Mortal Remains

by Peter Clement

  “Well, I guess that’s true-”

  “I wonder if you and I could have a word in private?”

  Here we go, Mark thought.

  “Of course.”

  “Perhaps you’d be kind enough to wait for me in the library. I have to speak with the caterer, but will be along in a minute. You remember the way, don’t you? You used to play there as a child.”

  The double wooden doors of polished mahogany were as high as the fifteen-foot ceilings. They opened as soundlessly as he remembered, admitting him to the silent interior. Overhead chandeliers suspended from dark wooden beams cast a dim golden glow over the thousands of book spines that lined the shelves along the walls. Though the room seemed smaller than before, it remained impressive.

  Perfect, thought Mark. With the two of them alone, Braden would be more likely to start in with his refined arm-twisting techniques. There’d be no need to keep it polite. That might be more revealing about any family secrets Braden wanted to keep hidden than the nuanced exchanges they’d had thus far in the middle of crowds. Mark might even press him a little – make him defensive about Chaz.

  As Mark waited, the soft pungent smell of leather mixed with the caramelized odor of varnish. Closing his eyes, he could have been backin that time when the three people he loved most in the world were as close as the next room, all happily, he’d believed, laughing, eating, and drinking together. Then he felt all the more desolate for the reminder of what he’d lost. “Goddamn it,” he muttered, starting to stroll and read the titles, anything to prevent the past from reinvading his memory. He resented such incursions at the best of times. Somehow, in this house, thoughts of his mother, his father, and Kelly were unseemly fresh and doubly painful.

  Yet he found himself heading for the corner he’d liked best – the place where he had curled up on one of the big leather reading chairs with books on travel adventures that were full of wild-animal pictures.

  On the way he passed entire sections of medical works, and quickly appreciated the extent of the collection. Interested, he took a closer look.

  Initially he saw worn, faded books on obstetrics, some of them almost historical records exhibiting how crude and primitive the profession once was. Others documented more recent history. He pulled down an old leather-bound text dated 1930 and, flipping through it, shuddered at the realities of infant and maternal mortality in the era when his own parents had been born. Ether had been the only anesthetic, sulfa the only antibiotic for infections, and neonatal care for any compromised infants amounted to little more than keeping them warm and hydrated until they died or revived on their own.

  The next shelf over contained more up-to-date texts on both childbirth and neonatology, some of them real doorstoppers. Mark remembered his OB rotation under Charles Braden – it had been the man’s last year before retirement – and, whatever he thought of him personally, begrudgingly admitted how excellent he’d been as a teacher. Always on top of current practices, Braden had a wonderful knack for putting those techniques and advances in the context of how things were before.

  A few steps farther, he found a whole section of completely contemporary editions, including the latest works on high-risk births, neonatology intensive care, and the management of congenital birth defects. There were scientific publications as well – molecular biology, DNA, the human genome – and tucked alongside them were reprints of articles that Charles Braden coauthored six years ago outlining the potential of screening amniotic fluid for mutated genes to diagnose genetic abnormalities in utero. Handwritten notes in the margins outlined the commercial possibilities of marketing kits to make doing the job easier. Well-thumbed journals with the latest studies in theoretical applications of gene and stem cell therapies completed the collection.

  This was not a person who had slipped into retirement and let his profession pass him by. He’d kept up.

  On the adjacent shelves, he found the other end of the spectrum – the less noble records of the profession, including yellowed tracts from the thirties and forties that were little more than fascist rants on eugenics. Filled with crude caricatures of Africans pointing out their Negroid features and accompanying texts that were outright racist in attributing inferiority to such physiognomy, these were published in both Boston and New York. Other paperbound manuals hailing from the University of Berlin spewed similar filth about Jews, but had been translated into English by a well-known Manhattan publishing house better known these days for bestsellers by lawyers. Still others were journals that tried to argue the superiority of the white race through exhaustive measurements of cranium sizes on cadavers.

  “I see you found my hall of shame,” Charles Braden said from the doorway.

  Mark gave a start. He quickly slid one of the works he’d been perusing back into its slot.

  “I remember poking through books in here as a kid, Dr. Braden.” He gestured to the room as a whole, hoping to draw attention away from that particular section. “Except I obviously didn’t appreciate then the extent of the medical collection. It’s very impressive.”

  “Please, continue to browse. And don’t be embarrassed. Most doctors are drawn to those particular writings. They’re both fascinated and repulsed.” He started toward him, and pointed to the shelves near the end of the wall. “Down there are the big results, the global offspring of these poisonous tracts” – he hooked his thumbs at the odious titles Mark had been looking at- “if they are allowed to bear fruit. Come, take a look. The legacy of hate.”

  Not sure what Braden was getting at, or why the man would even collect such despicable material, he hesitated.

  “Don’t be shy.” Braden walked to the next set of shelves and ran his hands over the half dozen maroon spines of what resembled an encyclopedia set. “These are bound articles related to war crimes of doctors in Germany and Japan during World War II.” He pulled one out and handed it to Mark. “This author actually does a good job at explaining why genocide occurs.”

  As Mark glanced at it, he recognized the name of a Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist whose work he still read regularly in the Herald. Braden had tagged some of the more insightful pieces, often the same ones that Mark remembered clipping and saving when he needed a little extra help sorting out the latest ethnic cleansing on the planet.

  Braden moved on to less-weathered volumes. “The study of how our profession has strayed into evil is a pursuit of mine,” he said. “We should all be forced to read the obscenities of science, in order that none of us drift into a similar arrogance.”

  Mark picked up the top sheet of a printout that had obviously been taken off the Internet. It reported on recent war crime prosecutions in Tokyo. Included were photos of a vivisection being done on an unanesthetized pregnant woman in a notorious torture camp during Japan’s occupation of Manchuria. The woman had screamed entreaties that her baby be saved as they cut out the womb, read the caption quoting one of the witnesses. He shuddered, and returned it to its place. “Strong stuff.”

  “We have our local brand of monsters.” Braden reached up a few shelves and handed Mark a pamphlet written in the early thirties by a Dr. Brown from a town not twenty miles north of Hampton Junction. It argued for the smothering of babies at birth if they have obvious physical defects.

  The back of Mark’s throat closed as he tossed the paper onto the nearest shelf. “That’s hideous!”

  “Don’t think this guy was that far off the thinking of the time, at least in small places like this.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It was the depression. The good Dr. Brown and every other GP in impoverished, isolated parts of the land would look at a severely deformed baby they’d just delivered and think, What about the family? Barely able to survive now, how will trying to care for this hapless creature sap the little energy and money they have for the healthy siblings? Most doctors might just despair, but some might act – think the right thing to do would be protect the other children from even more abject poverty than th
ey already suffered. Haven’t you ever wondered why there are so few older adults with severe disabilities in the little villages of rural America?”

  “You’re kidding. You don’t believe doctors actually smothered infants.”

  “And you don’t believe it ever happened.”

  Mark felt too startled to speak. He’d heard stories from long ago about midwives doing that kind of thing, but not doctors. “Surely that’s the stuff of rural legends.”

  “I think you’re hopelessly naive.”

  “Hopelessly naive to say most doctors draw the line at murder.”

  “Yes, it is about drawing lines. Except those lines – between right and wrong, life and death – change with the circumstances and the times. Look how blurred it’s getting these days in ICUs with all the high-tech advances we have in keeping people alive.”

  Even though Braden’s tone was quiet and polite, almost professorial, Mark felt uncomfortable. Why was the man going on about this? It certainly wasn’t what he’d brought him into the library for. And right now, that was all Mark had an interest in. “Why did you want to see me, sir?” The question sounded more impertinent than he intended, but it got to the point.

  The landscape of Braden’s features shifted slightly, from pensive to thoughtful. Not different in a way he could describe, but different.

  “I wanted to thank you for the discreet way you’ve been handling your investigation into Kelly’s murder,” he said.

  The compliment caught him by surprise. “I haven’t done anything special.”

  “That can’t be true, not for Mark Roper. You’re too much like your father. Best damn mind. Inquisitive as hell. That’s what made him such a great doctor. Could have been a leading specialist in any field he chose.”

  “He was. He chose to be a country doctor, and was the best at it.”

  “Well, yes…”

  “Dr. Braden, why did you invite me here?”

  “Who do you think killed my daughter-in-law?” he answered without missing a beat.

  Mark didn’t reply, beginning to feel all the digressions in their conversation were deliberate, meant to throw him off.

  Charles looked him right in the eye. “Your asking around after the memorial service, did it give you any idea who the mystery man was?”

  “No.”

  “You looking for him?”

  “I’m looking at all the possibilities of who her killer might have been.”

  “Including my son?”

  “To be frank, yes.”

  “Who else?”

  “That’s not something I’d discuss-”

  “The mother?”

  “As I said-”

  “Any other leads?”

  Mark sighed. “No.”

  “No? My sources at the hospital tell me you’ve recruited a former classmate of Kelly’s to snoop around for you. Earl Garnet. I looked up his record. Pretty smart. But he seems to be asking the same stale questions you are.”

  “As I said, all possibilities-”

  “I’m disappointed, Mark. Going after my son is an old idea already pursued to a dead end by the police. And having had Samantha thoroughly investigated by private detectives without results, even I have to admit that going after her is an old idea, too.”

  So much for putting Braden on the defensive about Chaz, Mark thought, irritated he hadn’t managed his host the way he’d planned. He could either walk out, or stand here and defend himself. “It’s fresh ideas about old suspects that I’m after,” he finally said, and started for the door.

  “What if I told you I had a fresh lead?” Braden called after him.

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  An insinuating silence worked on Mark’s back until, halfway to the exit, he turned and asked. “Okay, what is it?”

  “I might be able to give you a new suspect, somebody who no one else has thought of.”

  “Who?”

  “I can’t tell you right now. But I’m working on a promising idea. Just give me a few days to verify what I’ve found. All I’m asking in the meantime is that you hold off on any move against Chaz.”

  Mark slowed. He finally had the opening he needed to put Braden on the defensive. Wheeling around, he jabbed his forefinger at him. “So your privileged, fifty-something brat can take another shot at me? There’s a fresh idea for you!”

  Braden frowned. “I’m afraid I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Oh yeah? Monday night someone fired a bullet through the window of my Jeep, remember? Dan Evans questioned you about it.”

  “Why, yes. I knew that. It was a terrible incident. But you can’t be suggesting Chaz had anything to do with it.”

  Mark said nothing.

  The pleasantness on Braden’s face withered a shade. “Of course you know the penalty for libel, defamation of character, and unprofessional conduct.”

  “Are you threatening me, Charles? You did tell me to call you Charles, didn’t you? Well, Charles, some people might construe that kind of language as an attempt to intimidate me while I’m doing my duty as coroner.”

  The older man’s eyes seemed sad. “What I’m doing is trying to tell a young hothead whose father used to be a guest here, at Kelly’s insistence, by the way, that if he picks too much at a scab, he’s liable to find unexpected pus.”

  “And what the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means sometimes we’re forced to face unpleasant truths, aren’t we?”

  “Oh?”

  “Did you ever wonder why, when your family visited here your mother looked so unhappy? Of course, maybe you were too young to notice that sort of thing. But she used to hang around in the background, scowling, all while your father laughed and enjoyed Kelly’s company.”

  Mark felt as if a snake that had long lay sleeping deep in his subconscious suddenly stirred. “If you must know, she despised how you and your friends treated my father.” His throat tightened on his words as he spoke.

  “But that’s the reason she’d give, isn’t it?”

  A terrible coldness formed in his chest. “What are you getting at?”

  “Just remarking on how lonely your father must have been during the years after your mother died. He and Kelly spent a lot of time alone during that period, didn’t they?”

  “Son of a bitch!” Mark started for the old man.

  “Are you menacing me now, Mark?” Charles said. His voice rose only a shade louder, but it reverberated with authority.

  Mark checked himself, his fists clenched.

  “Innuendo can be so damaging, almost as much as the lies that have been told against my son.”

  “Is there a point to this, Charles?”

  “Only that this case could get a lot messier than you ever imagined unless you slow down. What’ll happen to your credibility once the press gets even a whiff of the possibility you could be covering up an indiscretion on the part of your father with the victim?”

  “What!”

  “It’s not me you have to worry about. I already told you, I may have the evidence to hand you Kelly’s murderer in a matter of days and end this nastiness for all of us while protecting the reputations of the innocent, your dad’s included. So in the meantime, back off, young man.”

  Mark stood still, his insides tightening as he contained his fury. He’d been outflanked and trapped.

  He pivoted on his heel and strode down the corridor back into the salon, unsure how long he could keep from throttling the manipulative bastard.

  Lucy was still surrounded by her newfound admirers. He walked up to where she held court. “Sorry to interrupt,” he announced, “but Dr. O’Connor and I have to leave. We’ve got a patient in the oven that needs basting.”

  She looked startled, but said lightly, “He just means my turkey.”

  “By the way,” Mark continued, “I hope you boys are more careful with your rifles than the asshole who took a shot at me two nights ago. It happened on a country road not twenty mil
es from here.”

  The men fell quiet.

  “What are you saying, Dr. Roper?” Braden asked, having rushed in a dozen seconds behind Mark.

  “Oh, I think you know. Just some of my ‘fresh thinking’ again. Since you already told Sheriff Evans that Chaz was sick and headed back to his New York apartment that night, I thought I’d ask a few of his friends what happened. Maybe they know something about it.”

  Braden stiffened. “I’ll have you know that my guests are all excellent marksmen.” His normally genial tone had turned to ice. “Harrison here is even a regular participant in the Marlborough hunt. Besides, these men didn’t arrive until Tuesday. So if you’re suggesting any of them could be part of that unfortunate incident, you’re not only unforgivably rude, but sorely mistaken.”

  “Really? I’m merely advising everybody with a gun to be careful. Very careful.”

  Before anyone could say a word he took Lucy’s arm and walked out of the room.

  “You sure do know how to start a war, Mark Roper,” she said once they were out on the highway. Her tone sounded more amused than critical.

  He could barely speak, still shaken by the slimy insinuations Braden had made. Of course they weren’t true, he kept telling himself. But the press would have a field day with that kind of salacious garbage. And he’d better improvise something to explain himself to Lucy. She was looking at him expectantly, obviously awaiting an explanation for their abrupt departure. “Sorry for losing it back there. I just wanted to shake their above-it-all, smug-assed attitudes. And that house, it stirred up a lot of memories, from when Mom and Dad were alive.”

  She didn’t reply, but he could feel her studying him as he drove. His knuckles hurt, he gripped the steering wheel so hard, and his clenched teeth made his jaw ache. “So what did you learn from the boy’s club?” he asked, her silence getting to him.