Name Games

by Michael Craft

  “She belongs in a loony bin,” I told them, never passing up a chance to defame the woman. Tossing my handful of letters back onto the pile like so much garbage, I reminded them, “When I first moved to Dumont last December, Miriam and her coven of crones used the same tactic on me, hoping to drive me out of town with their hate mail. I had no idea who was behind it, of course, so it made for a rather frightening welcome. I called the cops.”

  “If I’m not mistaken,” said Pierce, “that was when you and I first met—Christmas morning, as I recall.”

  “Exactly. It was good of you to come to the house on such short notice, on a holiday, no less. You calmed me down, Doug, and gave me the lowdown on Miriam.” I leaned toward him. “I’ve thought of you as a friend since that first meeting, and I’m happy to return the favor now by assuring you that Miriam’s hateful antics, while annoying, don’t mean squat.”

  As I said this, I extended a comforting hand and patted his knee, letting my fingers rest there. Though I’d felt fondness for the man since the day we’d met, though I’d had vibes from the beginning that he might be gay, I’d always felt uneasy about showing any physical signs of my affection. For some nine months, he’d allowed me his friendship but had deprived me of the very nuggets of knowledge upon which true friendship is built—he hadn’t “let me in.” Now, only three days ago, he’d finally come out to me, and though the circumstances were not of his choosing, the effect of his disclosure was nonetheless liberating. I now felt no qualms whatever about touching the man, and I didn’t have to disguise such a gesture as a ritualized handshake or an “accidental” brushing of shoulders. I simply put my hand on his leg, and I left it there.

  To my utter amazement, he placed his hand over mine, telling me, “Thanks, Mark. I was just doing my job last Christmas. Now, you’ve really gone out on a limb for me.”

  I laughed. “This is one hell of a story. When this is all over, I plan to sell a few papers.”

  Lucy cleared her throat. “I hate to interrupt the schmaltz, gentlemen, but if we’re going to sell papers, we need to meet deadlines.” Her admonishment, though mild and good-natured, was pointed—we had work to do. Focusing our discussion, she cleared a space on the table for her folder of notes, asking, “Where are we?”

  Sitting back in my chair, I told them, “I just had lunch with the DA. He told me flatly that he had no knowledge of Cantrell’s porn-related background when he met him at the coach house on Saturday. He insists that the visit was Miriam’s idea—and if it was, we’re faced with some intriguing new questions. Meanwhile, though, Kaiser is up to something, I’m sure. I don’t trust him.”

  Pierce looked at me skeptically. “I don’t much like him either, Mark, but I can’t believe Harley Kaiser is covering up any actual involvement with this case.”

  I raised a hand, a note of caution, repeating, “He’s up to something. I don’t know if Kaiser actually strangled Carrol Cantrell. I don’t know if he actually planted the fake blackmail note on the victim’s computer. But I do know this: he’s been heavily involved with the sainted Dr. Tenelli in planning a ‘strategy’ to shut down the porn shops on the edge of town. Some might call that ‘politics as usual,’ but I call it ‘conspiracy.’ The true purpose of their plotting? I don’t know yet. But I cannot dismiss as coincidence the fact that their unknown purpose has been served by Cantrell’s death.”

  Pierce listened, slowly shaking his head while considering my words. He was clearly uncomfortable hearing that my suspicions ran in this direction.

  Lucy scratched at her notes, looking up at me. “You say that Kaiser and Tenelli have been ‘involved.’ What do you mean?”

  “They’ve been spending a lot of time on the phone together. Deputy Dan noted this during our meeting yesterday, then Kaiser himself confirmed it at lunch. And here’s an interesting twist: I don’t know whether to believe Kaiser, but he claims Tenelli has been pressuring him, not vice versa.”

  “Huh?” asked Pierce. “That makes no sense. I might be willing to believe that Harley pressured the doctor regarding the report of the County Plan Commission—its findings and its timing could help assure Harley a victory in the obscenity trial. But what conceivable purpose could Tenelli have in pressuring the DA?”

  “Good question. And here’s another: What conceivable purpose could Tenelli have had out at Star-Spangled Video on Monday morning, when we spotted his new car?” Turning to Lucy, I asked, “Any luck with that little research project?”

  “Not yet,” she told me dryly, flipping a page of her notebook. “Tenelli’s tax records pointed to nothing suspicious. Now, I presume, you want a complete background check, right?”

  “Right—association memberships, financial interests, that sort of thing. When Doug and I talked to him on Tuesday, he mentioned malpractice suits. Maybe that’s worth exploring.”

  Lucy nodded, checking over her notes. “It’ll take me a day or so to get to this. The digging is slow when you don’t know what you’re looking for.”

  “Whenever you can get to it—just let me know if you find anything.”

  Pierce said, “I think you’re barking up the wrong tree. Ben Tenelli already explained to us his position on the porn shops—it was a carefully weighed decision in which he allowed the pragmatic concerns of commercial development to overrule his own philosophical objections. You may not agree with his conclusion, Mark, but I think you’ll have to admit that he was honest in arriving at it. Ben has no ‘agenda’—all he wants is what’s best for the town.”

  I stood, needing to pace. “Doug, you keep telling me that. Everyone keeps telling me that. Maybe I should just take your word and lay off the guy. But I’m new here, and I don’t share the town’s emotional history with him. As far as I’m concerned, he’s clearly a piece of this puzzle. Maybe he’s done nothing wrong—maybe his motives are indeed altruistic—but he is part of the porn issue, and everything tells me that the porn issue killed Cantrell.”

  Pierce stood, facing me. “That’s a reasonable theory,” he conceded, “the best one we’ve got. But Ben Tenelli just couldn’t have strangled Carrol.”

  “Why not? He’s a big guy, plenty vigorous for his age.”

  Pierce shook his head. “Ben might be physically capable of the murder, but not emotionally, not philosophically. He’s a good, decent man. He’s a doctor.”

  “Fine. Let’s say Tenelli didn’t do it. Let’s say he had no motive whatever to want Cantrell dead. Let’s even say he has no ulterior interest in the obscenity issue. If all those assumptions are true, though, what sense can we make of Harley Kaiser’s assertion that Tenelli has been a driving force behind the obscenity trial?”

  “None,” Pierce answered with a shake of his head. “It makes no sense.”

  “Exactly. It suggests that Kaiser was lying about his relationship with Tenelli—which drives my suspicions right back to Kaiser himself.”

  Pierce sat down again and gestured that I should do likewise. With a tone of forced patience, he explained, “Mark, Harley Kaiser is simply not capable of murder, for political gain or otherwise. Period.”

  “Then who did it, Doug? You’ll have a tough time proving it was Bruno—his alibi appears to be tight. Who else had a motive? Deputy Dan Kerr, DA Harley Kaiser, and possibly Dr. Benjamin Tenelli. I hardly need to add that some of those suspects would be delighted to move your name to the top of the list. What’s more, any one of you would have sufficient physical stature to subdue Carrol Cantrell and strangle him. Don’t you see that—”

  Lucy interrupted, “Was he strangled? Has that been shown conclusively?”

  “Kaiser told me at lunch that the coroner issued his preliminary findings late this morning—it should be on the city newswire by now. The upshot is this: Vernon Formhals found that (a) the victim died very near nine o’clock on Sunday morning and (b) he was indeed strangled. The findings, as I said, are preliminary. The final report is contingent on the results of toxicology tests.”

  “Toxicology
?” asked Lucy. “Why bother if it’s obvious Cantrell was strangled?”

  Pierce explained, “A complete forensic autopsy, including toxicology, is routine procedure in the case of homicides or any suspicious deaths.”

  I told him, “Test results could take weeks though, right?”

  “Two weeks is fairly standard, although sometimes they can speed it up if the investigation warrants it. I wonder if Formhals has requested a rush from the lab. Mind if I use your phone, Mark?” Pierce was already on his feet.

  “Be my guest,” I told him, gesturing toward the desk in my inner office. “Punch any line that’s not lit; dial nine first.”

  He nodded, stepped to my desk, lifted the receiver, and dialed. When his call was answered by a switchboard, he identified himself and asked to speak to Formhals. After a brief wait, he said into the phone, “Good afternoon, Vernon. Doug Pierce. I was wondering, Vernon, if—”

  But he was cut short by the coroner, who apparently had something important to say. A few moments later, Pierce said, “Yes, Dan? When did you arrive?”

  Lucy and I exchanged a quizzical look—was Pierce now speaking to Deputy Dan Kerr? Pierce’s end of the conversation consisted of short questions that did nothing to enlighten us. At last Pierce said, “I’ll be right over,” and then he hung up.

  Lucy and I both stood as he returned from my desk. I asked, “Well…?”

  He explained, “When I reached Formhals, he immediately told me that Deputy Kerr was with him there at the morgue, then he handed the phone over to him. Kerr told me that Formhals had called him over because he’d just discovered something that may be pertinent to the investigation.”

  “What?” blurted Lucy.

  Pierce laughed. “Kerr wouldn’t tell me, but he assured me that it was significant. He asked me to get over there and see for myself.” And with that, Pierce moved toward the door, ready to rush out through the newsroom. In the doorway, he turned back to ask me through a grin, “Well? Are you coming?”

  The phone on my desk rang as I answered Pierce, “I didn’t know I was invited. After all, I’m ‘press’—will they let me in?”

  Lucy stepped to the desk to answer my phone as Pierce assured me, “They’ll let you in if you’re with me. Come on.”

  He didn’t need to ask me twice. Patting my pockets, I confirmed that I had my pen and notebook. I wouldn’t bother with a topcoat—Pierce was ready to roll. I had just about stepped out the door with him when Lucy called to me, “It’s your nephew. He’s at school. Says it’s important.”

  I wagged my head from Pierce, to the phone, and back to Pierce. I was torn.

  Pierce nodded, smiled. “Go ahead and take it.”

  “I’ll keep it short,” I assured him while crossing to my desk. Taking the phone from Lucy, I said into it, “Hey, Thad. I’m kind of busy right now. What’s wrong?”

  “Nothin’!” There was a lot of background noise—he must have called from the hall between classes.

  “Well…good,” I said awkwardly. “But I don’t usually hear from you during the day. What’s going on?”

  “I got it, Mark! The part in the play—I’m Dr. Einstein!”

  “What? Really? No kidding? That’s wonderful, Thad. I’m proud of you.”

  “I’ve already got the script, and Mrs. Osborne told me to go ahead and underline my lines, and now I have to start memorizing everything—scary, huh?” He didn’t sound the least bit scared by the challenge.

  “You’re going to love every minute of this. Have you told Neil yet?”

  “Not yet. I’ll call him next. I’ve got a few minutes before the next class.”

  “Congratulations, kiddo. I’ll see you at home tonight. Bye, now.”

  “Bye, Mark.”

  Riding over to the morgue with Pierce, I explained, “Thad really needed something. I’m glad he got the part. In the time I’ve known him, he’s never shown such enthusiasm.”

  “What’s the play again?” asked Pierce, eyes on the road.

  “Arsenic and Old Lace. Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of it.”

  “I’ve heard of it, sure, but I’ve never seen it. What’s it about?”

  “Two little old ladies who poison old men and bury them in their basement.”

  Pierce looked at me. “This is a comedy, right? Sounds kind of ghoulish.”

  With a laugh, I conceded, “I guess it is kind of ghoulish. The play’s villain, Jonathan Brewster, is a sadistic killer, while his sidekick—Thad’s role—is a drunken plastic surgeon who disguises his friend by repeatedly cutting up his face.”

  Pierce turned to me with a look of dismay.

  “Kids love it,” I assured him.

  Glancing through the windshield, he announced, “Next stop: county morgue.”

  Pierce laughed at the irony in the timing of our arrival, but my own lighthearted mood was squelched by his words, which reminded me of the purpose of our mission. It was sobering to ponder the emotional chasm that separated, on the one hand, the melodramatic chills of a three-act comic thriller from, on the other hand, the grim reality of a four-day-old corpse that had methodically been dissected in search of clues to its demise.

  During my career, I’d seen enough victims of murder, suicide, and accidents that I could stay analytical when faced with the aftermath of tragedy. I’d visited morgues before, as well, and I’d witnessed procedures that most laymen would find unspeakably repulsive. Rarely, however, had I known the victim, and never had I been invited to view the autopsied cadaver of a man who’d expressed interest in me sexually, as Carrol Cantrell had. I suddenly wondered why I’d so eagerly agreed to accompany Pierce. Certainly, the prospect of learning enticing new details on a major story had proved more than sufficient to whet my reporter’s curiosity, but professional considerations were now outweighed by a gut emotion that resembled, for lack of a better word, dread. I didn’t want to be here. I didn’t want to do this. Short of simply confessing my cowardice to Pierce, though, I knew of no way to back out.

  As Pierce pulled into a parking space marked with his name, I realized that the morgue was located within the county’s sprawling Public Safety Building, which also housed the sheriff’s department and emergency offices. His was one of many tan cars bearing “Official” plates in the assigned lot behind the building, and his parking spot was among those closest to the door, an unassuming back entrance with restricted access. He got out of the car, and I followed as he stepped up to the metal door and swiped a card through its lock. When the door clicked open, he swung it wide for me and followed me inside.

  We found ourselves in the heart of a dispatch area, where several officers staffed a switchboard. A wide hallway broke off in four directions. The floors were gray terrazzo; the walls were white; the ceiling was a suspended grid of diffused fluorescent lighting. Someone behind a counter said, “No messages, Sheriff.” Pierce nodded his thanks while leading me down one of the hallways at a brisk clip. Our heels snapped on the hard, shiny floor.

  “Have you met Vernon yet?” he asked me.

  “No, but his name has come up in various stories since I took over the Register. He’s an MD, right?”

  “Right. He’s both coroner and chief medical examiner, a trained forensic pathologist. In a town this size, we’re lucky to have him.” Pierce turned down another short hallway and stepped to a door that bore a simple engraved-plastic sign: CORONER. “Let’s introduce you,” said Pierce, opening the door.

  We entered a small office. A clerk worked at a desk. There were a few extra chairs. A faded print of a bucolic cow-dotted landscape hung in a plastic frame, slightly askew, on an otherwise blank, windowless wall. Pierce asked the clerk, “Is Vernon in his office?”

  “Go right in, Sheriff. Deputy Kerr is with him.”

  Pierce led me around a corner, into a larger office where Dan Kerr stood talking to an imposing figure of a black man in a white lab coat. I assumed that this was Vernon Formhals, though I hadn’t known that he was black. As cor
oner, he was often quoted in the paper, but he hadn’t been pictured on the Register’s pages during my tenure there as publisher.

  Pierce, Formhals, and Kerr exchanged perfunctory greetings, using first names, no titles. Then Pierce said, “Vernon, I’d like you to meet Mark Manning, publisher of the Register. He’s been lending me some brainpower on this case.”

  Shaking hands, I told him, “It’s a pleasure, Dr. Formhals. The sheriff speaks highly of you.” As I spoke, I studied his face and found it impossible to peg his age. Whether he was mature-looking for thirty or young-looking for sixty, I honestly couldn’t tell.

  “The pleasure’s mine, Mark.” The coroner’s manner was cordial but predictably dry—I’d hardly expect a bubbly personality in his line of work. “Do call me Vernon. We needn’t stand on ceremony.” He allowed himself a friendly chortle.

  “Doug,” said Deputy Kerr, getting right to the point, “Vernon called me a few minutes ago because he noticed something on the body that he’d previously overlooked. It opens new possibilities in the investigation.”

  “Doug,” said Vernon, jumping in, “I hope I’ve not committed a breech of protocol. It was my understanding that you’d turned the investigation over to Dan.”

  “You’re absolutely right,” Pierce assured him.

  “Look,” said Kerr, “I realize that I was assigned to this case under iffy circumstances. There’s no turf to be defended—there’s simply a murder to be solved. I want Doug’s input, and if Doug wants Mark’s input as well, so be it. Let’s put our heads together and get to the bottom of this.”

  “Well said,” Vernon told Kerr, his tone rather stiff and academic.

  I marveled at the professed spirit of cooperation I’d just witnessed. Back in the big city, this would never have happened between ranks and departments. As for the welcome participation of a journalist—that was simply unthinkable. While there are doubtless those who would judge this approach highly unprofessional, I found it, in a word, refreshing, not only because it allowed me a firsthand role in the investigation of a top story, but also because it brought a measure of common sense to police procedures.