Another Word for Murder

by Nero Blanc

  The smeary steel doors of one of the four elevators opened. A few men and women hurriedly strode off; many more walked on; some words of greeting were exchanged but not many, as the doors closed and the metal box creaked upward. Monday morning, even Monday morning at almost nine thirty, wasn’t the cheeriest hour at the Crier.

  Belle rode to the third floor, where she and some equally silent colleagues exited. Then she walked down the lackluster corridor with its tired beige paint and its scuffed beige floors and turned the key in her, yes, beige office door. She was in the midst of condemning the designer who’d created such an impersonal space—something she did on a regular basis—and wondering whether the intention was to prove the superiority of cerebral activity over visual stimuli, when a manila envelope lying on the floor caught her eye. Someone had slid it beneath the door, which was not how mail was delivered at the Crier.

  Her instantaneous reaction was a double dose of the apprehension than she’d felt in the lobby. Belle sensed the missive related to Dan Tacete—which then immediately led her to a more powerful response, which was panic. Although without basis and completely inexplicable, Belle felt as though she were the crime’s mastermind and was now in danger of being caught. I’d never make a good crook, she decided, bending down to pick up the envelope. I just don’t have the cool nerves required for the job. One strange look from any of my co-workers out there on the elevator would cause me to blurt out the truth.

  She closed the door behind her and locked it—another bizarre nod to the clandestine mission she felt she’d embarked upon.

  Seated at her desk, which was a rectangular piece of dark beige laminate covering a pressed-wood core, and facing a built-in bookcase constructed of the same attractive stuff, Belle opened the envelope and pulled out a crossword. Her breathing had grown fast and shallow; her eyes crossed in recognition as she read the title, “As Time Goes By,” and the constructor’s name, “Sal D. Anderson.”

  She quickly scanned the Across and Down clues. Sure enough, the theme was not only time but the actions that accompanied it. At 12-Across was a reference to the Biblical book of Ecclesiastes in A time to SPEAK; 13-Across was A time to DIE. A time to WEEP was at 27-Down; 34-Down was A time to KILL.

  SPEAK, Belle thought. If Rosco and I—or Karen—share what we know with the police, does Dan Tacete DIE? But even as Belle pondered this horrific possibility, her brain made the next leap. Like the two seemingly innocent puzzles she’d received at home, and had assumed were intended as submissions for her crossword compendium, this creation was full of clues based on childhood tales. Like Miss Muffet’s curds; Jack Be Nimble prop; Hänsel und Gretel…. Belle actually felt herself begin to pant, and her stomach churned in distress. What if the other puzzles had contained clues that she’d missed? What if the situation with Dan could have been prevented? What if the constructor had been trying to warn her that something evil was afoot? And Sal, the mystery constructor? Is that a man or a woman? Is it short for Sally or Salvatore?

  A knock on her door made Belle spin in her chair; she shoved the crossword under a pile of papers before moving to twist open the locked knob.

  “Goodness, mia Bella, you look as though you’ve seen a ghost! You’re as white as a sheet of empty newsprint. Or should I say, as gray.” Bartholomew Kerr tipped upward on his toes as he spoke, his enormous glasses enlarging his myopic eyes and making him appear insectlike in his intensity. He looked like a praying mantis cloned with a particularly frail specimen of the human race. Despite the Crier’s gossip columnist’s disconcerting appearance, however, he was the soul of kindness where his friends were concerned; and Belle was numbered in that elite group. “What are you doing, hiding in here, my dear? Not constructing a ransom note in crosswords, perchance?” Bartholomew chortled at what he intended as a witticism, but Belle continued to gape down at him in distress.

  “A ransom note?”

  “Or a message concerning a heinous heist…. Although the latter might be unwieldy, given the amount of time required to ink in the answers, and the probable intervention by the constabulary before the crime could be considered a fait accompli, and so forth.”

  “Time?” Belle murmured. She was trying to focus her thoughts on this conversation but wasn’t having much success.

  “Oh, dear me, I see I’ve disturbed you when deep in lexical mode…. I’m like that nasty man from Porlock.”

  “‘Porlock’?” Belle echoed.

  “Now, Bellisima, don’t tell me that you, our resident maven of ars poetica could possibly have forgotten the wretched fellow from the hamlet of Porlock who disturbed the young Mr. S. T. Coleridge in his Somersetshire snuggery when he was in the throes of penning Kubla Khan? Of course, our famed word-smith was high as a kite on laudanum. Not terribly laudatory, but there you are…. ‘Beware! Beware!’ as he himself wrote before going on to extol the benefits of drinking ‘the milk of Paradise’ …”

  Belle remained mute, but Bartholomew was now on a roll and didn’t notice. “A terrible husband, though, by all accounts was our beloved Samuel T…. Kept disappearing from his dear wife and kiddies and washing up in the flesh-pots of the Mediterranean…. ”

  Belle nodded, although the action was halfhearted.

  “Different days, back in the early eighteen-hundreds. I would imagine a clever person could do a most credible vanishing act, as opposed to nowadays with our myriad electronic minders: cell phones and autos equipped with sateliteenchanced tracking devices, and so on…. A pity, really. I suppose Coleridge and all those other naughty writer laddies who snuck away for a little fun on the side would not have produced their extraordinary bodies of work if they’d been within beeping range of home and hearth. Rather spoils the pleasure if your phone transmits a digital photograph of your insalubrious surrounds back to the mother ship…. Speaking of which, any word on our latest dust-up? The tooth-man gone to earth …? You’re acquainted with the wife, I believe—”

  “No,” was Belle’s too-rapid reply.

  “Oh! I was misinformed, then. I thought I saw you two having a confab in the dog park.”

  “Oh, yes … yes, I’m a friend of Karen’s,” Belle said with what she hoped was a candid smile. “But, no, she hasn’t shared her concerns about Dan with me.”

  “Well, that’s an oddity in itself, isn’t it? Aren’t gal-pals traditionally prone to divulge all, as opposed to their tight-lipped masculine counterparts who would sooner die than ‘breathe a word about their loss’—to slightly misquote R. Kipling?”

  Belle became aware that Bartholomew’s professional manner was asserting itself. He was clearly on the scent of a story for his column.

  “Maybe the lovely lady’s hiding something,” he added.

  “Oh, I don’t think so,” was Belle’s airy answer.

  “Hmmmm …” Bartholomew cocked his big head to one side.

  “Besides, I’m trying to give Karen a little space right now. The last thing she needs is a curious friend pestering her.”

  “Hmmmm …” Kett repeated. “And this from our nationally acclaimed ‘crossword sleuth.’” Then he eased back from his search mode. Belle was a friend, not a “contact,” after all. “Well, let me know if there’s anything juicy in the works, Bella mia. I’ll be the soul of discretion…. Well, perhaps not the sole, when so many of my detractors refer to me as a shark circling the waters of celebrity. But I do promise to sheathe your illustrious name in the deepest secrecy…. ” With that, Bartholomew began to toddle away, but he turned to face Belle once more. “Remember what I said about Coleridge’s unfortunate troubles, dear girl. Physicians and other practitioners of the healing arts can also develop an overfondness for doses of their own medicines.”

  “Smile! Good morning. May I help you?” Bonnie said into the office phone. She was doing her level best to appear as cheery as the practice’s name, but was finding the effort taxing indeed. “No, that’s correct, Mrs. Harris, Doctor Tacete isn’t currently scheduling patients…. I’m afraid I can’t
answer that question…. No ma’am, I mean ‘can’t,’ not ‘won’t.’” Bonnie’s lips pulled back to show her teeth, but the effect was more threatening than warm. “If you’d care to speak with Doctor Wagner about the situation, I can have him return your call…. ” She pulled the receiver away from her ear and winced at the loudness of the voice on the other end of the connection. “No, ma’am, I can’t say when he’ll have the opportunity—”

  But the line was dead. Bonnie sighed, then glanced at her wristwatch: 11:42 A.M. It was going to be a long day.

  She replaced the receiver, but no sooner had she done so than the button indicating the internal line lit up. “Yes, Doctor Wagner…. ? Yes, sir, I canceled all of Doctor Tacete’s appointments”—Bonnie glanced at the scheduling book lying open in front of her—“except for Mr. Rossi, who’s supposed to come in for another check-up this afternoon at four forty-five…. Yes, sir, I called his home and left a message, but he hasn’t bothered to return the call.” She gritted her teeth at the harsh words that next assailed her ear, but tried to mask her discomfort for the sake of the patients waiting there.

  “I understand your feelings, Doctor Wagner, but—” Bonnie stifled a second troubled sigh while another irate directive poured forth. “I’ll call his place of employment and see if I can head him off…. ”

  Hanging up, her left hand remained on the receiver while her right began scrolling down the computer screen until she came to Rob Rossi’s entry. Her fingers tapped the numbers for the Black Sheep into the phone. “I’d like to speak to Rob Rossi, please…. Oh, I see…. Well, when do you expect him? Oh!” Bonnie frowned as the response was given, then she replaced the receiver and sat for a moment, thinking. Her eyes were becoming dangerously brimful of tears, and the fingers of her right hand, which were still resting on the computer keypad, trembled. Her mind was not on Rob Rossi’s whereabouts, but on Frank.

  Finally, she took up the phone again and placed a brief and furtive call to her brother’s answering machine. “It’s me, Frankie. I’m at work. Don’t call me back here. Rob hasn’t been at the Sheep since Thursday…. If you’ve done something stupid and gotten him involved in this mess, you’d better let me know. I don’t know how much longer I can play dumb.”

  CHAPTER 16

  Al Lever had never warmed to the notion of disposable plastic cigarette lighters, which meant that for the past twenty-plus years he’d lit his Camels with matches—which, in turn, kept him ever mindful of the proper disposal of used matchsticks when it came investigating crime scenes. Al’s routine was simple. He struck a match, waited for its sulfur tip to cool, then stuffed the remaining sliver of cardboard into his pants pocket. His dry cleaners had picked up on this eccentricity and were careful to check for matches before running his trousers through the process. The same was true of the chinos his wife, Helen, washed and ironed for him. Early on she’d learned it was better to personally search his pockets than to suggest he might want to get rid of the burned stubs himself. That is, if she wanted her laundry to remain stain-free.

  Standing on the brambly hillside, as he stared grimly down at a still-smoldering car lying at the bottom of the ravine, Lever repeated this well-documented procedure. His reasoning was what it always was at a crime scene—or even a potential crime scene: If Abe Jones’s forensic team or the fire inspectors or anyone else investigating the site decided to scour the area, things like a discarded matchstick could play a significant role. And Al had no desire to confuse the issue.

  He took a long drag on his cigarette while the hand with the discarded match still rested as though forgotten in his pocket. He didn’t like the sight below him; and at three thirty in the morning, the black of night only made it that much more disturbing. A charred body in a burned-out automobile was one thing, and notifying next of kin, another, but this scenario was different; it was too close to home. Dan Tacete’s death would effect more than his immediate family; the ripples of loss would be felt in people Al counted as good friends. The situation would require delicate and personalized attention.

  Thoughtfully, he nudged the rear license plate with his foot. It had been torn loose during the car’s descent and now lay on the ground nearby. Al inhaled deeply once again, then sat on the end of the galvanized steel guardrail that the automobile had missed by less than two feet. He almost wished the plate hadn’t been discovered—not yet, anyway.

  Newcastle County’s medical examiner, Herb Carlyle, struggled up through the underbrush that covered the hillside, and Al watched the man tear at the vines and saplings as if he believed they’d been put there on purpose to hinder his progress. As long as Lever had known him, the M.E. had regarded any such difficulty as a personal affront.

  A thin man in his late fifties with albino-white shoulder-length hair, unhip, black-framed glasses, and purplish shadows lurking under his deep-set eyes, Herb Carlyle could look ghoulish in the best of lights. And this was not the best of lights; in fact, the flickering of the red, white, and blue emergency vehicle strobes made the M.E. look positively otherworldly.

  Carlyle grasped at the thick ground cover and swore loudly. Below him, the fire department was finishing their work of extinguishing the last of the small brush fires that had been byproducts of the crash. The vehicle itself, a 1995 Corvette, was no longer burning, but much of it had been reduced to a mass of molten fiberglass and metal. Tacete’s remains were still strapped into the driver’s seat.

  “What brings you out at this hour, lieutenant?” Carlyle huffed and puffed as he finally reached the pavement and approached Al. “This is hardly a homicide.”

  The detective only shrugged, so Carlyle continued with an aggrieved “I can’t get close enough to make any preliminary judgments, but from a distance things seem pretty cut and dried. The ground’s still hotter than blazes down there.” He stared at Lever’s stoic face for a moment, then added, “You wouldn’t have another smoke, would you?”

  Lever offered him a cigarette, let him light it from his own, but still said nothing. The medical examiner also sat on the railing, and the two men watched as the firemen began to roll up their hoses. The silence between them was not a companionable one. Carlyle had been working in the Newcastle morgue for thirty ears. He’d known Lever since the lieutenant had been a rookie cop, and the two had never hit it off. In fact, the only person Carlyle had less use for was a former NPD detective by the name of Rosco Polycrates.

  Carlyle looked around the area in an exaggerated fashion, craning his neck first to the left, then to the right; and finally added a facetious, “What? No Abe Jones here to check up on my work? Mr. C.S.I. can’t get out of bed at three in the morning? Entertaining yet another hot-patootie no doubt.”

  Al shook his head; the gesture was more out of frustration with Carlyle’s flippant attitude than in response to his query. “Busy night. Robbery’s got Jones over at Papyrus, the office superstore on the other side of the Interstate. Someone knocked off their safe to the tune of an unbelievable sixty grand. Jones and his wizards are dusting for prints. He’ll be here later.” Lever’s solemn stare returned to the ravine.

  Carlyle also studied the wreckage. After a minute he said, “I’m gathering you’re unwilling to accept the obvious, lieutenant—that this was an accident? Drunk driver? Sleepy driver?” He didn’t roll his eyes, but his caustic intent was audible in his voice.

  “I don’t know what to make of it … but the tire marks bother me. They’re too … I don’t know, ordinary. Bing: the car’s making the turn, and then bang: it’s slipping past the guardrail and plummeting over the edge. The guy barely taps his brakes? Even a drunk has a moment of panic when he spots something like this curve looming ahead of him—”

  “Hold on there, Lieutenant. First off—”

  Sensing that one of Carlyle’s lengthy and exceptionally dull dissertations was about to be forthcoming, Lever held up his hand, then reached for the dislocated plate. He tilted it toward the headlights of a police cruiser for the M.E. to read.

&nb
sp; “T-U-T-H D-O-C,” Carlyle spelled out. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means that half your work’s done. Our dead man is Dan Tacete, DDS. Sergeant Gonzalez found the tag torn off, halfway down the slope. Tacete was his dentist. Gonzalez recognized the tags and what’s left of the car—which he just happened to pull over for speeding two months ago.”

  “You mean the same Tacete who disappeared last week?”

  Lever nodded.

  “I thought he was supposed to be driving a white Explorer when he vanished.”

  “That’s what we were told.”

  Carlyle puffed on his cigarette. If Al had been looking at him, he might have noticed the M.E.’s eyes beginning to glow with a morbid pleasure. “So … the guy creeps home with his tail between his legs, tries to smooch it up with the missus but she’s not buying his apologies … then he storms off in a rage, takes the babe-magnet LT-5 ’Vette instead of the SUV family-man-mobile, gets tanked trying to drown his domestic sorrows, or hook up with some cutie at a local watering hole …” Carlyle was obviously relishing his theory. He glanced at his watch for effect.

  “The ‘Vette crashed around two thirty or three A.M, a normal hour for a D.U.I…. Hey, maybe it wasn’t booze; maybe your doc was high on some other nifty substance courtesy of the pharmaceutical industry. After all, who else has such easy access to all those nice, little pills except those of us in the medical profession? Then again, he could also have committed suicide, or as I suggested, simply fallen asleep at the wheel…. But my guess is drugs or alcohol; I’ll test for both. Nine times out of ten, those are the culprits in situations like this. That ‘moment of panic’ of yours can take a very delayed form according to the mix of substances…. Hell, remember the case of the woman in Ohio who swore she didn’t know she’d hit a homeless man …? She drove home with the guy still kicking and screaming in her windshield, and left him to die overnight in her attached garage while she went inside to sleep it off.”