The Art of Deception

by Leonard Goldberg

  “There is nothing here of note other than his leathered skin,” Willoughby said brusquely. “With this in mind, I would expect the autopsy to be a brief one.”

  “It cannot be brief, for this is a case of murder,” I objected mildly.

  “Based on what?” Willoughby asked incredulously.

  “On the location of the body,” Joanna answered.

  “May I remind you that a body found in a fireplace does not necessarily signify murder,” Willoughby challenged.

  “It does when the fireplace is bricked in,” Joanna countered. “Unless, of course, you can describe a mechanism by which a person crawls into a fireplace, bricks it off from the inside out, then conveniently dies, but not before removing all forms of identification.”

  Willoughby’s face hardened. “I should have been given this information earlier.”

  “You should have asked for it earlier,” Joanna said easily. “But let us stop wasting time and allow the younger Dr. Watson to proceed with the autopsy. Before the final report is submitted, however, I believe it would be wise for you, as director of pathology, to carefully study it and make certain all is in order.”

  Willoughby was taken aback by Joanna’s generous offer, for there was a mutual dislike between the two that dated back to their initial encounter over a year ago. Moreover, the offer seemed to indicate that the mean, little man would have the final say in the autopsy report when in fact nothing could be further from the truth.

  “Assuming you can spare the time from your most busy schedule,” Joanna added.

  “That will present no problem.”

  “And of course all matters regarding this matter must be kept entirely confidential from prying eyes, for the case may well end up in a court of law, where experts, such as yourself, should not have their testimony tarnished by unfounded rumors or unsupported hearsay.” Joanna gave Willoughby a moment to nod, then nodded back. “Thus, it will be in your best interest and ours for not a word of this autopsy to go beyond the walls of this room.”

  “I will see to it,” Willoughby affirmed.

  “Excellent,” Joanna said. “And, as you leave, please permit us to wish you a most happy birthday.”

  “It—it was last week,” Willoughby stammered, caught off guard.

  Joanna’s face took on a pleased expression. “Better late than never.”

  “Indeed,” Willoughby said, and hurried out before we could dwell on the hint of his smile which came and went.

  I waited for the door to the autopsy room to close before turning to Joanna. “I think you managed to pacify that most unpleasant man.”

  “My intent was not to pacify him, but to keep his lips sealed,” said Joanna. “He is the talkative type who needs to prove his importance to all who will listen. He no doubt would take great delight in spreading the word of the murdered man in the fireplace and the role he, as head of pathology, will play in the investigation. In that regard, he is much like Lestrade, both of whom yearn for the spotlight.”

  “They are cut from the same cloth,” my father noted.

  “And of course the newspapers would gladly print their stories,” I predicted. “Which would no doubt reach our murderer’s eyes and give him fair warning we are in pursuit and closing in.”

  “Which would surely work to our disadvantage,” my father grumbled.

  “I do not trust Willoughby to remain silent,” said I.

  “Nor do I,” Joanna concurred. “But we may have further need of him as well, so it is best we have him on our side. For example, if there is any evidence to indicate the victim was poisoned, we would wish to identify the agent immediately. The chemists at St. Bartholomew’s would give such studies their urgent and utmost attention if demanded by Willoughby, who wields considerable power despite his most disagreeable nature.”

  “Unfortunately true,” said I, then smiled at my lovely wife and asked, “How in the world did you know it was his birthday?”

  “His shoes.”

  “But new shoes on a middle-aged man does not necessarily signify a birthday.”

  “It does in this instance, for those shoes come from Northampton, the cobbler capital of all England,” Joanna disclosed. “They are unique and easily recognized by their Goodyear Welt, which is a process of stretching thin strips of leather across the shoe in its middle area for added comfort and durability. They are considered to be high-end and very expensive indeed. Willoughby would never purchase these shoes on his own.”

  I nodded firmly at Joanna’s conclusion. The man was a miser to the nth degree, who dressed accordingly in ill-fitting suits and threadbare shirts. “For a person who pinches every farthing, purchasing such costly shoes would be out of the question. Thus, they must have been a gift.”

  “But why a birthday gift?” asked my father.

  “Because it is not yet Christmas, and the only other occasion that would merit gift-giving in a middle-aged man would be his birthday,” Joanna replied. “However, you must remember that men in general place no value on their birthday, while women keep a close eye on such dates. For this reason, men neither expect nor receive gifts on their birthday except perhaps from someone dear to him.”

  “Then it was given by a loving wife,” my father surmised.

  “He does not have a loving wife,” Joanna said. “A wife such as that would never allow her husband to appear in public so poorly dressed. His attire is so unseemly it caused me to wince. There is no love between the two.”

  “Are you implying a girlfriend was responsible for that gift?” I asked.

  “Never,” Joanna replied at once. “Most girlfriends or mistresses could not afford Northampton shoes and, even if they could, Willoughby could not wear them. His wife would surely notice and demand to know their origin.”

  “So, neither the wife nor a girlfriend could be the givers of such shoes,” I concluded. “Where then did they come from?”

  “The wife.”

  “But you just said—”

  “I said they could not come from a loving wife,” Joanna corrected. “In all likelihood, she gave him the shoes as a wonderful surprise, but not for love.”

  “For what then?”

  “Here, I would be guessing,” Joanna said, with a mischievous smile. “But an extraordinary gift is a clever way to atone for a guilty indiscretion.”

  “Oh, come now, Joanna,” my father rebuked mildly. “Such a remark is surely beneath you.”

  I lowered my voice and said, “Father, there has been a rumor floating around St. Bart’s suggesting a liaison of that sort does exist.”

  “Rumor, you say?” my father asked.

  “Backed up by a sighting, I should add.”

  My father groaned at the unpleasant revelation.

  “Which is a reminder, Watson, that all in this world is not what it appears to be,” said Joanna, as the smile left her face. “Now let us return to our mummified corpse and determine what else is not what it appears to be.”

  The body of James Blackstone remained curled up on the autopsy table, so with force I straightened the extremities, although some degree of flexion persisted. I began my inspection at the head and planned to slowly work my way down. The skull itself was entirely skeletonized except for a few sparse areas still covered with leatherlike skin. The absence of skin was important here, in that it removed any cutaneous evidence of trauma. Without dermal tissue, important signs such as abrasions, lacerations, and ecchymotic bruises would have disappeared. I proceeded to the skull bones and found all intact, with no fractures or indentations. A full set of teeth was present, with none being cracked or out of place. As I moved to the neck, I tested the mobility of the cervical spine and found it surprisingly lax. After turning the body on its side, I began a careful countdown of the seven cervical vertebrae. But midway through, I encountered a strand of thin wire that encircled the entire neck. Bits of leatherlike skin were embedded into the delicate garotte.

  “They strangled him,” I pronounced and stepped b
ack for others to see.

  “The wire sliced through the skin,” Joanna noted. “And probably through the trachea as well.”

  “But not through the cervical spine itself,” said I. “There is a looseness of the spine, however, which I cannot explain.”

  “Perhaps a broken neck,” Joanna suggested.

  “A good thought, but there is no evidence for such,” I informed. “As you can see, all the cervical vertebrae are intact and nicely aligned.”

  “Would the decomposition process allow for cervical laxity?” my father asked.

  I shook my head. “The supporting ligaments are still very much intact.”

  “Could they have become stretched over time?” my father proposed.

  “Not to this extent.”

  I returned my attention to the corpse’s neck and once more began counting down the seven cervical vertebrae, starting with the first vertebra where it attached to the base of the skull and was referred to as C-1. Then came C-2, C-3, C-4, C-5, and C—! The explanation for the cervical laxity suddenly stared up at me. The cartilaginous interspace between C-5 and C-6 was gouged out and left a wide opening that partially disconnected the two.

  “It was a double kill,” I disclosed.

  “How so?” Joanna asked at once.

  “First, he was strangled and then, while bent over, a knife was plunged into the C-5, C-6 interspace,” I replied and pointed to the gaping opening between the two vertebrae. “That thick blade was no doubt twisted in place, so it would inflict maximum damage and, when driven deep enough, would cause the spinal cord to be severed. It was a most brutal killing.”

  “Done by an expert who wanted to be certain no sign of life remained,” Joanna envisioned.

  “But after a thorough garroting, why bother with the knife?” my father asked. “Was it out of some perverse pleasure?”

  “That is a possibility,” Joanna answered. “But more likely the strangulation came first, and afterward Blackstone showed a flicker of life, like a choking sound or muscle twitch. That was when the killer ended it once and for all.”

  “Beyond gruesome,” my father noted.

  “And obviously necessary in the killer’s mind,” said Joanna. “But then again, why dispatch the one and only person who knew the precise location of the masterpiece?”

  Like before, we had no answer to that most important question and, putting it aside for the moment, I continued with the postmortem examination on the mummified corpse. Its chest wall and abdomen were unremarkable, as was the normally structured pelvis. I was attempting to move an arm for a better view of the inguinal area when I noticed a disjointed thumb. On closer inspection, it was clear that multiple fingers had been broken or smashed into bony splinters. The other hand revealed similar findings. Taking in a deep breath, I announced, “They tortured him and were in no hurry to do so.”

  I pointed to the disjointed fingers, in particular to the thumbs which were badly fractured, with sharp ends of bone piercing through the leathery dermis. “The pain must have been unbearable.”

  “What sort of human being would commit such an evil act?” my father asked, grimacing briefly at the brutality.

  “It was done by more than one, Watson,” Joanna said and leaned in for a closer examination. She showed little emotion as she studied the wrists and ankles of the corpse. “I see no ropes or marks left by them, but surely he was securely tied down for this type of pain to be inflicted, and it required more than one man to do the holding and tying. Moreover, the size of the victim’s body tells us this horrific deed was done by at least two and more likely three individuals.”

  My father looked at Joanna incredulously. “Three? Pray tell how did you reach that conclusion?”

  “It is a straightforward deduction, Watson,” she replied. “The skeletal remains indicate the victim was a relatively tall man, perhaps as much as six feet in height. John, if you would, please measure the mummified corpse and give us a more accurate reading.”

  Using a tape measure, I determined the victim’s height to be just under six feet, although this may have been a slight underestimation because of the flexed lower extremities. “At least six feet in height,” I calculated.

  “So we have a six-foot-tall victim, whose clothing tells us he was well proportioned,” Joanna continued on. “With this in mind, please tell me how many men would be required to stuff such a body into a normal-sized fireplace.”

  “Two strong men,” my father answered. “One would be needed to hold the lower extremities up, while the other pushed the head and shoulders in and upward.”

  “Even then it would be difficult, for the weight of a heavy, sagging torso would work against such an action,” Joanna proposed. “To cram such a large body into the fireplace, a total of three would be necessary. The two Watson mentioned and a third to support and push the torso forward.”

  “We know Harry Edmunds was one, but who were the other two?” I asked.

  “That is to be determined,” Joanna replied. “But what can be said with certainty is that Harry Edmunds did not work alone. He had at least one and perhaps two accomplices to help subdue and securely tie the victim.”

  “To a chair no doubt,” my father surmised. “And one or more men had to hold the chair down, for the tortured James Blackstone would have surely rocked away from the torturer.”

  “He had to be gagged as well to prevent his screams from being heard,” Joanna added. “And I suspect they turned up the furnace to full blast, so that its noise would drown out any muffled groans of agony.”

  “I cannot begin to imagine the pain he suffered,” my father thought aloud.

  “Yet he held up under it,” said Joanna.

  “How can you be so certain of that?” I asked.

  “Because the torturers were required to break multiple fingers, one at a time, in an effort to break the poor man,” Joanna reasoned.

  “Are you saying he was able to withstand the pain and not give them the information they desired?” I asked.

  Joanna considered the question before answering. “The autopsy tells us that the torturers smashed two thumbs and four other fingers, for a total of six. Blackstone did not surrender after the first fractured digit, which necessitated the torturers proceeding to the five others. Furthermore, had Blackstone given up the location, Edmunds would not have had to go about the business of slashing a bunch of paintings in his search for the hidden masterpiece. All of these findings indicate Blackstone held out until the very end.”

  “He was either very brave or very stupid, given his set of circumstances,” I opined.

  “Perhaps,” said Joanna. “But he also realized they were going to kill him once they knew the location of the masterpiece. Thus, he may have thought it in his best interest to withhold the information and thereby stay alive.”

  “If I were in his place, I would have given false information to gain time and devise a possible plan of escape,” I conjectured.

  “What makes you so certain he did not?” Joanna asked. “After all, a false lead may have been the reason for his prolonged torture.”

  “All guesses,” I said, with a shrug.

  “I believe otherwise,” Joanna countered. “For, although the puzzle is not yet complete, we have more of the pieces to work with.”

  “I take it these pieces are important,” said I.

  “Quite important if my assumptions are correct, and we shall determine that when more data is available,” Joanna replied. “But for now, let us proceed with the autopsy and see what else Mr. James Blackstone has to offer.”

  My gaze went to the corpse’s lower extremities that were flexed at the knee, yet appeared to be aligned and without deformity. Under the bright light, however, I saw a definite vertical scar on the left thigh that stood out from the shriveled leathery skin which surrounded it. Unlike normal skin, the scar would be composed of thick, fibrous tissue which would resist the mummification process far longer.

  “The wound from the war,�
�� I noted and gestured to the midthigh area. “It is thin, straight, and even, all of which indicates it is surgical in nature, and not the result of bullets or shrapnel. Nonetheless, we should search for metal foreign bodies to make certain that is the case.”

  “From my experience in war, I might add other causes for such a straight scar,” my father offered.

  “Please do, Father.”

  “Although rifles were far and away the weapons of choice, the soldiers in the Second Boer War also employed swordlike bayonets, while the cavalry used lances. Either of these would result in a straight, even wound.”

  “Excellent,” I lauded. “But would such a wound be responsible for the limp Mr. Blackstone apparently suffered with?”

  “Unlikely,” my father responded. “Unless the blade penetrated through the entire quadriceps muscle and shattered the femur.”

  “Let us see.”

  I incised through the length of the vertical scar and easily spread the leathery skin apart, for the quadriceps muscle had now disappeared. I could find no bullets or loose, foreign fragments in the scant soft tissue, but immediately encountered a metal plate that was screwed into the femur. These plates had been in use since the turn of the century and were used to fix the ends of the fractured bone together and allow for healing.

  “There is an internal fixation plate in place,” I announced.

  “Is it corroded?” my father inquired.

  “To a minimal degree,” I observed after a closer inspection. “But for the most part it is clean metal.”

  “Then I am afraid the corpse we are viewing here does not belong to James Blackstone,” my father said with conviction. “The time sequence is off by ten years or more.”