“Well,” said Maggie carefully, “he got his wish.”
Anne tapped her cigarette against the ashtray and said softly, “So. You figured out who really killed Tal.”
“Yes,” Maggie said gently. “That’s why we can use it against Charlie.”
“Damn bastard,” said Anne.
“Yes.”
“How did you find out?”
“It took a while,” Maggie said. “From the beginning the death seemed so—theatrical. It was right on the border between two police jurisdictions. And there were so many clues, all pointing at different people, all with dark secrets that Tal might have known. Yet you kept saying it was the children that really troubled him—Jill Baker, the Hammond boy.”
“Yes. He knew there was a problem.”
“But he didn’t know who, and it’s terrible to accuse an innocent person. Walensky was discreet, but he was so discreet he sometimes refused to investigate, Tal thought. Probably ignored some of Tal’s other suggestions too. So the goal of the killing was to pull a competent outside police force onto Walensky’s turf. Walensky would keep things discreet, but someone had to be willing to take a hard squint at the education department.”
“That’s right,” said Anne.
“But I wasn’t certain until I saw the note.”
“Yes. That’s what told me too.”
“Lambert is Tal’s doctor?”
“Yes.”
Maggie looked across the table at Nick. “Anne got a note in this morning’s mail. The first part said, ‘Tell Lambert 6/2 = 8/18.’ 6/2 is June second, Thursday, the last medical examination he had. They must have done some kind of test.”
“X-rays,” said Anne. “You know Tal. A million questions, always looking over John Lambert’s shoulder at his own charts. John was a good sport about it. Taught Tal to read them. I remember him coming home last year, saying how good his August eighteenth X-rays looked.”
“So he exchanged last year’s good X-rays for the latest ones somehow.”
“Wouldn’t be hard,” Anne said. “Lambert and his partners don’t run a high-security office. The technicians label the X-rays with little stickers and put them in your file. You generally have to wait a while alone in the examination room, with your file in a holder on the door so the doctor can look it over before he comes in. Tal’s peeked a couple of times in the past. He could have switched the sticky labels on the X-rays if he saw the latest ones looked bad.”
“I see,” said Nick. “He looked at his X-rays, saw he was doing badly—”
“Doomed is the word,” Anne said crisply. “If it started spreading again, he knew that was it. No more tricks in Lambert’s bag.”
“So he expected to die soon. And he exchanged the X-ray labels to trick his doctor.”
“Yes.” Anne watched the smoke spiraling up from the cigarette into the twilit air. “Tricked his doctor. Tricked me. Told his friends he was celebrating. Spilled coffee on Nora’s desk so he could sneak her gun from the drawer. Stole a few other items to leave in the gorge. Made some big suspicious footprints and threw away the boots. And then he took Nora’s gun in his right hand and shot himself in the head.”
They were all quiet a moment. Then Maggie said, “He accomplished his goal. Cops came from every side. Stumbling over each other to investigate the department, and investigate each other.”
“And investigate me,” said Anne. “Hines gave me the third degree. Hell, so did you, Dr. Ryan.” She glared at Maggie.
“Hey, can’t blame Tal for that,” said Maggie. “He’d set it up carefully. He knew someone in the department was hurting children, and that Walensky was reluctant to investigate. I think on his own he’d narrowed it down to four: Charlie; Nora’s wild brother; Bart, who ran the experiment Jill was in; and maybe Bernie with his former arrest. So he asked them all to lunch at Plato’s, so they’d be at the right place at the right time. He couldn’t get Bernie, but as head of the department, he’d certainly be questioned too. And there were two people he thought were protected by lunch appointments on the other side of campus. You, of course, Anne.”
“Yes. And then I canceled it, like a fool.” But he had planned for her. He had. She held the thought like a small warm ember in her heart.
“And Cindy. Her meeting wasn’t the ideal source of alibis, but in case of need someone or other would come forward to help her out. I imagine Tal thought the question wouldn’t arise, because he’d left clues pointing to the other people. He thought Cindy was protected. And you.”
“Always the damn romantic hero. Protecting damsels.” Anne let smoke stream from her nostrils. She’d always had a secret sympathy for the dragons, herself. “Never occurred to him that the damsels might prefer to have him around a little longer.”
Nick said, “He was facing an ugly end, Anne.”
“Oh, God, I know. But there must have been some other way!”
He rubbed his bald head. “We men are cowardly creatures, Anne. We’re not bad at facing quick and glorious deaths. But to go on—that requires a different kind of courage. Deeper.”
“Cindy’s husband is right.” Maggie’s arm was around Anne’s shoulders. “It’s tough to go on. But people are asked to go on all the time, especially women. Hurts like hell. But generally, somehow, we find that deeper courage.”
“Yeah.” Anne stared down at the floor.
“There was a second part of the note,” Maggie reminded her gently. “He said, ‘Gazette Five.’ That’s part of the message too.”
Anne nodded. Cyrano’s Gazette: act five, scene five. His death scene. His farewell to the beloved Roxane. She said gruffly, “Damn romantic hero.”
Nick’s brown eyes were liquid, profound. He quoted softly, “‘Always my heart is with you, always yours. And in the next world I shall love you still, beyond measure, as long as time endures.’”
Anne’s chin was trembling. She took a deep pull on the Gauloise.
“What he did helped a lot of little girls,” murmured Maggie. “If we can see it through the courts for him.”
“Oh, yeah. I’ll see it through. I’ll go on. But God, that is so like Tal, making the grand gesture. Quel geste!” She snorted, suddenly furious. “Damn the man, cheating me of weeks of him!”
Maggie squeezed her shoulders.
“Still, what a gesture!” Nick insisted. “‘Despite you all, old enemies who round me loom, I bear aloft unstained, unyielding—my white plume!’”
Men. Anne ground out her cigarette, straightened up, and prepared to go on.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
P.M. Carlson (www.pmcarlson.net) taught psychology and statistics at Cornell University before deciding that mystery writing was more fun. She has published twelve mystery novels and over a dozen short stories. Her novels have been nominated for an Edgar Award, a Macavity Award, and twice for Anthony Awards. Two short stories were finalists for Agatha Awards. She edited the Mystery Writers Annual for Mystery Writers of America for several years, and served as president of Sisters in Crime.
Books by P.M. Carlson:
Audition for Murder: Maggie Ryan, 1967 (1985)
Murder Is Academic: Maggie Ryan, 1968 (1985)
Murder Is Pathological: Maggie Ryan, 1969 (1986)
Murder Unrenovated: Maggie Ryan, 1972 (1988)
Rehearsal for Murder: Maggie Ryan, 1973 (1988)
Murder in the Dog Days: Maggie Ryan, 1975 (1991)
Murder Misread: Maggie Ryan, 1977 (1990)
Bad Blood: Maggie Ryan, 1979 (1991)
The Marty Hopkins Series
Gravestone (1993)
Bloodstream (1995)
Deathwind (2004)
Crossfire (2006)
Short fiction
Renowned Be Thy Grave, or The Murderous Miss Mooney (1998)
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