A Show of Hands

by David Crossman

  Gammidge ran into the bedroom and found Crisp lying peacefully on his bed. His hands were at his side. His mouth was slightly opened. He could be sleeping, but there was no movement to indicate breathing. The chair Gammidge had used the night before was still at the bedside. He sat down and placed his fingers on Crisp’s pulse points. Nothing. He shook him. No response. He ran back out onto the landing and leaned over the rail. “Matty, do you have the doctor?”

  Matty was fussing into the receiver. “What am I supposed to say?” she pleaded, looking up at Sarah and Gammidge as if to heaven. “I’ve got him.”

  “Tell him the professor’s been given the wrong medicine,” said Sarah, who seemed to be getting the better of her wits, “and he’s had an overdose.”

  Matty repeated the words into the receiver and listened to the response. “He wants to know what his vital signs are.”

  “None,” said Sarah flatly.

  “None,” Gammidge affirmed.

  “None,” Matty parroted into the phone. “What does that mean?” Again she listened, then hung up the receiver.

  “What did he say?” Gammidge demanded.

  “He says to give him some CPR until he gets here. He’s on his way,” said Matty as she ascended the stairs. The letters were as familiar to her as Nubian hieroglyphics. “Do either of you have some?”

  “I can do it,” said Sarah.

  “So can I,” said Gammidge. “I’ll help.” He took Sarah by the arm and dragged her into the bedroom.

  “Do you need anything?” Matty offered as she reached the top of the stairs. Not that she could have done anything if they had. She was beside herself. “Oh, my goodness! How could this have happened? Lord be with him!” She couldn’t bring herself to go in, so she stayed on the landing listening with all her might as Gammidge and Sarah Quinn made life-giving noises. She couldn’t imagine what they were doing.

  A sheet of plywood between the box spring and mattress provided sufficient resistance, so Gammidge decided to forego the option of moving Crisp to the floor. He crossed his palms on Crisp’s chest, pushing for all he was worth while Sarah tilted Crisp’s head back, clamped his tongue against the back of his lower teeth with her thumb, pinched his nose, and blew deep draughts of air into his mouth. Now and then they would stop to feel for his pulse. Sarah pressed her ear against his lips to listen for a breath. “It’s not working,” she said frantically.

  “Keep it up!” Gammidge ordered as he began pressing again. “Don’t stop ’til the doctor gets here!”

  “Tell me exactly what happened,” said Hanson. He was sitting across the coffee table from Sarah Quinn, speaking in soft, matter-of-fact tones in order to calm the distraught girl.

  “I’ve already told them!” Sarah responded sharply. “I told Doctor Pagitt and Mr. Gammidge . . .”

  The sound of Matty’s pathetic moanings as the doctor and Nate Gammidge descended the stairs charged Sarah’s eyes with a new torrent of tears. Hanson gently put his finger under her chin and lifted her face. She opened her eyes, perfect mirrors of doubt and confusion, and looked at him.

  “He may be all right,” he said quietly. “The CPR might have saved his life.”

  “But he’s in a coma! And I’m the one who—”

  Hanson put out a reassuring hand near her shoulder but stopped just short of touching her. “Tell me exactly what happened.”

  Sarah sniffed back an impending deluge. “I . . . I had two bottles of medicine in my purse,” she stammered. “One for the professor . . . Mr. Crisp . . . the other for Mrs. Hadley. Doctor Pagitt had asked me to take them ’round. I offered to . . . and . . . I got them mixed up. It wasn’t very light in the parlor last night and . . . No!” she said suddenly, as if her words had taken her by surprise. “I just wasn’t thinking! That’s all! It’s my fault!” Once again she buried her face in her hands, and her body trembled with the aftershocks of grief and self-recrimination.

  “Just a mistake,” said Hanson. He patted her gently on the shoulder. He wasn’t good at this sort of thing. Nothing made him feel more ill at ease than a crying woman. He stood up. “This other medicine—for the woman—I’m sure Doctor Pagitt has already—”

  “It’s still in my purse,” said Sarah, trying desperately to regain control of herself. “I was going to take it to her this afternoon.”

  “Well, it’s a good thing you didn’t,” said Hanson. It was nice to be able to say something comforting.

  “No, it wouldn’t have hurt her.”

  “No?”

  Sarah put her arms down, raised her head somewhat, and stared at the wall. “Mr. Crisp was taking one to two of his pills. Mrs. Hadley was only taking half a pill every twelve hours.” She turned her head and looked at Hanson. “You see? I’d given the professor Mrs. Hadley’s medicine and told him to take one to two an hour! It’s amazing he’s still alive!”

  “I see,” said Hanson with a shake of the head. “So, even if the woman . . . Mrs. . . . ”

  “Hadley.”

  “Hadley,” he repeated. “Even if she had gotten Crisp’s medicine, she’d not have taken enough of it to do her any harm?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Well,” said Hanson in closing, “thank the Lord for small favors.” He wasn’t sure what that meant, but no one was dead as a result of the mix-up. Not yet, anyway. That was something to be grateful for.

  The doctor and Gammidge entered the room. They’d been in the kitchen comforting Matty. Seeing them, Sarah jumped from her seat, ran to the doctor, and threw her arms around him. “Oh, Doctor Pagitt! I’m so sorry! I can’t believe I did anything that stupid!”

  Pagitt put his arms around her and patted her shoulder. “There, there,” he said reassuringly. “It was an accident.” He held her at arms’ length and looked at her deeply. “Don’t ever forget the lesson of it, though.”

  The admonition freshened her tears. “I won’t!” she cried and fell once again into his arms.

  Meanwhile, Hanson drew Gammidge aside. “Well?”

  Gammidge shrugged. “Coma, as far as he can tell. Drug induced. No way of knowing how deep or how long, or if . . .” His voice trailed off. Hanson stared out the window. “Surprised to find you here so early.”

  “I came over in the chopper.”

  “I see,” said Gammidge.

  “Left it up at the airport.”

  Gammidge smiled slightly. “Good idea,” he said. He studied Hanson for a moment. “Tell me something, Alfred.”

  Hanson didn’t move.

  “Why did you call off the exhumation?”

  “I didn’t call it off,” he said a little sharply.

  “Well, why did Jessup call it off, then?”

  Hanson shrugged and exhaled heavily. “Pressure from Washington.”

  “McKenniston?”

  Hanson nodded.

  “Crisp wasn’t too happy,” said Gammidge.

  “I imagine not.”

  “He said he was out of it.”

  “I don’t blame him. I don’t know what’s going on.” Hanson turned from the window. “Did you find out anything about the leaks?”

  Gammidge shook his head. “Just that Crisp wasn’t behind it.”

  “I didn’t really think so,” said Hanson. “Crisp didn’t have any ideas?”

  “No,” Gammidge replied. “Not that I know of.”

  Hanson brooded a moment in silence. “Someone’s making a fool of me,” he said finally. “And when that paper comes out, the whole state’s going to know it.”

  Gammidge nudged Hanson toward the enclosed porch. “Come in here for a minute.” He closed the French door after them. “I guess there’s no harm in you knowing now,” he said softly.

  “No harm in my knowing what?”

  “He was going to do it anyway,” said Gammidge.

  Hanson let his expression ask the obvious question.

  “Well . . . we were . . . I should say . . .” Hanson’s eyebrows reiterated the question. “We were going to
exhume the body ourselves,” said Gammidge.

  Gammidge had expected a scolding of volcanic proportions from his superior. When it was not forthcoming, he was emboldened. “Crisp thinks there’s something there that can clean up this whole mess. He wanted to get at it before the paper comes out tomorrow.”

  Hanson nodded a little. “Did he say what it was?”

  “No,” said Gammidge. “He just wanted to verify something. I think that photograph gave him some idea.”

  “Photograph?”

  “The Polaroid he borrowed.”

  “Buttons?” said Hanson, opening his briefcase.

  “Maybe,” said Gammidge. “But I don’t think so. I think it’s something else. He said that something didn’t fit.”

  “Didn’t fit?”

  “Mmm.”

  Hanson got the Polaroids from a pouch in the cover of his briefcase and looked through them. “He didn’t say what? Didn’t suggest anything?”

  “Not that I recall.”

  “Here it is,” Hanson said, taking from among the others the snapshot Crisp had singled out. He placed it on the table. “See anything?”

  “Crisp used a magnifying glass,” Gammidge suggested.

  Hanson bent closer and studied the photo for a long time. “I don’t see anything,” he said at last. “Can’t even make out the difference in the buttons without the magnifying glass.”

  “Well, Crisp did,” Gammidge said. “He saw something there, but he wanted to make sure.”

  “Too bad you didn’t get to exhume the body,” said Hanson as he gathered up his coat. “I’d like to do it myself right about now.”

  “Well . . . ,” Gammidge hazarded, a little animated.

  Hanson held up his hand. “Of course, as officers of the court, we can’t countermand a direct order from the attorney general.”

  Gammidge deflated visibly. “Of course not,” he said. “By the way, what will happen to Crisp?”

  “He’ll be here for the time being,” said Hanson. “The doctor has him on an IV. Mrs. Gilchrist will take care of him.”

  “Mrs. Gilchrist?” said Gammidge. “Oh! Matty! Yes. I’m sure she will. Better than he could get at the hospital, probably.”

  “No doubt,” Hanson said distractedly. His thoughts were elsewhere. “I wish he’d gotten what he was looking for. All hell’s going to break loose tomorrow.”

  “Did you find out about Mostly?”

  “Mostly what?”

  “Sanborn.”

  “Oh . . . the body,” said Hanson, reducing Mostly to his lowest common denominator. “Well, sort of. There’s no telling if he was dead before he went over, but I found blood there . . . at the top of the cliff. I imagine that the murderer cudgeled him, propped him up in the golf cart, and drove to the edge. Then when he transferred the body to the driver’s side, it slumped over and some blood spilled on the ground.”

  “You’ve had it tested?”

  Hanson nodded. “It matched,” he said. “Common type, though.”

  A slow minute or two passed. “Are you going back to the mainland?” asked Gammidge.

  Hanson sniffed. “I’d like to copy a page from my boss’s book and take off for the Caribbean for a week or two.” He stared at Gammidge for a long time but was looking through him. “Somebody’s got to face the music, I guess.”

  Hanson picked up his coat and hat and, nodding a farewell in Matty’s direction, made for the door. Gammidge followed. “Meanwhile, you hang around here. Keep an eye on him. Let me know if there’s any change.”

  Gammidge held the door open for his boss. “I hope he makes it,” he said half to himself.

  “That would be helpful,” said Hanson. He pulled on his gloves and glared disapprovingly at some gathering clouds. “Stupid accident,” he said. “Stupid girl.” He trudged off down the walk.

  “ ‘Dead Man’s Fingerprints Found on Strangling Victim.’ ” Matty’s hands were trembling as she read the paper aloud.

  Gammidge didn’t want to hear it. “Is there any more of that blueberry sauce?”

  “Compote,” Matty corrected, pushing the compote toward him without raising her eyes from the paper. “Listen to this . . .” Gammidge didn’t want to listen. “ ‘The customary silence of this quiet island community has been shattered by a series of bizarre events. The apparent attempted murder of an elderly retiree . . .’ I wouldn’t call Winston elderly, Mr. Gammidge. Would you?”

  To Gammidge the operative word was “murder,” but Matty had known Crisp a lot longer. “I’ll have some of that coffee now,” said Gammidge, hoping the request would awaken Matty’s customary hospitality and pry her from the paper.

  “It’s on the stove.” Matty continued. “Elderly retiree, elderly . . . here it is. . . . ‘an elderly retiree on the estate of Senator McKenniston (D-Mass.) prompted an investigation by state and local authorities, which led to the discovery of the body of McKenniston’s caretaker, Wilbert Sanborn, at the foot of a cliff on the property.

  “ ‘ “He seems to have fallen from the cliff and died from head injuries,” said assistant coroner Jaret Polkey.’ Some Polkeys have a summer place out on Blackberry Island. You know them?” Matty didn’t wait for a reply. “Used to be clam diggers.” She looked over the top of her glasses knowingly. “Just goes to show.” She resumed reading.

  “ ‘When asked if there was any connection between the incidents and the discovery earlier this spring of the body of Amanda Murphy, a summer guest at the McKenniston estate, in one of the island’s quarries, constable Luther Kingsbury said, “There’s no evidence that the incidents are related.”

  “ ‘At the same time, Kingsbury was unable to answer this reporter’s questions, based on information received from sources close to the investigation—’ ”

  “ ‘Sources close to the investigation,’ ” Gammidge said in disgust. “Damn press can get away with anything saying that.”

  “Oh, my Lord,” said Matty, who had been reading to herself during Gammidge’s editorial aside, “listen to this! ‘Unable to answer this reporter’s questions, based on information received . . .’ ” she skipped ahead, “ ‘ . . . that the fingerprints of one Andrew Calderwood were found on the neck of Ms. Murphy, despite the fact that Calderwood and his brother, Herbert, were killed in an explosion aboard their lobster boat two days prior to Murphy’s disappearance’!”

  “Well, there it all is in black and white, just exactly like folks have been sayin’, more or less!” said Matty, looking quizzically over the top of the newspaper. “Now, you tell me how that can be. It wasn’t really Andy Calderwood’s fingerprints on that girl, was it, Mr. Gammidge?”

  Gammidge looked at her pleadingly. “I can’t say anything one way or the other, Matty. We’re in the middle of an official investigation—”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” said Matty indignantly. “Who’s goin’ to know? Besides, poor Winston’s lyin’ up there in a coma.”

  The purport of the addendum was lost on Gammidge. Nevertheless, he felt especially heartless when he reiterated his refusal. “I wish Crisp would pull out of it,” he added.

  Matty raised the paper and continued reading. “ ‘Calderwood’s body was ordered exhumed by County Coroner Alfred Hanson . . .’ That’s our Mr. Hanson, isn’t it?”

  Gammidge nodded.

  “ ‘Hanson . . . earlier this spring. But information on the exhumation is not available at this time, according to Polkey.’ ” She lowered the paper to her lap. “I heard about that. That was the night everyone was here. Rained somethin’ awful. It’s a wonder you didn’t all catch your death of cold. We heard that’s what they was up to,” she said in a single breath. “So, that’s why.”

  “What’s why?” said Gammidge. He wanted to know.

  “Why they dug up Andy Calderwood . . . to see if he was still in there.”

  It hadn’t been that obvious when it was first mentioned to Gammidge, even though he was involved in the official investigation. Then again, he didn’t watch
soap operas. Matty did.

  “He was though, wasn’t he?”

  “He was,” said Gammidge. He didn’t feel he was betraying an official trust by making the admission. Everyone in town knew it.

  “Then what’s all this silliness about his fingerprints bein’ on that girl’s neck?” Matty continued. “She was strangled, was she?”

  “Can’t say,” said Gammidge hopelessly.

  “Oh, for goodness sakes,” Matty scoffed. She finished the article. “ ‘Sources say other revelations are expected to come to light as the investigation continues.’ ”

  “Now!” Gammidge rose suddenly and slammed the table with the flat of his palm. Matty nearly had heart failure. “Sorry,” he said, “but I want to know how the . . . heck these sources know that ‘other revelations are expected to come to light’!”

  Matty shrugged. “Newspaper people know things like that,” she said matter-of-factly. “That’s their job.”

  For Gammidge, however, the press held no such mystical omniscience. They knew no more than they’d been told. The investigation was hemorrhaging internally. Who? Why? One thing was certain: it wasn’t Crisp.

  The article had made no mention of Matty’s housekeeping. Reporters weren’t as observant as she thought. She folded the paper neatly along the crease and tucked it in the little space over the breadbox. “Winston will want to read that.” Gammidge lifted his tired eyes and looked at her. “When he gets better,” she said, as if his recovery was assured.

  “When he gets better,” Gammidge echoed with a lame smile.

  “Any better?” Matty inquired anxiously. She’d been hovering at Doctor Pagitt’s elbow for several minutes as he took Crisp’s vital signs.

  Pagitt removed his stethoscope. “No worse,” he said flatly. He was going to add “he shouldn’t be alive,” but thought better of it. “No worse.”

  “Poor girl,” said Matty. “She didn’t know what she was doin’.”

  “She’d better learn,” said Pagitt. Matty’s circumlocutions were familiar to him. He knew she was referring to Sarah Quinn. He replaced the old IV bag with a new one. “I know she’s under a lot of pressure at home, with everyone counting on her and all, but that doesn’t excuse this kind of negligence.”