by Nero Blanc
Belle didn’t speak for the next minute. She was too busy listening. Rosco watched her face for signs of what was transpiring, but she seemed as perplexed as he. He sat in a canvas captain’s chair, realizing too late he’d squashed one of the puzzles she’d been assessing for her collection. “So, nothing was taken …? That you could ‘detect’ …? I don’t understand. What do you mean by ‘signs of a search’ …?” Again, Belle remained silent, at length adding, “Well, my father’s personal effects are with—” Rosco raised a hand in gentle warning. She nodded her comprehension.
“His effects are in a storage facility. Only furniture and a couple of pieces of clothing remain in the apartment … But if nothing was left in the dresser drawers …? I see … Okay … Yes, I’ll contact my father’s former secretary, and inform her. She no longer has keys to the apartment, but I’ll ask her to get in touch with you. The locks will need to be … Okay … Yes … The police …” Belle scribbled names on a piece of scrap paper, then finally concluded the conversation with a grateful: “No, of course, it’s not good news. But I appreciate your diligence …” Then she hung up and turned to Rosco.
“Your father’s apartment’s been ransacked,” was all he said.
“The term Security used was ‘signs of a search.’”
Rosco stood and walked to her. He held the crushed crossword in his hand. “Sorry about this—”
“Oh, who cares about the damn thing!” She grabbed it out of his hand and dropped it on the desk. “The same person submitted two at the same time … I’ll publish the other one, the stop sign puzzle I showed you …” Her voice started to break, but her words kept streaming out. “Just look at the title. It Hurts So …”
Rosco took her in his arms. “This could be simply a nasty coincidence, Belle … Kids breaking in, hunting for cash … They find the place virtually empty and turn it upside down out of spite—”
“You don’t believe that, Rosco.”
In answer he hugged her tighter and finally said, “Do you want me to phone Deborah Hurley?”
“No, I’ll do it …” Belle sat again, and hunted for the Hurleys’ listing. Her shoulders sagged as she picked up the receiver and punched in numbers. When an answering machine picked up, her head drooped as well. “Debbie, this is Belle Graham. Sorry to phone so late, but I’m afraid I’ve got an emergency … Someone broke into my father’s apartment. Would you mind doing me a favor and contacting Security? They’re expecting your call.” Belle left the pertinent information, then concluded with a weary: “I really appreciate your help … Call me back … I’ll give you Rosco’s pager number if that’s an easier way for you to contact me.” She supplied the information, dropped the phone back into the cradle, then immediately retrieved it, this time leaving a similar message for the realtor in charge of selling the condo.
Finally she looked at Rosco.
“I’ll handle the Sanibel Police, if you’d like,” he said.
“Thanks … but I think we should do it together.” She stood, crossed over to him, and gave him a loving kiss. Then her expression turned serious again. “What I don’t understand is this: If Father was killed, why wouldn’t the police in Boston have been suspicious of foul play? Wouldn’t there have been signs of … of something? A struggle … or something? Why didn’t they even suggest an autopsy?”
“Obviously, there was no substantive evidence to make them question their initial supposition … And at your father’s age, a heart attack seems a pretty logical bet.”
Belle nodded slowly, but didn’t speak.
“I’m going to suggest we do something that may seem unpleasant, Belle … I’m going to suggest that you and I go down to police headquarters first thing tomorrow morning, and have a chat with Carlyle at the city morgue.”
“But he had nothing to do with Father’s—”
“I know that. But if anyone can provide us with information on murder methods that are difficult to physically detect—or trace—it’s Carlyle.”
IT HURTS SO …
Across
1. About; abbr.
4. Diner offering
8. __Rios
12. RAF kin
14. Resound
15. “What Do You Know About Love” artist
17. Exchange premium
18. 1956 McCormack film
20. Some limerick writers
22. Sonnet’s end
23. Feline utterance
24. Scottish John
25. Loot
29. 1973 Sheen film
33. “American Gothic” artist
34. Silkwood and Brockovich
35. Be beholding
36. Chemical suffix
37. Magistrates of Venice
38. Part of AT&T
39. German article
40. Swell
41. Jack’s gal
42. 1994 Barrymore film
44. Teases
46. Sound of frustration
47. NYC subway line
48. Lava, e.g.
51. Pink poodles, to some
56. 1972 Bridges film
58. Always
59. Lady of song
60. Brute lead-in?
61. Seaweed product
62. Employer
63. Mar
64. Draft org.
Down
1. Hermit or king
2. Young Frankenstein’s love
3. Bust
4. Sexual lead-in
5. 46-Across, in Berlin
6. “__Got You,” Patsy Cline hit
7. Quoit peg
8. Trials
9. Certain small plane
10. Hot in Haarlem
11. Hosea
13. Used bread on the gravy
16. Tampa time; abbr.
19. Stage whispers
21. Yours and mine
25. Geek
26. Ancient Greek land
27. “And found ___ in wand’ring mazes,” Milton
28. A.L. batting champ, ’85–’88
29. Aweather, opp.
30. Out to lunch
31. Lived
32. Hawks
34. Drum solo
37. North Carolina town
40. Some large digits
41. Area west of the Dead Sea
43. Some loafers
44. Straighten
45. Industrious type
48. Compass point; abbr
49. Ontario lake
50. Taro root
51. Maine seaport
52. One opposed
53. Part of S&L
54. Some are herbal
55. Trips up
57. Workout target
To download a PDF of this puzzle, please visit openroadmedia.com/nero-blanc-crosswords
CHAPTER 19
Carlyle, Newcastle’s chief medical examiner, had never been one of Rosco’s favorite people; and the feeling was more than mutual. When Rosco had been with the police department, his run-ins with Carlyle had often been “testy,” to say the least. Rosco was the type who tended to go with his hunches while Carlyle invariably insisted on sticking to the facts, and only the facts. Their differing methodologies had produced decided dissension when Rosco’s hunches panned out to be more accurate than Carlyle’s facts—a situation that had occurred more than once. It was for this reason that Rosco had enlisted the assistance of his former partner to help break the ice with the ME.
“You just have to know how to handle the guy,” Lever said as he, Belle, and Rosco stepped from the elevator in the basement of the Newcastle Police building. “You have to be willing to use some well-placed flattery …”
Belle glanced down at the gray linoleum floor tiles, and then at the institutional green walls. Fluorescent lighting illuminated the hallway, giving everything and everyone a cold and sickly look. Halfway down the hall Lever opened a heavy glass-paneled door and held it for Belle and Rosco. When they stepped into the morgue, their nostrils were attacked by a strong chemical odor, a
nd their bodies experienced a noticeable drop in temperature, making the sunny August morning outside seem no more than a distant memory.
Carlyle was at the far end of the room standing at a stainless steel examining table. A corpse was stretched out in front of him, and his assistant, Estelle, was hanging over his shoulder like a hungry vulture. He removed some unrecognizable piece of human tissue from the corpse and handed it to Estelle.
“Let’s get a weight on that before we move on.” Carlyle then glanced toward the doorway and noticed his three visitors. “Is it ten o’clock already?”
“Yep,” Lever said with a not-too-convincing smile. “We’ll just wait over here until you’re done with that … piece of business … Take your time.” Despite a career that entailed frequent visits to the morgue, Lever had never become inured to its grim ambience. His stomach churned every time he stepped through the door.
Carlyle stripped off his latex gloves and deposited them into a receptacle marked BIO-WASTE. “Estelle can finish that one up,” he said as he approached. “Cut-and-dried. It’ll be the last time that schnook ever fools around with a married woman … Lead poisoning—in the form of a .38 caliber slug to the heart.” He directed the entire conversation toward Lever, as if Belle and Rosco weren’t in the room. “I understand Polycrates is now questioning the judgment of the Boston Police Department. How’s it go? The more things change, the more they stay the same? Well, better them than me. What’s all this about?”
Lever looked at Rosco and gave him a shrug that said: The floor is all yours.
Rosco cleared his throat slightly. “I don’t know if you heard, but Belle’s father passed away on an Amtrak train back on the thirteenth. The Boston ME found nothing suspicious and deemed it a heart attack. The body was returned to a Newcastle mortuary and buried three days later.”
During Rosco’s brief speech, Carlyle’s face changed from a stone-cold, all-business expression to a look that resembled compassion—an emotion Rosco had never seen the ME register before.
“I’m sorry,” Carlyle mumbled as he brought his eyes to meet Belle’s. “Someone gave me a bunch of wrong information. I had no idea it was your father on the train. In this business everyone tends to be referred to as a John Doe. And of course, there’s a kind of ME’s gossip network in New England—everyone talks about everyone else’s business. Anything interesting, death-wise, gets thrown over the transom—so to speak … I’m sorry … I wouldn’t have been so … well …”
Rosco and Lever were left speechless by the ME’s admission—to say nothing of his gallant manner. Belle extended her hand. “It’s nice to finally meet you … I’ve heard a lot about you.”
Carlyle nodded in Rosco’s direction. “Well, if you’ve been listening to him, you’ve most likely been given some misinformation as well.”
Belle smiled. “I know; he can be a little hardheaded sometimes. But I’m working on that.”
“I apologize for my lack of tact—”
“It’s okay. Really …”
Lever scowled. For a moment he wondered whether the morgue chemicals had begun to affect Carlyle’s brain. The man hadn’t displayed an ounce of human kindness in his life. “What Belle and Rosco were wondering,” he interjected, “is this: Is it possible that Theodore Graham could have died under circumstances that might have been less than natural? And could that cause of death have eluded the medical examiner in Boston?”
“I.e.,” Carlyle said, still looking at Belle, “you have reason to believe we’re looking at a homicide?”
She took in a deep breath. “There’s nothing substantiative to prove that. It’s just … well … There have been a lot of strange questions popping up.”
Carlyle pointed to a round table with six folding chairs scattered around it. “Why don’t we sit.”
Lever picked up the petrie dish that had been designated “morgue ashtray,” and lit a cigarette. He dropped the match in the dish. As an afterthought he said, “This doesn’t bother anyone, does it?” No one troubled to answer.
“I know this is a sensitive topic,” Carlyle said after everyone was settled, “so, Belle, please let me know if I’m being too blunt. It can be my nature at times … Okay, back to the gossip drifting over the proverbial transom … A body turns up on a train …? People in my field begin to talk … Now, I’m not saying the man in Boston did anything wrong or made any errors in judgment, because I might well have made the same analysis if I’d been the first one to examine your father—”
“But it’s possible Boston could have missed important evidence,” Rosco said, interrupting.
Carlyle ignored him and continued to focus on Belle. “It’s virtually impossible that the ME in Boston would have missed anything physical: torn or rumbled clothing, bruises, contusions, et cetera. He would have also noticed any nose or ear bleeding or swelling, fluid discharge, dilation of the eyes, or skin discoloration. All of these things would have indicated that things were not right, not ‘natural’ as Al says … and he would have pushed for an autopsy.”
“But he didn’t,” Lever said as smoke drifted from his nostrils.
“Obviously he saw nothing out of place. But then again, he had no real reason to suspect anything was wrong. From what I understand, your father’s body had been removed from the train before the ME arrived on the scene—allowing Amtrak to return the train to service. That’s a frustrating situation for any ME. We’re better judges, when it comes to analyzing a suspicious situation, than your average beat cop—or train conductor. For instance, the position of the body at time of death can tell us a lot. The man in Boston didn’t have an opportunity to make that type of assessment. Another factor to consider is that your father wasn’t a local Bostonian.”
“What does that have to do with it?” Belle asked.
“Well, the police would have had an immediate history. They would have been able to discover if the John Doe had a nefarious past, if he owed large sums of money, if he had an unhappy family life, had recently quarreled with someone, etc. The department would have been keyed into that background information, and would have studied the situation from a local angle; ergo, a lot closer.”
“He’s right,” Lever added. “The first order of business is to contact next of kin … If they don’t raise any questions, and if the death appears to be natural, most municipalities are very happy to let the entire business drift away.”
“So you’re saying there’s no possible way my father could have been murdered?”
“No. No. Not at all. But the only manner in which your father could have been killed—without the Boston ME becoming suspicious—would be if he’d ingested some type of specialized poison … At this point, the only way to confirm the presence of such a chemical would be to exhume your father’s body and perform an autopsy … And to be perfectly honest, Belle, after an undertaker has treated a corpse with embalming fluid, it can be difficult to get completely accurate results. We can be fairly positive, but nothing’s one hundred percent.”
At that moment Rosco’s beeper sounded. He glanced down, tapped a button, and silently read off the number. He then pulled the beeper from his belt and handed it to Belle. “Florida. I think that’s Deborah’s number. Do you want me to call her back?”
“No, I’ll do it.”
Carlyle said, “Use the phone in my office,” then stood, crossed the room, and formally opened another glass door for Belle. He returned to the table, and the three men watched her sit behind Carlyle’s desk and dial the phone.
Rosco was the first to break the silence. “I was under the impression that if someone had been poisoned, it would be fairly obvious to a medical examiner.”
With Belle gone, Carlyle’s stony expression returned. “I guess you’ve been under the wrong impression, Polycrates. Why doesn’t that surprise me?”
Lever rolled his eyes as the ME continued. “There are substances that can be placed in an individual’s coffee, water, fruit juice, whatever, that will bring on symptoms
resembling a coronary—and that can fool the casual observer. Anectine—succinylcholine—is one of these; it’s odorless and highly soluble in water … Of course the chemical will show up in the drinking vessel when tested, and a thorough autopsy will also reveal its presence. Then there are substances that have to be injected. Tubarine—tubocurarine chloride—has been employed in criminal cases. Symptoms resemble those of heart attack victims … Likewise Pavulon—pancuronium—which also presents as a probable heart attack … All three substances are neuromuscular blocking agents. Reaction time for each is immediate.” Carlyle thought for a moment. “Pavulon’s difficult to detect if an autopsy isn’t performed quickly.”
Lever stubbed out his cigarette in the petrie dish. “Correct me if I’m wrong, Rosco, but I’m guessing Belle isn’t going to warm up to the idea of exhuming her father’s remains.”
“I wouldn’t think so, Al … But who knows; she can surprise you.”
“And the odds of finding a two-week-old coffee cup in Amtrak’s trash are next to nil,” Lever observed quietly. No one laughed.
Carlyle glanced through the glass at Belle. “Well, those are your only options, gents—if you want conclusive proof.”
Unable to hear the conversation, Belle stared worriedly at the three male figures as she tapped her fingers on the desk top and waited for Deborah Hurley to answer the phone.
After the third ring she heard a male voice sing out, “Hurley residence,” from the other end of the line.
“Oh, hi, Mike … it’s Belle Graham. I’m returning Debbie’s call … or rather, she was returning my call … anyway … I got her page. Is she there?”
“No. Sorry, Belle. It was me who paged you. I apologize for not reaching you sooner. I got your message about the break-in. That really stinks. Things like that don’t usually go on down here. But you know. Summer. Kids with too much time on their hands—”
“I’m sorry to bother you with this, Mike.”
“It’s no bother … It’s just that I’ve pulled extra duty, and Deb left for Kings Creek yesterday to visit her aunt.”
