A sign reading ‘Hospital Zone-Quiet’ on the corner was fighting a losing battle with the steady roar of the passing traffic. He drove into the parking area and walked to the emergency entrance. As he entered, a plump, gray-haired pleasant looking woman in a volunteer’s uniform approached him hopefully, and seemed mildly disappointed when he only asked for the location of the morgue. Heading in the direction of her pointing finger, he followed the wide corridor to a flight of stairs leading down. At the bottom, a sign attached to the wall in the shape of an arrow pointed to the left. As he approached the double doors lettered ‘Morgue’ on the left half and ‘Admittance by authorized personnel only’ on the right, he could almost feel the temperature dropping.
Pushing the door open, he was instantly aware of the faint disinfectant odor of formaldehyde as he stepped though into the anteroom. A small metal desk with a swivel chair behind it, and a straight wooden chair on either side, and two four-drawer filing cabinets were the only furnishings. Another set of double doors were directly opposite. Crossing the room, he looked through the small glass panel in the door on the right. A short, elderly man with sparse gray hair was bent over a metal autopsy table, with a tall, big-hipped nurse standing next to him. Their figures hid all but the head and feet of the figure on the table. As he watched, it appeared that they were putting the finishing touches to their unpleasant but necessary task. He turned away and sat on one of the wooden chairs to wait.
It was only a few minutes before they both emerged through the doors of the autopsy room. Despite the sign on the outer door, neither seemed particularly surprised to see him there. The doctor said, “Thank you nurse”, as she continued out and then turned to him to ask in an inquiring, but not unfriendly tone, “Did you want to see me?”
He confirmed that he did and introduced himself, explaining the reason for his being there. The doctor motioned for him to resume his seat, and walked around the desk to sit in the swivel chair. Removing a pair of metal-framed glasses, he rubbed his hand across his eyes, took out a large, white handkerchief, breathed on the lenses, polished them and replaced them on the end of his long, thin nose.
Peering over the top rims, he asked, “Now, what do you want to know?”
“Was that the body of the truck driver that was killed last night that you were just working on?”
“It was”.
“Have you completed your autopsy?”
“I have.”
“What was the cause of death?”
The tent-shaped thickets of hair over his eyes rose perceptibly. “About what you would expect from an accident like that. Multiple injuries. I don’t think he’s got a bone intact in his whole body, with the exception of his skull. There were any number of injuries that could have been fatal by themselves-broken spine, ruptured spleen, crushed chest, punctured kidneys.”
He held up his hand, feeling slightly ill. “I get the picture, doctor. He was alive then, up to the moment of the crash?”
There was a fractional hesitation before the coroner replied, “He was alive. Why do you ask?”
“Because he apparently did nothing to avoid the crash, and one of the witnesses said he looked like he was already dead as he passed his car.”
“I see.”
“But you’re certain he was alive?”
“Yes, he was alive,” he repeated.
“Was there any pathological evidence to indicate he may have been paralyzed?”
“No”
“Or unconscious?”
There was another brief, slightly longer hesitation before he answered, “I don’t believe so.”
He had the feeling that the old man could-and would-tell him more if he could only think of the right questions. He remembered Ben’s seemingly wild guess on the phone last night that “somebody might have slipped him a mickey-or worse”. The suggestion still seemed fantastic but something in the coroner’s attitude indicated that perhaps it was not as outrageous as it sounded at the time.
Feeling slightly foolish, and prepared for a scornful reply, he told him, “His employer-the owner of the trucking company-says that he heard recently about a couple of hijackings in which the drivers had claimed they were drugged. Is it possible something like that had happened to him?”
To his amazement, the question was met with a steady, unflinching gaze that told him Ben had been right, after all. But the coroner did not answer the question directly. He leaned back in his chair.
“I’m not sure I should be discussing this with you at all, Mr. Tuesday,” he said quietly, “at least, not until after I have submitted my official report to the sheriff.”
“In this county, the coroner is the chief law enforcement officer,” he replied. “You don’t need the sheriff’s permission for anything you do in your official capacity.”
The doctor smiled, adding a few more creases to his already well-wrinkled features. “You’re right, of course, Mr. Tuesday. It’s a fact that most people, including myself, tend to forget-especially when you have such an imposing figure as Thaddeus Bentley as sheriff.” He leaned forward again as he continued. “All right, then. There was a faint trace of a sedative, possibly chloral-hydrate, or-as it is commonly known-’a mickey’. Certainly, not enough to kill him, but sufficient to have rendered him unconscious for awhile.”
It took a few moments to assimilate the fact that Ben’s guesswork had a basis in fact. “Can you say how long before the accident he took the drug?”
“Not precisely, no. But probably not longer than four hours.”
“And how long would he have been unconscious?”
“Again, I can’t be sure. He doesn’t seem to have taken very much. Possibly an hour or two at the most.”
“Can you say definitely that he was or was not conscious at the instant of death?”
“Not definitely. But, I believe he was. His hands were clenched tightly around his safety belt as if he were trying to free himself. They had to cut the belt to free him and he was still holding it when they brought him in.”
“If he was alive, conscious and apparently not paralyzed either, why didn’t he simply try to avoid the crash?”
There was another brief pause, as the coroner pinched his nostrils and leaned back in the chair. “I didn’t say he wasn’t helpless.”
“What does that mean?” His patience was wearing thin and he did not try to conceal it in his tone.
The old doctor spread his thin, bony hands as if to show he was not concealing anything. “Look, I’m not trying to be difficult. It’s just that I can’t be positive. His injuries were so extensive that it’s simply not possible to be certain that any specific one was not the result of the crash.”
But the implication was plain. “Was there any indication that one or more of them may not have been the result of the crash?”
The doctor’s faded blue eyes regarded him ruefully. “You’re very tenacious, Mr. Tuesday.” He sat forward again. “There were two things not consistent with his other injuries, beside the presence of the drug, that is. One; there was a small contusion at the base of the skull which could have been caused by a blow from a blunt instrument or, possibly, something like a karate chop and two; the brain contained an unusually small amount of blood, and there was a bluish tinge around the nose and mouth; a combination of factors which could indicate that he was, or had been, on the verge of suffocation shortly before the crash.”
He tried to digest the information even as he tried to form his next question. “How long before?”
The coroner shrugged. “It’s difficult to say. Certainly no more than an hour, probably less.”
“Could the bruise, or the lack of blood in his brain, have been due to any other causes, doctor?”
The old man shook his head slowly from side to side. “If they are, I don’t know what it would be. I questioned the two orderlies who brought in the body, and a member of the fire department squad who helped remove it from the wreck. They all agree that there was nothing in the cab that he could have struck his head against that would account for the bruise-and the bruise is the only injury that he sustained above the shoulders. Barring a severe head injury, a low blood supply in the brain is symptomatic of either strangulation or suffocation-and there were no signs of the former and nothing in the nature of his other injuries to account for the latter.”
“Then, the bruise, and the near suffocation definitely occurred before the crash?”
“It would seem so,” the coroner agreed.
“From what you’ve told me, doctor, it is very possible-even probable-that he was drugged, which rendered him unconscious for as much as two hours; regained consciousness only to be knocked out again by a blow on the head; and then was almost suffocated before finally dying in the crash.” When the doctor did not disagree with his summation, he continued, “and you think that while no one of these factors, except the last, was serious enough to kill him, the combination left him powerless to help himself.”
The coroner pondered the hypothesis for a moment. “It is pure speculation, of course. There’s not enough evidence to draw any definite conclusion other than that he died as a result of the injuries he received when he hit the abutment.”
“Will the evidence be included in the official autopsy report you give to the sheriff?”
He seemed to have anticipated the question. “The presence of the physical conditions which I observed will be. Their possible cause or effect will not be.”
The connotations of the coroner’s findings were astonishing and frightening. He could think of nothing else to ask about the driver, or the cause of his death-although he thought there should be.
“Thank you, doctor. You’ve been very helpful.”
He stood up, preparing to leave, and extended his hand across the desk. It was gripped with surprising strength.
“You’re quite welcome, Mr. Tuesday.” A faint, conspiratorial glint brightened the old doctor’s eyes. “Thank you for reminding me of my status in the community.”
In the doorway, he turned back to ask, “I presume he has been definitely identified?”
The coroner nodded. “Yes, his parents and his wife were here last night.”
“Thanks again, doctor,” he told him as he stepped into the hall, letting the door silently swing shut behind him.
He climbed the stairs to the main floor and walked back down the corridor to the emergency entrance, stopping at the phone booth he had noticed earlier. Depositing a couple of quarters in the coin slot, he dialed his office number and the phone on the other end was answered on the first ring by the older of his two employees.
“The Tuesday Agency. Mrs. O’Brien speaking.”
“Good morning Gladys. It’s me. Have you heard about last night’s accident involving Central States Motor Freight?”
“Oh, yes sir. I heard about it on the ten o’clock news. They didn’t mention the name of the trucking company, but Mr. Wozniak called me first thing this morning. I was just getting the claim forms ready to send to him.”
“Good. I’ve been out in Plainville following up on it, and I’m going to drive in to see Ben now. You can reach me there if you need me.” Which was doubtful since she was extremely efficient, and quite capable of running the agency by herself.” Is there anything else that needs my attention at the moment?”
“No sir”, Gladys advised. She insisted on calling him “sir” despite his many efforts to persuade her that it wasn’t necessary. He had finally ceased trying-or caring.
“Have you notified the adjusters yet?” he asked.
“I was waiting to hear from you before I did,” she replied.
“Then tell them I’ll be handling it myself,” he advised her.
“Yes sir, but they won’t like it.”
“You know what my answer to that is, Gladys.”
She did, so she did not bother to respond.
“Besides, they should be used to it by now.”
His penchant for occasionally conducting his own investigations-as he had done with the Beamers, and now intended to do with last night’s accident-instead of following the normal practice of turning them over to an adjuster, had; in the beginning; caused some raised eyebrows and even considerable indignation in some quarters of the insurance fraternity. But, the adjusters he usually worked with had learned-or, at least, had resigned themselves-to accept his decisions in such matters with only minor grumbling-and he didn’t think there would be any real problem in this case.
“I’ll call you later in the day, Gladys,” he told her as he hung up the phone.
Walking out of the hospital to his car, he glanced at his watch and saw it was, already, almost ten-thirty. Still as he drove out of the parking lot and crossed over the highway to the eastbound ramp, the evening seemed a long way off.