A pause. “Just do as I ask,” Jameison said. “You won’t regret it.”
5
Sgt. Joe Boyd swigged his last gulp of soda. He had just inhaled a Big Mac and some fries. He was on his way to Dunedin, the county seat. He had told the Medical Examiner he would be there at 1PM sharp, and he intended to be on time.
When the M.E. finally arrived at the scene on Saturday, he’d agreed with Boyd that this probably wasn’t going to be a homicide. Still, an autopsy was required, so he had Riesner’s body sent to his lab. Not a big hassle for Boyd. Just an extra forty-minute drive along some pretty country roads.
In these idle moments, Boyd thought about the case. It had been difficult keeping a lid on Riesner’s death, especially with the scary face thing. With Hank’s help, they’d finally gotten the rest of the guys in the squad to understand the need to keep their mouths shut. So far, Boyd had been unable to locate Riesner’s parents who lived in Charlotte. The next door neighbors said they had gone to Florida for a short vacation but he didn’t have a number to reach them. A terrible thing, Boyd told the guys. How would they like to hear about their own kid dying like that through the grapevine or on the news? And think of the havoc such publicity would raise at the school?
Boyd had used the same arguments with Riesner’s friend, the student who’d found him at the apartment. Dobbs had finally located him late Saturday afternoon. It took some doing, the kid being so shook up, but Boyd finally made him see the importance of keeping quiet. It would only be for a few more days until they could locate the parents. The kid had been so pathetic. It was all Boyd could do to keep from slapping him.
Boyd arrived at the County Administration building in Dunedin. Once inside, he found a directory board indicating the pathology lab was on the first floor. He wandered the slick marble floors reading door numbers until he found it. Once inside the reception room, he was greeted by an invisible dome of flowery perfume. He looked for and found a kindly-faced older woman with close-curled silver hair.
“Can I help you?” she said warmly.
“Hi. I’m Sergeant Joe Boyd, here to see Dr. Hargrove.”
“I’ll just tell him you’re here, Sergeant.” She smiled. “Wait right there. I’ll be right back. Care for a donut, some coffee?”
“No, thanks.” He eyed the donuts. She disappeared behind a solid wooden door. No one else in the waiting room. Not like an M.E. to have a steady stream of patients. He scanned an end table for some reading material. Nothing but health magazines. He grabbed a donut.
The woman returned as he finished the last bite. “Go right in, Sergeant. There’s a doorway to a little room down the hall on your right. Dr. Hargrove will meet you there.”
“Thank you.”
He found the room and entered. Almost instantly, a man in green scrubs walked through a door, pulling a protective mask off his face. “You got anything for me, Doc? I’m Sergeant Joe Boyd. We talked on Saturday. I’m here about the kid with the scary face.” Boyd offered his hand.
Doctor Hargrove snapped off a soiled latex glove, flung it into a hazmat container and shook Boyd’s hand. It was then Boyd noticed they were meeting in a room adjacent to the autopsy room, separated by glass partitions. It wasn’t easy, but Boyd tried to keep firm eye contact with Hargrove as they spoke. If his eyes wandered two inches to the right of Hargrove’s face, he could see the good doctor’s handiwork on young Riesner, who now lay rigid on his back, half-dissected on a steel table partially covered by a towel. What appeared to be a vital organ hung suspended from a scale.
Autopsies were something Boyd had never grown used to. It made Boyd feel strange to shake hands with someone who knew what he looked like on the inside. He wondered if men like Hargrove casually dissected people with their eyes.
“The scary face?” Hargrove said, “You’re referring to my cadaver, Mr. Riesner. I’ve got a few more tests to run on him.”
Cadaver, Boyd thought. He’d been rehearsing the list of sympathetic words he’d use to explain things to Riesner’s parents, when he finally found them. He hoped cadaver didn’t slip out accidentally. “Do you know what we’re looking at here, Doctor? Did the cadaver—I mean, Riesner—die from natural causes? Something kill him like gas or poison, cause I didn’t see any marks? Except maybe those claw marks on his face, but I figured he did that to himself.”
“There’s no doubt about the cause of death. His heart went into full cardiac arrest. I can’t tell you why, just yet. His medical records may shed some light. Right now, I’m exploring for congenital heart defects. I think I’ve spotted one, a ventricular septal defect. That could certainly be the cause.”
Hargrove lost Boyd on that one. He seemed to notice and added, “You remember that college basketball player who died a few years ago when his heart just snapped after snorting cocaine?”
Boyd nodded, “You think this kid died from snorting cocaine?”
“No. I’m talking about the heart defect. It was congenital…that means he had it since birth.”
Boyd knew what congenital meant.
“A ventricular septal defect killed that basketball player. It was hiding there, dormant, not affecting his life until that critical moment. I think our lad here had something similar. I’ll know in a little while. If it’s true, I can say he died very quickly, if that’s any consolation to the family.”
Boyd sighed. “I’m sure that’ll help some. But what made his heart snap?”
“That I can’t tell you. My preliminary tests don’t show any presence of illegal substances or alcohol. Nothing that would create sufficient shock to trigger this kind of defect.”
“Do you think it’s possible this heart attack could have made his face all twisted up like it was?”
Hargrove thought a moment. “It’s quite possible. If the cardiac arrest happened in his sleep—and I believe this did—it would have produced a tremendous surge of pain. Although, I’ve never seen anything quite so dramatic before. Except in the movies.”
A picture of Riesner’s face flashed into Boyd’s mind. “Could a nightmare have triggered this…septal defect?” Boyd hoped he got the word right.
“I was thinking that very thing. But it would have to be the mother of all nightmares.”
“How about those marks on his face,” Boyd added.
“I agree, self-inflicted. Very strange. It’s what’s leading me toward the nightmare theory. It’s almost as if he was trying to get something off his face.”
“Know when he died, approximately?”
“I’m thinking death occurred sometime late Friday night, or very early Saturday morning. Sometime between 11:00pm and 2:00am. Will you need an exact time for your investigation?”
“Not for a heart attack, if that’s all it is.” Boyd rubbed his chin a moment. “Could I ask you a favor, Doc?”
“What is it, Sergeant?”
“I know this may sound strange, but since Riesner died of natural causes, could you leave the way his face looked out of your report, or at least be real vague about it?”
“Do you mind telling me why?”
“Well, the guys who answered this call got real spooked by the look on the kid’s face.” Boyd pointed toward Riesner’s body, then instantly recoiled at the sight. “I’d like to have something real rational-sounding to take back. Can I just say it was a look of pain brought on by the heart attack?”
“I suppose you can tell them that. But what does that have to do with my report?”
“I was just hoping since there’s no foul play involved, you might overlook the expression on his face.”
“I still don’t understand, why should it matter what I say about his face? If this isn’t a homicide, who’s going to read my report anyway?”
“Well, there’s something else. You know this story’s gonna be in the local news, him being a student at the school. It’s just, I’d like to keep this in the local news, if you know what I mean. There are people in the media, especially the cable news folks, who’
d like to turn something like this into a circus if they got hold of it. You know, people start talking about what terrible thing he must have seen or what scared this young man to death? They’ll dig up your report, pick out—”
“I see.”
“That kind of stuff wouldn’t be good for the town, the college, or this kid’s folks. See what I mean? If this was a homicide I’d say throw down the gloves and let’s go for it. But since it’s not, I’d hate to see this be anything more than a tragic loss for one family.”
“I guess I don’t have a problem with that. The look on his face carries no real medical significance, anyway.”
“Thank you, Dr. Hargrove. Can you email me your report when it’s complete?”
“You’ll have it late this afternoon, tomorrow morning at the latest.”
“Great. And thanks for getting with me here, Doc. You just made my week a whole lot easier.”
When Boyd got out to the parking lot, he called Hank Jensen to update him on the good news. He asked Hank to start circulating the word around the shop about the kid’s death being a heart attack.
What a break.
On the drive back to Culpepper, he thought about his reaction to the news. He couldn’t believe how quickly he was turning into a small town cop. A few months ago he’d have been hounding a guy like Hargrove, looking for dirt, even if there was none. Now he was more excited about his son’s basketball practice tonight. They were all going out for pizza afterwards. A murder investigation was the last thing he wanted to strap on right now.
6
The familiar stone wall flashed in Jack’s headlights. He braked as he rounded the curve. The wall, covered in ivy, encircled The Whispering Hills, the condominium where Thornton lived. He’d been to Thornton’s many times before, years ago, but only to give Thornton the occasional lift home. It was different being welcomed through the security gate and directed toward visitor parking.
Getting out of the car, Jack stood a moment to take it in. Whispering Hills was an attractive complex of garden-style buildings—some two, some three stories tall. Lots of trees. He walked to the glass security booth in front of Thornton’s building, checked the board and dialed Thornton’s number. Thornton buzzed him through. A few minutes later he was ringing the doorbell.
“Come in, Jack. Come in.” Thornton was smiling widely. He turned and walked down a dimly-lit hallway. “You can put your coat in the closet there beside the door,” he said over his shoulder. “You like Chinese, I hope?”
Was it Jack’s imagination or did Thornton seem drunk? He never drank, as Jack recalled, but he walked down the hallway just now like a man navigating the deck of a ship. Seeing him in the dining room light, it dawned on Jack this was the first time he’d ever been with Thornton informally. He’d never been physically fit, ranging somewhere between out-of-shape and ready for a bypass. Every day in class he wore the same wrinkled brown tweed suit. Still did. It appeared going casual at home meant losing the coat, tie, and shoes.
“We’ve got four entrées to pick from,” Thornton said as he walked into the dining room. “Stuff is so cheap, didn’t want to take a chance I’d pick something you didn’t like.”
It was an odd table setting. Fancy white china, linen napkins, lit candles, then an array of small white cardboard boxes with red stripes spread out around a floral centerpiece. Jack looked into the living area. Nicely decorated, though a bit messy. A fieldstone fireplace centered the main wall. The back wall was covered by drapes and vertical blinds.
“Sweet and sour pork, General Tso’s chicken, pepper steak and broccoli, stir-fry shrimp and vegetables,” he called out. “Have a seat. Take your pick. I like them all the same.”
Jack obeyed and began to pour the shrimp and vegetables over a mound of white rice. Moments later, Thornton came in and set a frosted glass full of wine in front of him and a chilled bottle of white zinfandel. Jack noticed a half-empty bottle of the same wine across the table by Thornton’s seat. “A whole bottle?” Jack asked.
“A gift,” he said as he took his seat. “Just drink what you want, take the rest home.”
For the next hour as they ate, the conversation graduated from small talk to catching up. He learned Thornton was still unmarried. Too preoccupied with his work to get entangled in such relationships. It sounded like an excuse. He’d come under some pressure at the school to get published again. By rights, he was next in line to become Dean of History, but the regents wanted him to be more visible. Attend more alumni events, attend more fundraisers. Thornton sounded like he wasn’t up for all the politics. He became increasingly edgy as he spoke.
“Why don’t you just stay where you are?” Jack said. “Who cares about becoming Dean? If you’re happy teaching…you do it well. Best teacher I ever had.”
Thornton sighed. “Nice of you to say, Jack. But I’m not sure what I’m going to do. Becoming Dean was a goal I set for myself when I was your age. But the job was different then. Education was different. I’ve found myself thinking of other options.” He was staring off toward the unlit fireplace. He refocused on Jack and said, “So, now that you’ve finished eating, let’s hear about you.”
Jack spent the next few minutes trying to be as vague as possible. By comparison, since they’d last met his life had been full of superlative experiences and ever-widening opportunities.
“I’ll bet you even have an agent and a publicist, don’t you?” Thornton asked.
“What?”
“For your books, your lectures.”
“Actually, I do.” Jack felt like he was apologizing. “It was just getting too much for me to manage.”
“I imagine it would.”
Jack wanted to think of some way to change the subject. He was aware of the gossip circulating in the academic world about guys like him. He hadn’t even earned his Ph.D. yet or served on the faculty of a reputable school. By most accounts, he was only half-way through his educational journey. But here he was being treated as one of the new fair-haired boys, making three times the money and wielding ten times the influence as the hundreds of faithful history professors working in the trenches. Still, if they did resent him, they didn’t hesitate to call on him to speak at their schools.
Did Thornton feel this way, too?
“Don’t get me wrong, Jack. I’m glad someone from our school is getting his share of what’s out there.”
The thing was, he didn’t sound glad. “Have you ever thought about the lecture circuit, Professor? You’re a remarkable communicator. I could put in a word with my agent, test the waters a little, see if—”
“No, please don’t do that. Not my cup of tea. I’ve got, as they say, a face made for radio. And I couldn’t say anything meaningful in a sound bite. You’ve got the looks. You’re sharp, witty, charming.” Thornton sighed again.
And these didn’t sound like compliments. The whole conversation was heading in a wrong direction. Jack didn’t feel up to the role of playing Thornton’s confidant. “Well, I really better be going. If I’m going to keep up the lecture schedule we discussed, I’ve got to do my writing at night.” He stood before Thornton could talk him out of it.
“I understand. Don’t forget your bottle.”
Jack picked it up then walked to the hall closet to get his coat.
Thornton came up behind him. “It was great to see you again, Jack. I couldn’t have been happier with the way things went this morning. What did you think?”
Jack opened the front door. “It was nice, but it was strange teaching in the same lecture hall I spent so much time in as a student.”
“You’ll get used to it,” Thornton said as Jack crossed the threshold. “Well, don’t work too late. A young man needs his sleep.”
“Right,” Jack said. “And thanks again for dinner.” As he walked to his car, he wondered if it might be a mistake developing this kind of relationship with Thornton. Maybe he should keep things like they were, distant and formal.
# # #
Nige
l Avery watched a man in his early thirties make his way down the stairs and out to his car. He’d gotten his name from one of Thornton’s students that afternoon, some kind of guest lecturer the girl had said, Jack Turner. He used to attend Culpepper years ago. Probably nothing, Avery thought, but this was only the third person Thornton had been seen with informally since he’d started his surveillance. As it drove by, Avery took down the make and model of Turner’s sporty new BMW.
Tomorrow, he decided, he’d get inside Thornton’s place and set up the bugs.
7
Jack returned to the comfort of his garage apartment. The temperature outside had dropped dramatically. Inside, an aging radiator sat to the side like a faithful dog, closing the gap on the chill. He yawned as he turned on the kitchen light and saw the time. Couldn’t believe it was ten o’clock already. Way too early to be this sleepy. Maybe it was the long day. Or maybe it was just the release of tension now that he was free of Thornton’s company.
It had been a strange evening.
He’d never thought of Thornton as anything but a success before. He still felt that way. Thornton had probably fallen into some reflective mood brought on by the wine. That was probably all it was. Jack turned the kitchen light out and walked into the living room.
He had decided against writing tonight when the yawns began in the car ride home. Instead, he sat on the couch and picked up the 1949 issue of Life magazine Thornton had given him. He turned to the cover article on Pearl Harbor. It had that old-timey look and feel to it, an ad for a 1950 Studebaker even appearing on the opposite page, going for all of eight hundred bucks.
Imagine.
After a couple more yawns, Jack got up and turned the light out in the living room. He carried the magazine and a bottle of water back to the nightstand. He propped up some pillows, flopped down on the bed and began to read. All the while, his body beckoned for sleep. He managed to read the Pearl Harbor article through twice but finally gave in. He fell asleep without ever getting out of his clothes.
Fatal 5 Page 116
