by Sally Wright
Jack grabbed Henri by the throat and pinned him against the wall. He held him there, glaring at his red-rimmed eyes, before he let him drop and crumple on the floor.
Henri screamed, “You bastard! You think I shall let you walk out—”
Jack had pulled a thin silver rectangle from his pocket and was holding it at shoulder level, smiling at Henri.
“What is that?” Henri was pushing himself off the floor, tugging his trousers in place.
“One of those American gadgets. A tape recorder the size of a lighter that recorded everything you said.”
“Wait!”
Jack had already stepped into the hall, when Camille said, “The families of the dead? It is time they learned how their loved ones were killed!” She closed the door, and ran down the stairs, hearing the door fly open, and Henri hollering behind them.
“Is it really a tape recorder? One so small without a cord?” Camille was watching Jack’s face intently, as they made their way through a milling crowd, heading toward their car.
Jack laughed, and said, “No, though I wish it were. It’s a Minox camera. Used during the war by American army intelligence. Did you see his face?”
“I did. It made the drive worthwhile. And you? Was it enough for you?”
“What else could we do? We don’t have any proof. So, all things considered, it’s the best I could’ve hoped for. Thank you. I couldn’t have found him without you.”
“And you are satisfied? You did not wish to kill him? Or make him suffer pitifully?”
Jack didn’t answer until they’d gotten to their car. “Two years ago it would’ve been different. But, no. He admitted what he’d done, and I got to clamp my hands around his throat and drop him on his rear end. I couldn’t have asked for more.” Jack smiled.
And Camille smiled back at him and slipped her arm inside his.
Garner Honeycutt’s office was in an old brick feed store in downtown Versailles on the west corner of Rose Hill and Main, two blocks south of the courthouse.
The faded black door stuck at the bottom and creaked when Alan shoved it, and the scarred pine floor squeaked as he and Jo walked across it to stand in front of the receptionist’s desk—broad and deep, and piled with files—with no one sitting behind it.
They stood there. Waiting. Feeling conspicuous—till they heard a door open on their right halfway down the hall that ran to the back of the building.
A tall stooped elderly man, with swirling white hair above an ancient black suit, carrying a sheaf of papers, shuffled away toward the end of the hall, muttering something and waving his free hand, till he turned right and disappeared up a flight of stairs.
Jo and Alan looked at each other, eyebrows raised in surprise, as Jo whispered “Now that’s a character out of Bleak House”—before another door opened on the left side of the hall and a gray haired woman in a brown shirtwaist dress strode straight toward them.
“Mr. and Mrs. Munro? Sorry to have kept you waiting. If you’d care to take a seat, Mr. Honeycutt will be with you shortly.”
They sat and watched her turn sideways away from them, as she fitted the ends of a gray plastic headset inside her ears, then switched on the Dictaphone next to a large gray IBM.
She used a pedal to start and stop the Dictaphone belt, and they could just barely hear snatches of dictation in the short pauses when she wasn’t typing at what seemed like blinding speed. She answered the phone and transferred calls with equal precision.
And Jo had just told Alan, whose fingers and toes were tapping as though he’d drunk too much coffee, that she wished she’d brought a book—when they heard a door open, followed by rapid footsteps approaching from down the hall.
“Alan. Jo. Sorry to have kept you. I’ve set out the evidence in the conference room.” Garner opened the door just beyond the receptionist desk, and led them into a front corner room, with windows facing Main and Rose Hill, their louvered shutters half-open spilling filtered light across the carpet while holding back some of the heat.
“Now.” They were all seated at the conference table, Jo and Alan next to each other, Garner at one end. “I’ll begin with a summary of the autopsy. They ultimately sent the tissue samples to the FBI Lab in Virginia, because the State Police Lab in Frankfort had a tough time figuring out what caused Seeger’s death. One pathologist at the FBI eventually isolated organophosphate residue in the cat’s tissue, as well as Carl’s, but he had difficulty managing the analysis.”
“He would.” Alan finished looking at a photograph of Carl’s kitchen and handed it over to Jo. “If he hadn’t been given a sample of the Dylox, he would’ve had even more difficulty.”
“But how did Carl really die? Was it what Alan said before? That he more or less just stopped breathing?” Jo was watching Garner as Alan laid a photograph in front of her of the suicide note on Carl’s bedside table.
“Yes, respiratory function ceased. Though I’m not clear, based on this report, how the Dylox caused it.”
Alan had poured Jo a glass of water from the pitcher in front of them, and was starting to pour another. “Garner?” Garner shook his head, and Alan took a glass for himself. “Dylox is a cholinesterase inhibitor. It keeps the neurotransmitter enzyme that enables nerves to communicate with each other from sending or receiving any impulses. If it was injected intravenously, or in a muscle, either one, the respiratory center would’ve been paralyzed. And he would’ve stopped breathing very quickly.”
Garner seemed to consider Alan for a minute, before he said, “I see.”
“The inhibition of cholinesterase would’ve interfered with all the other functions nerves control too, but breathing would’ve been first.” Alan was sliding a ballpoint from one hand to the other and back again, without seeming to notice. “Which wouldn’t have been a bad way to die, actually. Swift and pretty much painless, and Carl would’ve known that.”
“The most significant finding, in my opinion, in the whole autopsy report, which was certainly new information to me, was that Carl was suffering from lung cancer.”
“Really?” Alan’s head had snapped up, and he stared hard at Garner.
“The pathologist thinks he wouldn’t have had more than three or four months to live.”
“Then that’s a motive for suicide!” Jo was sitting forward now in her chair, elbows on the table. “If he knew he was dying, and it was going to be painful, he might have wanted to put an end to the pain, and make Alan suffer too.”
“I believe a case could be made for that. But there is more evidence to consider, which doesn’t look as favorable. They’ve matched the soil and screenings from outside Carl’s kitchen door to your paddock boots, Alan, and your dress shoes, and the driver’s side floormat in your car.”
“They couldn’t have! I’ve never set foot by his back door!”
“It’d be possible if it’d been planted, wouldn’t it? What if Carl put that dirt on the floor mat of your car?” Jo looked from Alan to Garner, then back at Alan.
He shrugged as he said, “That would account for it, though we haven’t got—”
“When I drove Jack Freeman up to the airport in Cincinnati the afternoon Carl died, just as he was getting out of the car, he told me that early that morning, a little after five, when your car was parked in Equine’s front lot, he was driving past, intending to park in the back lot and start mowing there, he saw a man in the front lot that he thought was Carl.”
Alan stared at Jo as he said, “Why didn’t you mention that earlier?”
“I don’t know. It didn’t seem connected till I heard about the dirt. Jack didn’t have time to tell me anything more about it either, because somebody honked behind me, wanting to pull in by the curb, and Jack grabbed his bags and rushed away, but I had the feeling there was more he’d intended to tell me.”
“We need to interview Jack Freeman as soon as we can.” Garner’s pen was poised above his legal pad and he was looking straight at Jo.
“He’s in France. I tho
ught he was coming home this week, but he hasn’t yet.”
“Can you reach him by phone, or telex?”
“I don’t know how now, but I’ll figure it out.” Jo said it as though it was a covenant of some kind.
And Garner Honeycutt laughed. “Do. Please, also, you should know that the telephone company traced all calls from Carl Seeger’s house, and none was placed to your number.”
Alan was twirling his pen on his legal pad when he said, “There wouldn’t be. Carl wasn’t stupid.”
“No, I don’t think he was.”
“What about fingerprints?”
“Yours were found nowhere in the house, or on the vial, the syringe, the suicide note, the fragment of vinyl glove, or his typewriter. His fingerprints were on the syringe and vial, but positioned and smeared in such a way that his fingers could have been deliberately positioned by someone else.”
“Couldn’t Carl have done that himself? Deliberately smear his own prints, so they looked like someone else did it?”
“One could certainly posit such a theory. The smears on the glove fragment were such that no print could be lifted. The only prints on your pen were yours. But the pen could have been handled by someone else so that no other prints were left.”
“That has to be what happened.” Jo’s eyes were fierce, and her whole body seemed so concentrated and intense, she looked as though she could’ve hovered up above her chair. “I saw in the pictures of Carl’s bedroom that there was carpet on the floor. Did Earl take samples from the carpet? Did they vacuum or anything?”
“They did. And Earl cut a sample of carpet to test and compare to Alan’s shoes and car. I meant to mention that earlier. No carpet or other fabric fibers were found on Alan’s shoes or floormat.”
Alan said, “Well, that’s something at least. How do they explain that?”
“I suspect they’re trying to overlook it. Or suggest that you removed your shoes before you entered the house. If asked they also might take the position that their techniques aren’t advanced enough to draw final conclusions.”
Alan said, “Typical. Their minds are already made up.”
“It’s an election year. The County Attorney, and the Sheriff too, are not above hoping to create the impression that they’ve swiftly solved a difficult case as men of action and ability.”
Alan nodded before he said, “I would’ve thought Earl would be above that, but he’s human. What about the lie detector test?”
“The results do indicate that you’ve told the truth, but it’s inadmissible in court.”
“At least that’s something. Earl has to think about that when he considers my case.”
“Largely, however, it’s out of his hands.”
“We’ve stumbled upon some information too that you need to hear.” Alan started with what they’d learned about Cecil Thompson, the lab supply distributor and his dealings with Carl, and how his business had folded in March, and Garner agreed that that was worth pursuing.
Jo said, “I’ve made an appointment to talk to Jane Seeger at the UK Library on Friday, and I’m going to ask her what she knows about Cecil Thompson, because if he really did blame his bankruptcy on Carl, that could be a substantial motive. And with him having access to all the lab supplies they have at Equine, it’s got to be worth looking into.”
Garner said, “Yes, indeed,” and made a note on his yellow pad.
“There’s more too.” Alan told him then about Brad and Carl meeting in February at Cumberland Falls. “Brad could’ve helped Carl set me up. Supplying him with everything from Equine. Though I have to say I find that hard to believe. He’s too careful, and too self-protective. I can see him taking verbal pot shots at me behind my back, and being suspicious of my relationship with his dad, because of how it might affect his own ambitions. But him actually taking an active role in incriminating me, or helping with Carl’s suicide? Even if his morality’s that warped, and I don’t have any reason to think it is, I don’t think he’d take the risk.”
“Have you spoken to his father, or done anything else with this information?”
“No. We waited to talk to you.”
“Let me think about it till tomorrow. I may wish to speak to Brad myself.”
“Fine. By the way, how professional do you think the Sheriff’s Department’s investigation of Carl’s house was? Were they good at not contaminating the evidence, and being as exhaustive as they should’ve been?”
“I wouldn’t say it was particularly professional. Not the way law enforcement’s developing these days from what the national legal journals are beginning to describe as routine. As an example, the investigating officers didn’t wear protective gloves at the scene.”
“What! So they could’ve left their prints on anything?”
“They could have, though I haven’t seen evidence to suggest they did. I’m sure they handled the items as carefully as they knew how. You have to understand that in most small towns today the investigating officers wouldn’t have done anything differently. Crime scene investigation is changing very rapidly, and here in Woodford County we have limited experience, and resources as well. We hardly ever encounter a case remotely like this. Bar brawls, breaking and entering, alcohol-related automobile fatalities, those are fairly routine. But sophisticated suspicious deaths with this many factors involved? Not in living memory.”
Alan said, “Nuts.” And shook his head.
“The lack of professionalism can work in our favor, as well as against us, and it’s too soon to see its significance. Yet, we do need to pursue the Cecil Thompson and Brad Harrison angles. I’m sorry to say the private investigator I normally employ is out of town on another case and doesn’t expect to be back in Lexington until sometime next week.”
Jo said, “I can ask Jane Seeger about Brad, and see if she knows anything. And what about Carl’s doctor? Should I ask her about him?”
“Yes, because so far we don’t know who his doctor was. There was nothing in Carl’s papers to indicate the physician he consulted. There was no appointment calendar, or personal address book found in Carl’s personal affects.”
“That’s odd.” Jo made herself a note to ask Jane about Carl’s doctor, even though she knew very well she wasn’t about to forget. “You’d think his doctor would know something that might help. When he told Carl about the cancer, and how he reacted.”
“Whatever you can learn will be a help. So.” Garner looked at them both, and then folded his hands on the table. “Our primary working hypothesis remains that, unless new evidence leads to a different conclusion, Carl Seeger amassed the materials from Equine and deliberately implicated Alan, while in fact committing suicide.”
Jo said, “And that means we need to establish a straightforward method by which Carl could have entered the Equine building, once the locks were changed. Not only would he have entered the building, he would have made his way into the laboratory as well, and into Alan’s office, requiring three separate keys. Correct?”
“I know! I know.” Alan was leaning back in his chair now, staring at the ceiling. “Four, actually. Counting the key to my desk.”
“The Selectric font from the lab was in fact the font used in the suicide note, as was Equine’s typing paper.”
Alan said, “The lab secretary’s been out for weeks, ever since her husband had a heart attack. She says she’ll be back tomorrow, and I’ll talk to her then and see if she knows anything that will help.”
“Good. It’s an interesting case.”
Alan and Jo stared at him.
And Garner Honeycutt smiled. “I’m sorry. My criminal work is normally confined to the pettiest of criminal behavior, so from my perspective, this case offers a welcome change.”
“I’m glad I’m providing a distraction.” Alan almost smiled as he dropped his pen on the table and crossed his arms across his stomach. “So what do you think of our chances?”
“It’s much too early to say. Their case is based on circumstanti
al evidence. If we can present conflicting evidence which effectively challenges their interpretation of the facts, one that suggests a very different explanation, we could prevail. But we’re a very long way from being able to present any such array of evidence.” Garner looked at his watch.
And Jo said, “May I ask you one more question?”
“Certainly.”
“We saw a very elderly, white-haired gentleman walking away down the hall, and I wondered who he was.”
“Ah.” Garner Honeycutt chuckled. “Uncle Emmett. He’s ninety-eight, but we still consult him on the intricacies of deeds and wills, for his grasp of the land disputes in Woodford County, ancient and modern, is nothing less than encyclopedic. His son took away his car keys this morning, and we’ve all been awaiting the eruption when Emmett discovers what he’s done.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Excerpt From Jo Grant Munro’s Journal
Friday, May 15th, 1964
Yesterday Alan talked to the lab secretary, Annette Miller. Her husband had a heart attack before Carl died, and yesterday was her first day back.
What she said about the Selectric font shows it was tampered with, though not, of course, who tampered with it.
She’d come to work on March 19th (she remembers the date because it’s her son’s birthday) and found a different font on her Selectric than she’d been using.
She normally uses Courier for the interoffice memos and reports because it’s easy to read. If she’s typing a letter for Alan on letterhead that goes out of the office, she uses something fancier. The font she found on her typewriter on the 19th was a Courier, but it wasn’t hers. She asked every typist who has a Selectric if they’d switched their font for hers, but no one admitted it. It wasn’t that it mattered, it was that it was so odd. The “o” was chipped on hers, but it wasn’t on the new one. She said she’d already ordered a replacement for the Courier the week before from IBM, but the new one hadn’t arrived.
The next day, March 20th, her old chipped Courier ball was back on her machine when she got to work.
