He awoke with a start from a deep, dreamless sleep, instantly aware that he had forgotten to set the alarm, and wondering what time it was. Rolling over, he saw the numbers of the digital clock on the night table change from eight-oh-nine to eight-ten.
Getting out of bed, he shed his pajamas and quickly shaved, showered and dressed. On the way to the kitchen, he noticed with mild surprise, the unoccupied and unrumpled bed through the open door of Marie’s room. Apparently, she had not come home all night. She had not been there when he finally got home at two o’clock, but she had stayed out late before, and he had been still too filled with the memory of Elise to wonder about it. Besides, she had stayed overnight occasionally with Julie Fay, although one of them had always called to let him know she would not be home. Of course, it was possible she had tried to call him last night, and was now doing some wondering of her own about where he had been-and with justifiable suspicion, he admitted ruefully to himself.
Dismissing her from his mind, he finished making his breakfast and turned on the radio to listen to the news. Following a few stories of national interest and fleeting importance, his attention was alerted by the announcer saying, “In a strange aftermath to Monday’s night’s fatal accident on Highway 32, east of Plainville, one of the witnesses, William Closter, a resident of Plainville, was found by his wife hanging in the basement of their home, when she returned from attending services at a local church last night. The Butler County Sheriff’s Office says that all the evidence indicates that Mr. Closter apparently took his own life, but that there does not seem to be any possible connection with the accident. However, they are continuing their investigation of both incidents. In other news.”
He switched off the radio. He could imagine how much investigating Bentley and his minions were doing, although it would probably be necessary for him to see the fat sheriff again later to see if he was doing anything at all. Probably the first person he should see, though, was the coroner, to find out what the autopsy of Closter might have revealed to support his belief that he had been murdered. But, before he did anything, he wanted to try to call Elise before she left for school. He started to reach for the phone, only to have it start ringing before he could lift the receiver from its cradle on the wall under the cabinet. Ben’s resounding tones were clearly audible even before he put it to his ear.
“Mark! Is that you? I just heard about Closter on the radio! What the hell’s going on? Why didn’t you call me last night?”
“Calm down, Ben. It was after two o’clock when I got home and I didn’t see any point in calling to tell you about it at that time of night, when there was nothing either of us could do about it anyhow.”
The fact was that he had simply forgotten to call him, but still, the false explanation contained enough of the truth to make it sound reasonable and acceptable. It satisfied Ben.
“Yeah. Well.. .I guess you’re right,” he mumbled. “Did you get to talk to him before he did it?”
“Unfortunately, no. He.it happened between eight and eight-thirty, well before my appointment with him at ten o’clock.”
“That’s funny. Why the hell would he ask you to come see him at ten and then kill himself before you get there?”
“I don’t know. But he was expecting someone else earlier.” He told him what the dead man had said to his wife before she went out. “But I couldn’t find anything to indicate that whoever it was ever got there.”
“And he didn’t tell his old lady who he was expecting?”
“No. He didn’t even tell her he was expecting me later.”
“He sure was a close-mouthed little sonofabitch.”
“It seems so. And his mouth is closed for good now.”
“Didn’t he even leave a note?”
“No. And he didn’t tell his wife anything about his problems, so she has no idea why he would.. .kill himself.”
Ben was silent for a moment, before asking, “Are you sure he did?”
He had decided it would be best not to whet Ben’s curiosity by describing the vague clues he had observed indicating that Closter had not committed suicide. Ben was inclined to be the opposite of how he had described the dead man and, before the morning was over, large segments of the transportation fraternity would know of his suspicions. Until he had more proof to back them up, it would be better to keep them to himself-and Elise. He was not going to keep anything from her, ever. But, he did not want to deliberately lie to Ben either.
“No. But, we both know he had a reason to and, unless I can find out if and why somebody else actually did see him earlier, it will probably go on the record that way.”
He could hear him puffing rapidly on his cigar. “Shit!” he said disgustedly. “What are you going to do now?”
For the moment, it seemed sensible to do nothing. He did not feel that he had accomplished very much as it was, except to possibly help get Closter killed, or give him reason to kill himself. But, he also knew that he was too deeply involved to drop out now.
“I was going to go see the coroner to find out if the autopsy on Closter indicated anything but suicide. After that, I don’t know.”
“What about the broad from the truck stop? What did you say her name was? Wanda?”
He had almost forgotten about Wanda. “Yes. I’ll call her after I see the coroner and try to arrange to meet her before she goes to work. But, she’s only a kid and, with Closter out of the picture, we may be coming to a dead end. Unless something else turns up, we may have to leave it up to the sheriff and the FBI to find the answers.”
“Fuck that, Mark! That fat bastard of a sheriff couldn’t find his own pecker if he didn’t have to piss once in a while”-he mentally winced at the vulgarity of the simile, but was forced to agree that it seemed to be an accurate appraisal of Bentley’s abilities and initiative-”and the FBI is more interested in the goddam caviar than either the sweaters or Haggerty.”
“Oh? What makes you say that?” he asked.
“A couple of them were here yesterday, after I talked to you. They said they had been notified by Tim O’Neill-you know Tim, my O,S and D manager-about the missing caviar.”
He recalled being introduced to him and learning that “O,S and D” meant “over, short and damaged” and designated the department responsible for handling and processing freight claims involving such difficulties.
“Only the caviar? Didn’t he report the sweaters, too?”
“Yeah, he did. But, like I said, they only wanted to know about the caviar.”
“What did they want to know about it?”
“Where it was imported from-who the overseas shipper was-stuff like that. I told them we still had the other four boxes on hand. Closter had told me when I talked to him in the morning to re-ship them as long as they weren’t damaged, and they were already loaded to go out again. We had to unload damn near half a trailer so they could take a look at them. They took them up to my office and examined every jar.”
“Did they say what they were looking for?”
He thought he could guess. A faint but viable notion regarding the exotic delicacies reported missing in each of the hijackings, now seemed confirmed by the interest of the FBI.
“Nah,” Ben responded. “You know those guys. They never tell you nothing. But, after they left, Tim told me that about six months ago we got a letter from them asking us to check our claim files for any record of stuff like that being hijacked or pilfered, and to report it immediately if it happened in the future. Tim says we didn’t have any claims like that up till then and he forgot about it until he heard about the six missing cases from Haggerty’s load.”
“Why didn’t Tim tell you about their inquiry before this?”
“Don’t get sore at him, Mark. It’s my own fault,” he admitted, his voice tempered by sheepishness. “Actually, the letter was addressed to me, but I guess when I saw it was only something about claims, I passed it on to Tim, without paying too much attention to what it said. Tim says he was going to remind me about it yesterday as soon as he found out about the caviar, but first, I was tied up with you, then I went out to lunch and the guys from the FBI arrived before he had a chance to see me.”
“What did they tell you to do with the other four boxes?”
“They said we should go ahead and re-ship them. They went out last night.”
“Did they say anything about Closter’s possible involvement in the hijacking?”
“Not exactly. They told Tim and me not to do anything to make him suspicious. They said we should just treat it like an ordinary claim and especially not say anything to him about them checking the other four boxes, or about the letter they had sent out.”
“It sounds as if they think there was something besides caviar in the six missing boxes.”
“Yeah, I know. Like dope or something,” Ben replied, putting his suspicion into words. “But, what’s that got to do with finding out who killed Haggerty?”
“Whoever is responsible for the one, is probably responsible for the other.”
“Yeah, But, hell, Mark! You already found out more in a day than they have in six months.”
He was not sure that he had really found out anything-or what else there was to find out. He felt as if he had been trapped in a stygian maze, and was stumbling around tripping over unidentifiable objects, searching for a light switch, or a way out. But, Ben was probably right. They might never find out who actually was responsible for the driver’s death if it was left up the sheriff, and the FBI was apparently after bigger game.
“Did you tell the FBI agents what the coroner had told me, or about my conversations with Closter or Wanda?”
“Nah. Your name didn’t even come up. Like I told you, all they were interested in was the goddam caviar.”
“All right, Ben. I’ll keep working on it and let you know if I come up with anything else.”
“Swell, Mark! Oh, and listen.if it still makes any difference, we finished checking out the tractor and couldn’t find anything that would’ve caused Haggerty to lose control. The poor bastard was murdered, Mark, and I’d like to see us get the sonofabitch that did it!” He finished with a roar, hanging up abruptly as usual.
It was obviously too late to call Elise, or the Adamsons either, since Cassandra would also be on her way to school by now. He thought about calling them anyhow to ask if they had seen Marie but decided against it. There was no point involving them any deeper in his personal affairs than was absolutely necessary. Besides, it was almost nine o’clock and she might be showing up any time now. It would probably be better if he left before she did-as soon as he found what his first stop would be.
He looked up the number for the county hospital and quickly pressed the button combination on the underside of the receiver’s handgrip. It was answered on the first ring.
“Is the coroner, Doctor Johnson, at the hospital now?” he asked.
“Just a moment. I’ll see,” the operator replied.
The phone was silent for a few seconds and then he heard the raspy voice of the coroner.
“Doctor Johnson, here. Who’s calling?”
“This is Mark Tuesday, Doctor. I was in to see you yesterday morning about the truck driver who had been killed the night before.”
“Oh, yes, Mr. Tuesday. I remember you.” The coroner’s tone was non-committal. He could not tell whether it was a pleasant memory or not. “What can I do for you?”
“I’m calling in regard to Mr. Closter, Doctor, the man who apparently committed suicide last night.” He emphasized “apparently.”
There was a brief silence before the voice responded guardedly, “What about him?”
“Did you know that Mr. Closter was a witness to the driver’s death?”
After another slight hesitation, he answered, “So I understand.”
“Have you completed your autopsy of him, doctor?”
“Yes. I have.”
The succinct responses indicated the same reluctance to talk that he had been aware of the previous morning. He wondered if it meant that the old man now regretted being reminded of and trying to assert his authority over the sheriff, after all. Whatever it was, it was plain that he was going to have to confide his own suspicions to him in order to regain his confidence and cooperation, but that he could not do it over the phone.
“Perhaps it would be best if I came to the hospital to discuss it with you, doctor,” he suggested. “I have some information about Mr. Closter that may be of interest to you.”
‘What kind of information?”
“The kind that would best be discussed in person.” He was growing a little impatient with his stalling, but tried to keep it from showing in his voice. “I could be there in less than a half an hour if you’ll wait for me.”
He could hear the old man’s slightly asthmatic breathing on the line before he replied, “All right, Mr. Tuesday. I’ll wait for you.”
“In the morgue?”
“No. I have an office on the main floor.” He gave him the room number and directions.
“I’ll be there as soon as I can,” he told him, and hung up.
He quickly got his suit jacket from the bedroom closet and; having earlier noticed the dark, overcast skies; took a raincoat from the closet in the entranceway. The air was heavy and damp, but it was not raining, and he carried the coat over his arm as he walked to where he had left his car parked in the driveway. Getting in, he draped it over the back of the seat next to him, backed the car out and drove through the quiet, fog-shrouded streets of the village to the highway.
The brief phone conversation with the old man had appeared to indicate that he was easily intimidated by the fat sheriff. Because he did not want Bentley to know everything he knew or suspected, he would have to be careful about what he told the coroner. He did not think that the doctor would hasten to report whatever he told him, but he might feel compelled to if the sheriff should learn of their meeting again. But, it should be enough to gain his cooperation if he told him of Closter’s apparent involvement in the death of the truck driver, and would not be any more than Bentley already knew.
It was not quite nine-thirty as he drove into the hospital parking lot. He walked through the main entrance, past the reception desk and the questioning gaze of the ‘gray lady’ behind it; and, following the doctor’s directions, located the small consultation room that served as the coroner’s ‘office’. The door was open and the old man looked up and stood behind his desk, holding out his hand. He grasped the thin dry fingers, surprised by their strength as they returned his grip. The room was as cheerless and sparsely furnished as the morgue anteroom had been except that a small window behind the desk provided a view of the outside world. But, it had now begun to rain, and the view was, if anything, more inhospitable than the barren surroundings. It struck him that the coroner was as unpretentious a public servant as he had ever come across, seemingly content to perform the duties of his office and, apparently, disdainful of the usual trappings that normally accompanied someone with his authority.
“Hello, doctor. It was good of you to wait for me,” he told him.
The old man smiled wryly. “You made it sound as if you had something to tell me that was worth waiting for, Mr. Tuesday.”
He sat down in a straight-backed wooden chair next to the desk as the doctor resumed his seat behind it. “I think you’ll find it was, but first, I’d like to ask you a question.”
The old man looked slightly apprehensive. “What is it?”
“Did your autopsy reveal any evidence to indicate that Mr. Closter may not have committed suicide?”
The coroner massaged his gray, stubble-covered chin. “I thought that’s what you had inmind. You have a knack for asking questions that, at best, are difficult to answer.”
“Why difficult?”
“Because, like the truck driver, the evidence; as you called it; is too inconclusive to support any finding other than the obvious-in this case, suicide.”
“Then perhaps I’d better go ahead and tell you what I know about Mr. Closter. It might make the evidence more meaningful.”
The old man shrugged. “I have an open mind on the subject, Mr. Tuesday.”
“Good,” he responded. “Then the first thing you should know is that Mr. Closter was more than just a witness to the death of the truck driver. It so happens that he is.. .was the Traffic Manager for Affiliated Distribution Systems at whose warehouse the trailer involved in the accident had been loaded earlier that same afternoon.”
The coroner’s shaggy eyebrows contracted in a puzzled frown. “I don’t think I quite understand that, Mr. Tuesday.”
He briefly explained to him the function of Closter’s employer, and the responsibilities of the position that the dead man had occupied in their organization. He went on to tell him of having learned that Closter had left his office early with the obvious intent of following the trailer; of his being unable-or unwilling-to account for his time or his actions prior to the accident; of the discovery that part of the freight on the trailer had been hijacked; of the previous hijackings; and, finally, of the message from Closter asking him to come to see him at home after ten o’clock that night. He paused, then, to see if the coroner recognized the significance of the time of his appointment.
The old man nodded. “I think I see what you’re driving at.”
He nodded back. “It’s pretty obvious. Mrs. Closter told me that he was apparently upset when he got home since; as he usually did; he went directly to his workshop in the basement and stayed there until dinner. During dinner he told her he was expecting a visitor while she would be out at church which, as he knew, would be between seven forty-five and nine-fifteen. But, he did not tell her of my appointment with him for later. Evidently, he was hoping that one of us-the earlier visitor or myself-would be able to help him find a way out of whatever difficulty he was in-or, at least, in my case, to possibly minimize his guilt in exchange for whatever information he could provide. In other words, he was undoubtedly hoping to make some kind of a deal with one of us. If the earlier visitor could give him the kind of protection he was probably hoping for, he wouldn’t have had any reason to see me. But, if the visitor couldn’t-or wouldn’t-then he would want to see me that much more. And-if he contemplated suicide at all-I can’t believe that he would have gone through with it without waiting to see if I could have offered him any more hope to save himself.”
He paused again and the doctor nodded in agreement. “It would seem to be a logical assumption.”
“Unfortunately, I couldn’t find any indication that the earlier visitor had ever been there and Closter did not give his wife any hint as to who he expected,” he told him. “But, if-whoever it was-didn’t show up, then his suicide makes even less sense. It’s perhaps conceivable that if he had arrived and had given him so little hope of saving himself, he might have decided there was no point in waiting for me. But, if he didn’t even keep the appointment, then it seems inconceivable that he wouldn’t wait until after he had seen me.”
“People do tend to behave irrationally under great stress,” the doctor said as he finished.
“Perhaps. But, added to the ‘evidence’ you observed in your autopsy of Mr. Closter, would you now be inclined to believe that it points more to suicide, or murder?”
The old man ran his hand over the top of his head, smoothing the sparse strands of mouse-colored hair. “The ‘evidence’-as you insist on calling it-is as tenuous and unprovable as your theory about Closter’s earlier visitor. However, let me describe it for you and you can draw your own conclusions.” He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the desk, before continuing. “In the first place, there are various forms of suicide, most of which are irrevocable once the fatal step has been taken-the trigger pulled; the knife plunged into a vital organ; the leap into space; the poison swallowed; and others. Of course, not all would-be suicides are successful, but I’ve always believed that it was usually because they really didn’t want to be.”
He hesitated, as if waiting for some sign of agreement with his premise. A non-committal nod seemed to satisfy him and he resumed his discourse. “Hanging oneself, however is a different proposition. If it’s to be quick and effective, then it’s necessary to use a good, stout rope; to know how to tie a proper knot and where to place it; and, most important perhaps, to jump or fall from a sufficient height to insure a clean, sure break. Although life may continue for some seconds, or even minutes, afterwards, the victim is usually unconscious and feels no pain. Mr. Closter did none of these things and yet, inexplicably, appears to have died peacefully and painlessly.” He peered up at him from underneath his unkempt eyebrows. “If Mr. Closter did commit suicide, he did it by slow strangulation, which is a particularly excruciating way to die, and one that affords the victim a considerable period of time to reflect on the consequences of what he is doing, to the point of wanting to change his mind. I’ve seen other victims of strangulation-some self-inflicted through accident or, as it would seem in this case, a botched suicide. But, in every case where the victim was conscious for even part of the time, the features were severely and horribly contorted. Also, if the hands were free, the throat exhibited deep scratches-even gouges-indicating the victim’s efforts to loosen the noose. Self-preservation is a virtually irresistible instinct, after all, and while the urge to die can, momentarily, at least, be overwhelming, I can’t conceive of the kind of stoic determination that would permit a man to die-as Mr. Closter seemingly did-without lifting a finger to help himself, and with no outward sign of even the slightest discomfort.”
Recalling the disturbed and agitated traffic manager, he could not imagine him patiently and calmly hanging by the extension cord from the basement rafter, while he slowly strangled to death. He was positive now-and thought that even the coroner’s doubts were not as strong as he had indicated-that Closter had been murdered. The old man seemed to be anticipating the question forming in his mind.
“Was there any indication that Mr. Closter was not conscious, or that his hands were not free, during the time he was strangling to death?”
The old man turned his palms up as if to show he was now prepared to reveal all he knew. “Well-the uncontorted features alone would seem to indicate that he was already unconscious before strangulation began. But, in addition, there was a small contusion at the base of the skull, as if he had been struck with a blunt instrument or possibly, the edge of a man’s hand.”
“A karate chop? Like the mark on the driver’s neck?”
“The marks are very similar though, of course, I can’t say for sure what caused them. However, if they were the result of a karate chop, then it seems probable that they were not both inflicted by the same man unless he’s ambidextrous. But, it seems more likely that the truck driver’s attacker was right-handed, and Mr. Closter’s was left-handed.”
“What makes you think so?”
“Because the mark on Haggerty’s neck was to the left of center and, on Closter, it was to the right of center. Which is consistent with the way such a blow would be delivered. Here, let me demonstrate what I mean.” He got up and came around the desk to stand behind his chair. Accompanied by backhand motions of first his right and then his left arms, he explained his theory. “In both cases, the attacker would have had to be almost directly behind his victim in order for the blow to land where it did. If he hadn’t been, it would have landed even more to the side of the neck. A right-handed karate chop would land about here”-he felt the touch of his dry, bony fingers on the back of his neck, a few inches behind his left ear
- “and a left-handed chop would land here”-and the fingers moved to the area behind his right ear.
As the doctor returned to his chair, he suddenly remembered the painful grip of Deputy Flynn, and wondered if it could have been the same hand-or hands-that had left its imprint on Haggerty and Closter. But, he was certain that he had felt the deputy’s thumb on the left side of his neck and realized that he must have used his right hand. Also, he had worn his gun on the right hip, and had been holding his pen in his right hand when he first saw him in the sheriff’s car. All of which seemed to rule out the possibility of his being ambidextrous. The doctor’s theory added just another piece to an already shapeless and indecipherable puzzle-and only doubled the number of murderers he now had to look for.
“It’s an interesting theory doctor,” he commented dryly. “Was there any other indication that he may have been under restraint?”
“No, unfortunately. There were no rope burns or other marks. The karate chop-if it was a karate chop-was apparently sufficient to put him out, and keep him out, until he was dead.”
“According to the deputies who were there last night, you thought he died between eight and eight-thirty. Is that right, doctor?”
“Well, after the autopsy, I’d say it was probably closer to eight-thirty.”
“In any event, it would seem that if he did kill himself, he didn’t wait very long after his wife left. And, if the earlier visitor did arrive, he couldn’t have stayed very long.” He paused, and their eyes met and held each other. “But, I think we agree now that he didn’t kill himself
- anymore than the truck driver was killed only as a result of the injuries he received in the crash.”
The coroner raised his eyebrows and his hands simultaneously, as if they operated in unison. “Just a minute, Mr. Tuesday. Personally, I’m inclined to agree with you, in both cases. But, officially, I have to deal with facts, and there just isn’t enough in either case tosupport a finding of.. .of murder.”
“What will your report say in the case of Mr. Closter?”
He allowed himself a small, rueful smile. “Quite frankly, I had been sitting here wondering the same thing while I was waiting for you to arrive.”
“How long can you delay your report?”
He shrugged. “Perhaps as long as twenty-four hours. Would it matter?”
He considered explaining about the ladder and the chair, and the pitch-black workshop, in order to convince him to change his report. But, now he decided it would be just as satisfactory if he simply withheld it until he-hopefully-had more proof. He did not want him to submit an official report of suicide since it would make it too easy for Bentley to close the case.
“Possibly,” he told him. “I have to see a couple of people today who could shed a lot of light on this whole situation.” At least, I hope they can, he thought to himself.
“All right, Mr. Tuesday,” the coroner agreed. “I’ll withhold it as long as I can. I’d appreciate it however, if you would call me as soon as you learn something more definite. If I don’t hear from you by noon tomorrow, I’ll assume that you haven’t.”
“Fair enough, doctor.” He stood up and held out his hand. He was tempted to caution him to keep their conversation confidential-especially, as far as Bentley was concerned-but decided it was probably not necessary. He felt that they had reached a mutual understanding with respect to the sheriff. But, he turned in the doorway as one more question occurred to him.
“One other thing, doctor. Was Mr. Closter’s body taken out of the house through the basement or the front entrance?”
The coroner seemed slightly perplexed by the question and took a moment to search for the answer. “Through the basement. It seemed easier than carrying him up the stairs, and easier on Mrs. Closter, too.”
As he retraced his steps to the main lobby of the hospital, he was satisfied that the doctor’s answer had cleared up one loose end at least-even though it had been only a very tenuous one, and dozens of others still dangled like cobwebs before his mind’s eye.