Mortal Remains

by Peter Clement

  The second floor was a carbon copy of the first. The third and fourth the same. Looking out a window he got a bird’s-eye view of the grounds. Through the falling snow and dying light, the stalks of grass now seemed black, resembling a wildly irregular bed of needles amidst an encroaching border of brush. He scanned the edge of the trees beyond, making sure that none of the shooters he’d heard earlier had taken a notion to come here and fire off a few more rounds to test their marksmanship.

  Still alone, as far as he could tell.

  Continuing to use his flashlight, he descended to the basement and strode through an area of sinks, counters, and wires dangling out of walls.

  Must have been the kitchen.

  Down another corridor he passed several big rooms, the functions of which he couldn’t fathom. Through a particularly large metal door he entered the biggest room he’d seen so far, the walls covered in green tiles, a central drain in the floor, an abundance of plug outlets along the baseboards, and a solitary, heavy-duty electrical cord sheathed in metal dangling out of the ceiling. For an OR lamp, he thought. This had been the delivery room.

  He played his light at where the examining table would have been, and found himself thinking of the ordeal the women must have suffered through at that spot. Their eyes bulging from the iron grip of contractions, they would be spread-legged under the white glare – like specimens. From the stories he’d heard, the pain might have been compounded without anyone with them to hold their hands, stroke their heads, murmur comforting words, or even say their names. Instead, they’d feel only the cold probe of steel instruments, hear nothing but their own cries and clipped orders to push, see little else but a ring of censorious eyes above a circle of surgical masks. At the final expulsion, would they strain to catch a glimpse of the child as the cord was cut, before the tiny infant, wrapped in a blanket, was whipped out of the room, never to be seen again?

  His fists tightened.

  But those were the norms back then. What had any of this to do with Kelly, and why had his father kept newspaper clippings about a place of such misery? He’d come no closer to answers to those questions. He hurried back up the stairs, playing his beam of light from side to side, making sure no wandering rats were anywhere near. He made his way to the front room, slithered out the window, and stood on the stone steps, taking in deep, long breaths of the cold night air. The snow came down more heavily than before, and in the dim illumination of twilight he could see the beginnings of a lacy white pattern between the stalks of grass. Once more he peered along the forest’s edge, checking for hunters.

  No one.

  Walking quickly, he started toward the dark opening in the trees, where he would pick up the dirt road. He felt the cryptlike heaviness behind him, and despite himself kept taking quick glances over his shoulder. Only the black line of his own footprints disturbed the charcoal-shaded landscape.

  Not paying proper attention to the ground in front of him, he’d gone less than a dozen steps when he stubbed the toe of his running shoe on a rock and tumbled forward. He sprawled onto what felt like a sheet of plywood that sagged under his weight. He quickly rolled off, got to his feet, and, using his light, looked more carefully at where he’d fallen. Sure enough, a four-by-eight rectangle, the standard size of a plywood sheet, lay outlined in a dusting of snow. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered, remembering what would be under it.

  The well.

  They’d avoided it like the plague as kids. Avoided all wells. Every mother in Hampton Junction drummed the rule into her children from birth. Still, now and then a kid tumbled down an uncovered shaft, driving the point home with brutal clarity.

  These wells had been dug deep, sometimes 150 feet to reach a stable water table, and the water was cold. A few children had actually survived the ordeal of falling in, hypothermia having kept them alive until they could be retrieved and resuscitated.

  Mark lifted the board and saw a four-foot-diameter hole lined with mortared rock. These were the old kind, drilled and dug by hand a century ago and made to last. Cautiously leaning over, he probed the darkness with his flashlight. He saw water about forty feet down. It had been raining a lot, so the level was high. God knows how deep it was. He picked up the rock he’d tripped over and dropped it in. The splash echoed back up at him, and air bubbled to the surface for what seemed a long time.

  Better tell Dan to have the Braden caretakers get it fixed before some child fell in. He wasn’t sure if that would still be Charles Braden’s responsibility.

  The run through the forest seemed darker than before, and he used his light. The snow had started to penetrate even here, reaching the ground and creating a glistening carpet of white that sparkled in the beam. Overhead it accumulated along the tops of twigs and branches, making silver webs throughout the trees, as if giant spiders had been at work while he’d been inside.

  He rounded the bend that had kept the grounds private from people peeping in at the gate. Feeling chilled, he pulled the hood of his jacket tighter and picked up his pace.

  He still kept looking over his shoulder. The solitary line of his footprints ran back as far as he could see, and he thought of all the four-legged prey that would now leave distinct tracks as they fled the men with guns.

  When he returned his attention to the path ahead, he saw two figures silhouetted against the gray opening at the end of the road.

  He stopped.

  They just stood there, absolutely still.

  “Hey!” he cried out, shining his light in their direction. The beam barely reached them. He couldn’t see their features by it, but it illuminated the area enough to make out the shape of the rifles they were carrying, the barrels vaguely pointed at him. “I’m Dr. Mark Roper, the coroner. You shouldn’t still be out here after dark.”

  No reply.

  Not that he expected them to jump when he spoke. His authority over hunters kicked in only after they shot one another. “There’s no trespassing here,” he added, remaining motionless. He didn’t think for a moment they’d take a potshot at him, but being in front of anyone who might be liquored up and have their weapons off safety made him very cautious.

  He heard them laugh, then saw them turn and walk back toward the highway.

  Mark exhaled, his breath white on the frost. Only then did he realize he’d been holding it. He quickly ran the rest of the way to the road, feeling a sense of relief once he emerged from the murk of the forest to the lighter shades of darkness.

  “Assholes!” he muttered, starting toward home. After thirty yards he spotted where their tracks led back into the forest. He ran by, trying not to look in that direction, but he could feel their eyes on the back of his neck all the way to the next bend.

  “I’ll go out there, but they’ll be long gone,” Dan said, sinking his fork into an extra wide wedge of apple pie.

  Mark sipped his tea. “I figured you might find their truck or car at the side of the road somewhere and ticket the hell out of it.”

  They were in Hampton Junction’s best eating establishment, its name, The Four Aces, scrawled in big purple neon letters across the front windows. Inside the lighting was as dim as in any New York City lounge. The room itself was long and narrow, a bar running the length of the back wall, the booths for eating lined across the front. It boasted the finest home cooking of any restaurant in the state, and most of the townspeople agreed, barring Nell, of course.

  Dan and he were at their usual table in the corner, where they could talk privately and see anyone approaching in time to shut up before being overheard.

  “I’ll try my best, Mark. Did you have a good run, otherwise? You don’t look as relaxed as usual.”

  “Not really. By the way, there’s also a well on the property that needs a cover.”

  “Really? Shit. I’ll have to contact old man Braden’s caretakers. What did you go in there for anyway?”

  “Last night I found clippings about the place in an old file my father had on Kelly.”

  Da
n’s fork stopped midway between his plate and mouth. “Oh?”

  For the next five minutes the man didn’t eat a bite as Mark summarized what he’d found, leaving out the specifics of the medical entries. “I’ll make you copies of the articles and the letter. As for Dad’s clinical notes, there’s nothing much there anyway.” They’d worked enough cases together to develop a routine. Medical records remained confidential and off-limits to the sheriff. But Mark had no hesitation signaling when they weren’t relevant anyway.

  Dan went back to his eating. “Shit! You’ve been busy.”

  “Except we’re not much further ahead. The letter just confirms that she had a lover. It isn’t enough to get Everett back on the case.”

  Dan chased down the last few crumbs of crust on his plate. “Probably not.”

  Mark sat staring out the window, saying nothing.

  “Hey. Are you sure you’re all right?” Dan asked, after downing the remains of his coffee in one swallow.

  “Of course. Why?”

  “You got that look in your eye.”

  “What look?”

  “Like you’re about to take another trip.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “You’ve taken a lot of trips this year. Let’s see, there was London, San Moritz, Cancún, Hawaii, South Beach in Florida-”

  “Those were conferences.”

  Dan grinned. “Yeah, right. As if you suddenly forgot so much medicine you need twice as many refresher courses?”

  “Have you got a point to make?”

  “I do. This comes from one who has been there. Don’t let yourself get bushed. You remind me of myself after Marion left.”

  On the drive home Mark turned the radio up loud, hoping a dose of music would blast his brain free of the day’s dregs. As if the Bradens and the McShanes weren’t enough, the last thing he needed was a little homespun advice. He knew Dan meant well, but the guy’s butting into his private life irritated him. The trouble was Dan had no one to care about, nothing coming of the attempts he’d made to start dating again. Being a forty-year-old cop in a town most people considered as exciting as Mayberry, he’d only been able to muster a few summer romances with women who’d come here to vacation. Predictably, they left in the fall.

  Not much different from his own ladies, he had to admit, and cranked up the volume even more as the strains of a familiar song filled his Jeep.

  … When the night

  has come,

  And the land

  is dark,

  And the moon

  is the only light

  we’ll see…

  Flashing along tendrils of mist, his high beams picked up a truck parked over on the shoulder of the road. Nearby a huddle of men, most of them still carrying their rifles, were lined up taking a piss. One of them toasted him with a silver hip flask as he passed.

  … No I won’t be afraid,

  Oh I won’t be afraid,

  Just as long as you stand, stand by me.

  So darlin’ darlin’ stand by me…

  He belted out the chorus as loud as he could.

  Chapter 6

  Saturday, November 17, 2:30 P.M.

  Metropolis Club, New York City

  Feeling gloomy and foolish, Mark was back at the bar picking up his second glass of white wine. He was gloomy because of the event itself – a memorial service for a woman who’d died twenty-seven years ago. The tributes by high school, college, and medical school classmates had seemed thin and hollow to him. No one captured Kelly’s real warmth and sense of mischief. Rather, they’d remembered her as some kind of hardworking, self-sacrificing tin saint. And Samantha McShane. The woman made a complete ass of herself, droning endlessly how she suffered over the loss of her beloved daughter. Her lengthy, self-aggrandizing remarks made him sick. By contrast, Chaz’s tribute to his wife came across as surprisingly dignified and tender.

  He sauntered to the far corner of the impressive mahogany-paneled room, took a healthy swig of wine, and looked over the small crowd. Oh, yeah, he felt foolish all right. How in heaven’s name had he convinced himself that he was going to find leads by talking to the people who came to this service?

  A prick named Tommy Leannis, a plastic surgeon who’d been a resident with Kelly, had blown him off, seeming afraid that the Bradens wouldn’t approve of his talking with the coroner. Another med school friend of Kelly’s, Melanie Collins, made him feel uneasy with her not-so-subtle sexual come-on. She was at least fifteen, maybe twenty years older than he, and a good-looking old gal, but her assertiveness was a turnoff. She helped in one thing she told him, though. She’d said that “a person could hide everything but two conditions – being drunk and being in love” – and that Kelly definitely had been in love at the time she’d disappeared. In love… the man in the taxi. Damn, he had to find that guy.

  Braden Senior had been smarmy as ever when they’d exchanged a few words, and Chaz seemed even more nervous than he had been in Dan’s office. Mark got nowhere fast with either of them. Time to toss back the rest of his wine and leave, he decided, when he spotted a tall, slim man with a very attractive blond woman on his arm, one of the few couples he hadn’t yet approached. He put down his glass, went over, and introduced himself.

  “Ah, Dr. Roper, the coroner on the case,” Earl said. “I’m Dr. Garnet, but call me Earl. This is my wife, Dr. Janet Graceton.”

  They all shook hands

  “So tell us,” Earl continued, “what’s your connection to Kelly, other than having had the investigation dumped in your lap?”

  The comment took Mark by surprise. “How did you know it was a dump? You’re not connected with NYPD are you?”

  Earl laughed. “No, I’m in ER at St. Paul’s Hospital in Buffalo, though some of my staff probably think of me as a cop.”

  “And I deliver babies,” added Janet, her smile bright. “We’re definitely not with the police.”

  “But bureaucracy’s bureaucracy,” Earl continued, “and I’ve had a lifetime of stuff shuffled my way. As soon as I saw the article in the Herald, I figured they were sloughing the whole thing onto you.”

  “I’ll say they did. Though I would have done whatever was necessary anyway, to bring Kelly justice. She was a very special lady.”

  “You knew her?” Earl asked.

  “Only as a kid.”

  “Really. What do you remember of her?”

  “Like I told everyone here, I remember the important stuff for a seven-year-old boy. She could ride a bike like the wind, had a jackknife dive to die for, and when it came to cannonballs, no one on the dock was safe.”

  Earl laughed again, even though his eyes remained sad. Mark found him more sincere than those who’d gushed over Kelly at the service. He immediately liked Earl Garnet.

  “What else?” Earl asked.

  And Mark had figured he’d be the one asking the questions. “Well, I guess what I recall most was how much fun she was. She always made me feel great.”

  “She sometimes mentioned a Dr. Roper. Was he your father?”

  “Yes.”

  “She spoke very highly of him. Said he was the one who gave her enough confidence to apply to med school.”

  “I know she sure liked talking with him. They’d spend hours together in his study. He actually was her doctor for a while. I found his old file on her in our basement.”

  “It must be especially sad for him, knowing someone murdered his protégée.”

  “At least he was spared that. He died nearly a couple of months after she disappeared.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

  “It was all such a long time ago.”

  “Yet her disappearance must have been painful for him and for you. Did he ever talk about it?”

  Boy, this guy likes to probe, Mark thought, also realizing that he didn’t mind. Earl seemed genuinely interested. He could tell by his eyes. They never wavered from him. “Actually, I didn’t know she had vanished. My fath
er told me only that she’d gone away, and I had no idea I’d lost her until much later. As a result I haven’t any traumatic last-time-I-saw-Kelly stuff to cloud my memories of her.” He found himself smiling. “So all of them are pretty happy. My favorite even now is of us spending hours on the dock, swimming and joking together. She especially liked watching the clouds and making crazy interpretations out of the shapes.”

  Earl’s face suddenly grew animated. “Ah, yes, Kelly and her cloud game. It was fun-”

  “You played it with her?”

  “Yes-” He seemed to stop himself, his expression growing serious again. “It must be hard for you, investigating who killed her, yet having been so close.” Oddly, he sounded guarded now.

  Shit, surely this man wasn’t going to suddenly bottle up the way Leannis did. Then he noticed how still Janet Graceton had gotten and the sideways look of astonishment she gave her husband.

  The moment hung there, the seconds elongated.

  He didn’t figure it out.

  It simply popped into his head.

  Intuition, insight, instinct – whatever, he just knew. This guy had loved Kelly. He must have been the one!

  As he cast about for what to say next, a dark shape moving across the other side of the room drifted into his field of vision. He turned to see Samantha McShane glide toward Chaz Braden, a half-finished drink in her hand.

  “Murderer,” she said, her voice low, yet the guttural sounds traveled throughout the room.

  Chaz froze, his own drink halfway to his lips.